Chapter 454: The Ancestral Tomb of the Wilde Family

The dark-haired maidservant’s eyes widened in surprise when she heard her mistress’s words. “The ancestral tomb? But the Holy Spirit Festival has already—”

“This isn’t about ancestor worship,” Victoria interrupted with a sigh. “Go prepare, Maggie.”

Maggie glanced quietly at her mistress, said nothing further, and bowed her head slightly. “Understood.”

Just as Gawain Cecil was ultimately laid to rest beneath the ancient castle in the southern lands, the founding dukes of the Four Realms of Ansu all had their tombs established on the lands they once protected. The “Winter Duke” Snowwilder, guardian of the northern mountains, now rested beneath this very fortress perched atop the peaks of the North.

Passing through the lowest cellar of Winterhold Castle, down the deepest, most solemn black corridor, one would arrive at the oldest and most sacred burial chamber of the castle. The Wilde family’s successive heads had poured immense manpower and resources into building their grand fortress atop the mountain, nearly half of which was devoted to maintaining the tombs buried deep within the rock.

Unlike the Cecils, who had once been favored by elemental forces, the Wilde ancestors had no such blessing. The tomb beneath Winterhold was stabilized solely through the elemental enchantments painstakingly cast by generations of powerful human mages, allowing it to remain intact and undisturbed for seven centuries.

Accompanied only by her maid Maggie, Victoria Wilde entered the underground crypt, bringing no other attendants.

The magic crystal lamps embedded in the walls were infused with mana, casting a dim, steady glow. To avoid disturbing the ancestors, these lamps were specially designed to emit only about half the brightness of ordinary magic crystals. Under this faint light, the sloping passageway stretched ahead into a hazy darkness, shadows flickering and shifting, evoking a chilling sense of foreboding.

But Victoria paid no mind to the gloom. She stepped forward.

The walls, built from soulstone bricks, seemed to recede beside her as she walked. The solid stone steps echoed hollowly with each clash of boot against stone, the sound reverberating through the castle’s oldest corridors. Victoria felt as if she were walking backward through time—every hundred meters she advanced was like stepping back a hundred years. She passed through the Mistmoon civil war, the last golden age of Ansu, the dynasty’s reforms, the years of plenty, and finally… arrived seven centuries in the past, to the very beginning of this nation and this family.

They reached the rectangular main hall of the tomb. Maggie silently approached a stone pillar by the entrance and pressed her hand against a metal disc embedded in its surface. As mana flowed into it, the magic crystal lamps lining the hall flickered on one by one, bathing the once pitch-black chamber in a soft, sufficient light.

Portraits of the Wilde family’s heads hung on both sides of the hall, from the first “Winter Duke Snowwilder” to Victoria’s own father. Each bore the same silver hair and stern countenance, their eyes half-lidded as if solemnly watching every visitor who entered. Victoria met their gazes calmly and read the ancient inscription carved into the wall:

“We are the last line of defense for Ansu.”

Her eyes slowly swept over the faces of her ancestors, finally resting on her father’s. She lingered on the image of the dignified old duke, then whispered, “Father, just as you predicted, the hidden dangers of the Second Dynasty have finally erupted… but I doubt you foresaw that the greatest variable in this chaos would come from where it did…”

After a moment of silence, the duchess lifted her head and instructed the maid beside her, “You may leave now. I need to be alone.”

The dark-haired maid quietly withdrew, and Victoria stepped forward.

She approached a stone platform at the far end of the hall—about waist-high, broad and flat like a table. Arcane runes and intricate patterns were carved around its edges, but the surface itself was smooth and mirror-like, devoid of decoration.

After a brief hesitation, the duchess placed her hand on the platform and softly recited an ancient incantation.

Mana stirred in the air, and the runes around the platform lit up one by one. The mirror-like surface rippled like water, glowing with a milky white light. From the shimmering surface, a silver metal plate about a foot square slowly rose.

The plate had been sealed within a dense stone block.

Victoria lifted the metal plate—it was surprisingly light and thin. The edges bore sharp, decorative lines typical of Gondor craftsmanship. She ran her fingers over its surface, and words began to appear:

“Charlemagne, guide, leader, protector, founder of the kingdom—we honor him as king.

Gawain Cecil, lord of knights, pioneer, protector, founder of the kingdom—we honor him as guardian of the southern lands.

Snowwilder, frost’s grasp, guardian of knowledge, pioneer, founder of the kingdom—we honor him as guardian of the northern lands.

Anthony Loren, lord of warriors…”

Even the usually cold and aloof Northern Duchess, who seemed as untouchable as an ice queen, couldn’t help but show reverence upon seeing this metal plate. Her gaze traced each shining name, each one like a towering mountain standing firm behind it. These names represented the foundation stones of the kingdom, the indomitable strength that had cut through the calamity nearly seven centuries ago, and the original covenant upon which this nation was built.

This was a roster—a list of all the kingdom’s founders at its inception, ranked by merit and title. But it was more than just a list.

Victoria flipped the plate over. On the back, a clear inscription read:

“…Should a cataclysm threaten the kingdom’s end, or an irreparable human disaster occur, resulting in the king’s death or inability to protect the realm, and no heir be available, those listed shall succeed in order, and govern the kingdom…”

Seven centuries ago, it was a time of turmoil and uncertainty.

Those living in peaceful times could hardly imagine what it was like when humanity first emerged from the wasteland to build a kingdom on a wild, untamed land. Even Victoria herself could only glimpse those days through ancient texts or fragmented accounts from the few immortal races, never truly grasping the full weight of it.

Yet every time she saw this list and the words behind it, she could imagine how perilous the kingdom’s early days had been.

The aftershocks of the magical tide relentlessly battered the land. Until the Great Wall was completed, monsters from the Gondor wastelands kept pouring into human territory. At the height of the magical tide’s intensity, vast areas of the Holy Spirit Plains would spontaneously erode. Even today, a blackened, corrupted brick remains embedded in a section of the city wall in Saint Suniel, silently bearing witness to those desperate times.

In that era, kings could die at any moment, dukes could fall at any moment—everyone lived with death looming constantly.

Hence this list, and the “emergency succession rule” behind it.

But just as no one had ever imagined that the honorary “perpetual pioneering right” would one day be reactivated, those who knew of this list surely never expected that someone on it would suddenly come back to life…

Victoria stared quietly at the metal plate in her hands. After a long moment, she sighed softly, carefully placed it back on the stone platform, and reversed the spell to reseal it.

Having done all this, she stepped back two paces, away from the platform, and turned to survey the entire hall.

Along the walls on both sides were many stone doors, each leading to corridors that opened into different burial chambers. One day, she too would lie in one of those chambers, and one of her descendants would stand where she now stood, looking around this very place.

But perhaps pondering very different questions.

After standing still for a moment, the duchess seemed to make a sudden decision. She glanced once more at the closed door, sensing faintly through the air that Maggie was still outside, keeping watch.

In truth, even without a guard, no one would dare trespass here.

Victoria turned back, cast a final glance at the stone platform, then stepped around it toward the door behind.

This door was unique, occupying an entire wall of the hall. Beyond it was no corridor—only a single burial chamber.

Structurally, this tomb’s layout was much like the Cecil ancestral tomb.

With the creaking of magical mechanisms, the duchess opened the door to the deepest, most special chamber. She stepped inside and lit the magic crystal lamps within.

The lamps illuminated the spacious hall, revealing its contents: stone slabs etched with arcane runes and magical tapestries lined the walls. Scattered across the open floor were bookshelves, celestial globes, and miniature models of wizard towers, arranged seemingly at random but with deliberate order. At the center of the hall stood a raised platform, upon which rested a black iron coffin.

“Ancestor, your descendant has come to visit,” Victoria said softly, her expression solemn. Swallowing nervously, she stepped toward the coffin.

At the platform, she saw a stone tablet leaning against the coffin, inscribed with the last words left by Snowwilder, the Wilde family’s forefather:

“Old friends, I’ve outlived you all—how boring.”

It was hard for outsiders to imagine that the stern, frost-faced Wilde ancestor depicted in official portraits would leave such a remark at the end of his life. But Victoria was no longer surprised by it.

She tore her gaze away from the tablet and fixed it on the dark iron coffin, her face clouded with hesitation and inner struggle.

For nearly ten minutes she wavered, then finally summoned her courage and gently knocked on the coffin’s lid.

No response.

After another moment’s hesitation, she knocked again, then quickly glanced around.

There was, of course, no one else here. Taking a deep breath, the Northern Duchess leaned close to the coffin and whispered, “…Are you there?”

Three painfully awkward minutes passed. The only sounds in her ears were her own breathing and heartbeat.

The duchess’s face seemed to harden into a mask of icy frost. She straightened up quickly, took two steps back, and muttered under her breath, “Damn it… what foolishness am I committing?”

Without another word, she hurried out of the tomb chamber, leaving the underground hall behind. By the time her lady-in-waiting Maggie caught sight of her, the Northern Guardian had already slipped back into her usual cold, distant demeanor—noble and composed.

“Vicky, you were in there a long time.”

“Just needed to confirm a few things,” Victoria replied coolly. “Let’s go, Maggie. This time, I really am going back to my room to rest.”

“All right.”

(End of chapter)