Chapter 463: The Maelstrom of Civil War

The Great Cathedral of the Holy Light, Grant Hall of Illumination.

Veronica quietly reported to Pope Saint Ivan III on the recent developments in the southern territories. “…After capturing Rockhold Fortress, Duke Gawain Cecil sealed off the entire southern region and declared the establishment of the Duchy of Cecil—or rather, the restoration of the old duchy.

“At present, only authorized merchant caravans are allowed to enter or leave the south, and they may only stop around Rockhold Fortress. To facilitate trade, the Cecil family has founded a new town south of the fortress, called Rockhold City.

“Neither merchants nor noble envoys are permitted to pass beyond Rockhold City, so the situation deeper in the south remains a mystery. Only scattered reports have come through, indicating that Duke Gawain Cecil has begun consolidating control over the south, purging the influence of the southern nobility accumulated over the past century. He has implemented numerous reforms to secure his rule.”

Pope Ivan III listened silently, then sighed softly. “It seems this ancient hero has quite the appetite for control…”

After a brief pause, he asked calmly, “Is Bishop Lemont’s body still in the hands of the Cecils?”

“…Rockhold Fortress has refused the Church’s requests. Bishop Lemont’s remains are still in the south, and it’s said they have been cremated.”

“To purify the body with fire… Well, at least the Cecils have not desecrated Bishop Lemont’s remains. It would be better if they returned the sacred ashes to us,” the aged pope murmured with a sigh. “That way, we could at least confirm the true cause of Bishop Lemont’s death.”

The death of a regional bishop in the southern “Noble Wars” had caused quite a stir when the news first reached the Great Cathedral. Yet, during the conflict, the Church—supposed to remain neutral—had sided with the southern nobility on dubious grounds and even launched offensives into Cecil territory. Given that the Cecil family swiftly established de facto control over the south, the Church had neither the grounds nor the opportunity to manage the situation. By the time they finally turned their attention from expanding dioceses and combating heresy, Cecil’s forces had already taken Rockhold Fortress.

Afterward, the Church sent envoys to negotiate with the south, but they were blocked at the fortress gates. The only communication received was a letter from Duke Gawain Cecil himself, expressing disappointment at the Church’s actions in the south and delivering a shocking revelation:

Though Bishop Lemont fell during the Noble Wars, he was not killed by the Cecils but was ambushed by cultists of the Sleeper.

Only a handful within the Church knew the contents of this letter—Pope Ivan and Veronica among them.

“The situation in the southern diocese is no better than in the east. Although Duke Gawain has not yet openly expelled our clergy, scattered reports indicate he has sealed off Luan City and banned all Holy Light priests from moving or preaching in the south—citing the need to investigate the corruption and infiltration of the Church by southern nobles, as well as to maintain postwar order,” Veronica Morn explained. “Effectively, he has placed the entire southern Church under a form of house arrest through postwar controls.”

“The south and east have always been thorny regions; now they’re even more so,” the old pope said expressionlessly. “The royal family’s main focus is on the eastern rebels. We hope to leverage their strength, so our attention must remain there… Veronica, you once met with that ancient duke. Now, think carefully—what might his attitude toward the Church be?”

Veronica lowered her gaze. “He is indeed a man without faith—or rather, ‘faith’ is merely a tool to him. I only met him briefly, a year ago, but judging by his actions since, I can guess his mindset: he neither reveres nor rejects ‘God,’ but follows pragmatism. I studied the reforms he enacted and found a pattern: all his policies prioritize practicality first, then cost and efficiency, and only lastly legal or moral principles. That reveals his style.”

“Arrogant, but with cause to be so,” Pope Ivan III closed his eyes. “Still, his indifference is better than Edmund Morn’s hostility. If he sees faith as a tool… then at least he won’t reject it outright.”

Veronica’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Your Holiness, do you mean…?”

“Wait and see what he does with Luan City next. If nothing changes, we ignore it for now. But if things worsen… Veronica, prepare yourself to negotiate with the southern ruler.”

Veronica bowed deeply. “At your command.”

“Go now. I’m tired,” Pope Ivan said, closing his eyes as his once-straight posture slowly slumped. His voice grew faint, as if part of his mind had already drifted to the realm of the Holy Light. “I will take a short rest… to listen for the Lord’s voice.”

Veronica bent low and whispered into the old pope’s ear, “Yes, may the Lord be with you.”

Even breaths came from the pope, and a faint, serene smile spread across his face.

Veronica stepped down from the platform where the pope’s throne stood and waved her hand. A soft veil of holy light enveloped the entire platform, shielding the pope and isolating him from the swirling clouds of sacred light filling the Grant Hall.

…

Night gradually fell over the capital, the stars shining down on a city wrapped in tranquil silence.

At No. 4 Crown Street in Saint Suniel City, intelligence agent Gipri stood quietly on the balcony of a noble’s mansion, gazing out at the grand yet faded architecture.

Some buildings on Crown Street had become mere historical relics, but many noble descendants still lived in the ancient manors inherited from their ancestors. From dawn to dusk, richly decorated carriages traveled up and down the street. When many carriages gathered in one area, the mansions would be lit brightly through the night, with the sounds of harps and tambourines echoing until dawn. The next day, those carriages would carry their drunken owners back to their estates and castles inside and outside the city.

Even as the country was engulfed in civil war, with soldiers dying daily on the eastern front of the Holy Spirit Plains, and refugees spreading as far as the Greatwood Pass, the nobility showed no sign of cutting back on their feasts and revelries.

Gipri was growing weary of it all.

Fortunately, tonight was a rare quiet evening: no banquets were held in the nearby mansions, reportedly because Count Barin hosted a larger feast in the southern district, inviting half the nobles of Crown Street. Their absence gave Gipri a chance to enjoy the night air.

The sound of carriage wheels rolling over cobblestones broke the silence.

Gipri withdrew her gaze and saw a carriage adorned with magic crystal lamps stop before the mansion’s gate. She quickly left the balcony and returned to the study.

Moments later, a tall, lean man dressed in knight’s casual attire appeared before her.

“Night travel is getting harder,” Pierce said as he removed his coat. “The nobles’ feasts are more frequent, but curfews in the artisan and merchant districts have tightened. If it weren’t for the duke’s insignia on the carriage, I probably wouldn’t have made it back tonight.”

“Rumors have been spreading again,” Gipri nodded. “The situation east of the plains is grim.”

Pierce smiled faintly, scanning the room before moving to the window. He closed it and activated the magical runes etched on the windowsill.

A small soundproof barrier enveloped the entire room.

“Orders have come from headquarters,” the intelligence agent said plainly. “We’re preparing to withdraw.”

“Withdraw?” Gipri’s eyes widened. “Has the situation worsened?”

“The duke has taken Rockhold Fortress. The south is now the Duchy of Cecil. The Ansu royal family will soon respond—whatever their reaction, we will face increased scrutiny here in the capital,” Pierce explained rapidly. “We’ve operated openly here for a long time, and you’ve had multiple contacts with the mage circles. We’re no longer safe to remain stationed here.”

Gipri frowned slightly. “What about this base?”

“A new team will replace us, but they’ll operate covertly,” Pierce said. “The lords still need intelligence from the capital, but since we can no longer hide or disguise ourselves, we must pull out early.”

Gipri paused, then sighed with a hint of resignation. “I see… Looks like we really have to leave.”

“That’s for the best. The homeland is developing fast. The new recruits at headquarters are far more advanced in skills and equipment than our batch. We’ll need to catch up quickly, or we’ll fall behind,” Pierce said with a smile, glancing at Gipri. “By the way… are you attached to this place?”

“Attached? Not at all,” Gipri replied with a wry smile. “Compared to these stinking streets, the breeze by the Whitewater River is much fresher.”

…

The night breeze by the Whitewater River was indeed refreshing. Since long ago, Gawain had enjoyed coming to the riverbank’s high terrace, feeling the cold wind as he gazed at the riverside scenery—sometimes pondering the future, sometimes recalling the past, or simply doing nothing but appreciating the view.

The landscape here had constantly changed.

When he first arrived, the riverbank was just a barren stretch of land. Eight hundred refugees pitched makeshift tents on the wasteland. Guards protected the camp with fire pits and simple fences. Back then, as soon as the sun set, everyone had to return to the camp immediately, for hungry beasts lurked in the surrounding forests and hills. People spent the nights trembling inside their tents…

Then tents gave way to wooden houses, wooden houses to brick buildings. Fences became walls, walls sprouted watchtowers. The wooden bridge over the Whitewater River transformed into a massive mechanical drawbridge powered by repulsion engines. Temporary wooden docks became permanent concrete piers. Even the once desolate northern bank of the river had become the bustling “North City New District”…

After nightfall, the glow of magic crystal lamps illuminated both riverbanks like a scattering of stars fallen to earth.

All this had taken less than two years.

As the man who had built it all with his own hands, Gawain felt immense pride in these changes.

He knew the city’s rapid development was nothing short of a miracle—even by Earth’s standards. The Cecils’ near-supernatural success came not only from the sudden unleashing of productive forces but also from advances in magical technology.

“Magical technology…” Gawain murmured softly. Under the starlight and the glow from both banks, he raised his hand. A faint, shimmering light appeared in his palm.

It was no knightly skill or spell—just the glow of ambient mana in the air, activated by his will. It was a constant reminder to Gawain: magic was everywhere.

“Everywhere, an energy that seems endless…”

Waving his hand to disperse the gathered magic, Gawain couldn’t help but furrow his brow slightly.

Suddenly, the sound of rushing water broke his train of thought from the nearby river. He looked up to see a splash rising on the surface, and then Tyr’s head emerged from the spray.

“Well, well—Lord, are you here slacking off too?”

(Push! Book! Time! I recommended this one a long time ago—The 4.6 Billion Evolutionary Symphonies by Phase Walker. It’s a sci-fi series that’s still ongoing, telling the story of evolution starting from single-celled organisms. Even by today’s standards, it’s a fresh and challenging concept. The series has been running for many years and continues to update steadily. If you’re open to a story where the protagonist isn’t human—and sometimes even the supporting characters aren’t—this is a fascinating read. Whether you’re struggling with a reading slump or just looking for something different, give it a try. The boundless imagination inside will definitely satisfy you.)

(End of chapter)