Chapter 458: The Spread

When Viscounts Andrew Leslie and Ropeny Grant departed, the feudal aristocratic system that had ruled the southern lands for seven centuries officially came to an end.

If the cannon fire that shattered Shattered Stone Ridge and Rockhold Fortress destroyed the physical foundations of the nobility, then the thirty-three contracts voluntarily accepting reform, along with a joint declaration signed by every noble in the South, destroyed its very soul.

Gawain held the “Joint Declaration of Reform” in his hands, the ink still faintly fragrant as if freshly printed. On the signature page, the thirty-three names—including Viscount Andrew and Viscountess Ropeny—stood like a symbol marking the end of an era. He carefully memorized each name, then picked up the dip pen from his desk and signed his own name at the bottom: Gawain Cecil.

He knew the old era was far from truly over. To the north of Rockhold Fortress, beyond the mountain barriers of the South, Ansu remained an ancient kingdom still run by the old noble system, shrouded in ignorance and darkness. Even within the South, inside the Duchy of Cecil, the shadows and influence of the old order would linger for a long time. Completely eradicating them would be a long and arduous task.

But with the documents signed today, that task would proceed more smoothly.

“These signed documents are for public release,” Gawain said, pushing the papers across the desk to Hetty. “Besides distributing them throughout the region, have stonemasons carve them into a monument and erect it in a prominent place in the city. From now until the end of the Harvest Moon, we must spare no effort in spreading the news of the South’s reform. In places with high literacy, use newspapers; where literacy is low, we’ll have to promote ‘tavern talk.’ By then, everyone in the South must know.”

“That will make the work of the secondary administrative offices much easier,” Hetty smiled, clearly pleased. “Recruiting scholars won’t face obstacles anymore, and merchants who were hesitant should feel reassured.”

“Even so, I’m sure some will resist the new regulations,” Gawain said. “But justice and law are on our side. Any resistance will be severely punished, especially the exiled knights. We’ll give them a final deadline to surrender. After that, they’ll be charged with treason and rebellion. This time, they can no longer hide behind ‘loyalty to the old lords.’ Our executions will be fully legal and supported by the people.”

Understanding the worldview of the people of this era, grasping the mindset of the governed, and advancing his cause in a way that fits both the times and the people’s values—while gradually transforming the era itself—this was Gawain’s chosen path after conquering the South. Governing a land is different from conquering it. The latter often requires only force; the former demands brains.

The newly established printing factory worked around the clock. Fresh off the production line, a large industrial press was installed in the workshop. Amid the roar of machinery, it rapidly transformed blank sheets into newspapers and books filled with information. The latest issue of the Cecil Weekly featured the historic signing by the southern nobles on its front page, taking up an entire spread. The large black-and-white image was the first “photograph” ever published in the paper’s history. Above it, bold, oversized letters proclaimed the significance of the moment:

“Duchy Established: All Former Southern Lords Swear Allegiance to Cecil Law—Let Us Cheer for the Great Order.”

The fresh newspapers rolled off the press, were sorted and packed by the workers, then sent to distribution centers. From there, messenger caravans carried them to Tansan, Kant, Grant, Hosman—every corner of the South.

In the literate capital of Cecil and its satellite towns, the newspapers’ impact was strongest. But even in less literate areas, some could read the papers and spread the news to those around them.

Morning sunlight spilled over the worn, dilapidated streets of Carol Town, warming the dew on the weeds in the corners. A horse-drawn carriage bearing the Cecil emblem clattered along the town’s only cobblestone road, its bells jingling and rousing the townsfolk from sleep.

The blacksmith entered his workshop, scolding an apprentice dozing by the furnace. The stonemason picked up his tools, preparing to visit the newly established administrative office to inquire about work. Women cursed as they chased lazy children and husbands out of bed, then began tidying the foul-smelling, messy bedding. Men and older boys nibbled on dry bread, shouldered their tools, and headed to the fields or the town square to try their luck.

A section of the town wall, once blasted to ruin by Cecil’s giant cannons, still lay desolate on the southern outskirts. A group of yawning laborers, overseen by a foreman, cleared away broken stones and wood. Passersby glanced at the ruined wall with a mix of awe and fear, as if the earth-shattering explosion still haunted their hearts.

A squad of Cecil soldiers marched in formation down the main street. Though they didn’t harass the townsfolk like typical noble mercenaries, the commoners instinctively lowered their heads and stepped aside in respect. The people of Carol had grown used to these soldiers. Since the war began, many Cecilians had passed through this town, heading north to the battlefield and returning victorious. They had set up administrative offices here, converted the old lords’ castle into barracks and offices, and enforced new laws. They were “outsiders,” but now rulers of the town—and the residents had accepted it without much feeling.

“The governor says water must be boiled before drinking,” people said, “and now serfs and tenants are allowed to chop firewood”—something previously forbidden, as only scraps and dead branches could be gathered, not the lord’s trees. So everyone boiled their water. “The governor says no more public urination or defecation,” and after dozens were whipped in the street, people started using the new toilets. “The governor says skilled workers must register at the administrative office,” so they did—no fees required.

The Cecilians were strange, and their laws stranger still. But at least they didn’t steal grain, so life could go on.

Not everyone was so indifferent.

The wealthy merchant Kord sat in his mansion, the tea brought by his maid now cold. His mind was restless, and his eldest son sat before him.

“Father, did the administrative office come again yesterday?”

“Yes,” the merchant muttered, “they want me to sign the ‘Commercial Accord’ again. They want to build a factory on the empty lot south of town and want me to persuade the locals…”

“You still haven’t signed?” the son frowned. “Father, those are the lord’s people…”

“Sigh, I know they’re the lord’s people. I dare not offend them,” Kord sighed. “Even if they asked me to put up a third… a quarter of my fortune to repair the walls and castle, that would be fine. But they only want me to sign the accord and speak on their behalf… That’s absolutely impossible.”

Money can be earned again. Using wealth to satisfy the lord’s demands is a lesson every merchant learns—especially in the commercially prosperous Carol domain. Kord, a merchant who had long relied on the lord’s favor to grow rich, understood this well. But faced with the Cecil’s Commercial Accord, this man, prepared to sacrifice his fortune for peace, hesitated.

“Father, you’d better agree. It’s no good opposing the administrative office. They seem reasonable now, but who knows how long their patience will last? If you don’t sign, they might drive us all out…”

“Spending money is a business; once the deal’s done, it’s done. But signing is forever. It’s not so easy,” Kord sighed. His son was sharp in business but lacked life experience. “Do you know how many merchants are watching? Who’s signed so far? If most don’t sign, those who do… in the business world, they might as well be exiled.”

“The Cecilians have occupied this place. Soon the entire South will be theirs. Everyone will sign eventually.”

“…I know, I know,” Kord smiled bitterly. “That’s why I want to wait a little longer. I really don’t want to be the first. Their weapons are powerful, but there’s still…”

Before he could finish, the door was suddenly pushed open. His younger son burst in, waving a rolled-up paper excitedly.

“Father! Father! They signed! They signed!”

Kord now almost couldn’t bear to hear the word “sign.” The moment he heard it, he stood up and shouted, “Signed what?! Who told you to sign?!”

“Signed? No, not me, not me!” The young man glanced at the tense atmosphere, at his stunned older brother and angry father, then quickly recovered and waved the newspaper. “It’s the southern nobles—they signed! Look, the front page headline, even a picture!”

“What picture? What headline…” Kord stepped forward and snatched the paper from his son’s hands. He knew this “newspaper” invented by the Cecilians. With a merchant’s keen instinct, he recognized its importance the moment he saw it. Since the regular messenger carriages began arriving in Carol, he had instructed his younger son to buy the latest papers immediately. But he never imagined the news would excite even his usually timid youngest son.

Unfolding the paper, he understood.

He saw the black-and-white “picture,” vivid and lifelike. It was clearly a magical recording of a real event, captured by magic and reproduced countless times by the Cecilians’ “arcane industry,” sent to every corner of their domain—including this northern Carol.

“Duchy Established: All Former Southern Lords Swear Allegiance to Cecil Law…” Kord muttered, then suddenly grasped the message the paper conveyed.

“Signed… signed!” he shouted. “Quick, maid, bring my coat! I’m going to the administrative office—damn it, that old Donny lives right next to it. I hope he hasn’t read the paper this morning… I have to be the first!”

His two sons exchanged startled glances, then asked in confusion, “Father?”

“There’s no time left. Now’s the moment to take a stand,” Cade said quickly, snatching the coat the maid hurriedly handed him. Halfway into putting it on, something struck him. He turned sharply to his eldest son, locking eyes with him. “Pal, you’re heading south immediately. Find Weller—and tell him I’ve bought that piece of land!”

(End of chapter)