Chapter 502: The Day of the Departed

For the people of Ansu, this was a day unlike any other.

The Day of the Departed.

Every year, on the 45th day of Frost Moon, nationwide festivities unfolded as expected. On this increasingly chilly day, the Ansu would take out their last reserves of food and energy to lavish in remembrance of their ancestors and loved ones who had already returned to the realm of the dead.

Though many in modern times had long forgotten the original meaning of the festival, centuries of tradition had transformed Frost Moon 45 into a unique day steeped in mystery, hope, and reverence. Many Ansu firmly believed that on this day, the gates to the land of the dead would open wide. Souls who had passed on—whether to the halls of the Death God, the sacrificial grounds of the Blood God, or the domains of other deities—were granted the chance to return to the mortal world. These spirits would follow paths lined with death daisies, joining the living in celebration. At night, by the bonfires, they would manifest as shifting smoke, flickering flames, or shadowy figures, keeping company with those who longed for them.

Thus, though the day was one of mourning, the Ansu celebrated it with joy. They adorned their doorways with flowers, hung wreaths of grass or vines above hearths and front doors, and lit grand bonfires around which they sang and danced. They rejoiced because they believed the souls of the departed would come home to visit.

Beyond honoring the dead, the Day of the Departed held another significance for Ansu, a northern kingdom: it marked the end of most social activities for the year.

Frost Moon 45 was the last day the constellation of the Burning Star crossed the celestial line, signaling the approach of winter. Though winter was still a couple of weeks away, the northern kingdom’s weather had already turned too cold for outdoor exertion. Nobles might still host a few elegant winter feasts on snowy days, but for common folk, who faced shortages of food, fuel, and clothing, this was their final chance for large-scale outdoor gatherings.

After careful rationing, people pooled their fuel and food for one last celebration, lifting their spirits and praying to the souls of their ancestors for favorable weather and bountiful harvests in the coming year. The simple folk held simple beliefs: prayers to the gods of plenty were the domain of priests, and seeking blessings from druids came at a steep price. It was easier to light a bonfire on this last festival before winter and hope that the departed—now dwelling in the realms of the gods—might lend a hand, blessing them with a few extra bushels of grain.

With these humble hopes, they celebrated the annual Day of the Departed, then settled into quiet hibernation for the long, cold winter ahead—just like their ancestors who had returned to the land of the dead.

In Saint Suniel City, the faint, sweet scent of death daisies drifted through the streets and alleys. Though the entire kingdom remained mired in the quagmire of war, the Day of the Departed arrived on schedule—perhaps even more urgently needed because of the storm of conflict raging around them. People desperately sought comfort for the souls about to embark on their final journey.

White flowers were already planted before every home, decorative ropes of grass and flowering vines hung beneath every eave. Adults carried gathered firewood to the nearest squares or open fields, preparing for the evening’s bonfires, while carefree children ran around, shouting and wrestling, burning off their last reserves of energy.

This scene was not unique to the common districts; even within the grand Silver Fortress, similar preparations were underway.

Servants busied themselves in the courtyard, stacking massive piles of firewood. Knights polished their spears and swords, adorning the corridors leading to the courtyard with gleaming weapons. At the entrance stood Victoria Wilde, draped in a flowing white gown, her silver hair cascading over her shoulders. In her hand was a white death daisy, which she carefully pinned to the chest of Wales Morn.

“Your Highness, may you always remember the glory of your ancestors,” the duchess said calmly, her voice steady.

Wales Morn glanced down at the small white flower on his chest and gave a faint, self-deprecating smile before bowing his head. “I will remember it.”

Victoria studied his expressionless face and suddenly asked, “Your Highness, do you know why every year the head of the Wilde family is the one to pin the death daisy on the heir of the Morn bloodline?”

For a moment, a flicker passed through Wales’s eyes, but his tone remained even. “Because the Wilde family sheltered the Morn bloodline in the kingdom’s darkest hour. Just as our ancestors are worthy of remembrance, so too is that bond.”

Victoria’s gaze locked with his—there was no trace of intimidation, yet the duchess’s innate wintery aura still exerted an unspoken pressure. Normally, no one could hold her gaze for more than ten seconds. Yet the middle-aged heir before her met her eyes without flinching, holding her stare for over ten seconds with quiet confidence.

A faint smile touched Victoria’s lips as she withdrew her gaze and looked toward the towering pile of firewood in the courtyard. “I once asked Prince Edmond the same question. Guess how he answered?”

“I don’t know.”

“‘It’s so every Morn descendant knows that because the Wilde family exists, they have the right to honor their ancestors here in the Silver Fortress, rather than in a stable in Northmount County.’ Those were his exact words,” Victoria said evenly. “That was three years ago, before our great founding hero had even risen from his grave.”

Wales Morn said nothing, standing silently.

“Now, he probably wears a death daisy too, lighting a bonfire in some fortress east of the Holy Plains, commemorating the father he most likely killed with his own hands. At least he no longer has to endure the humiliation of accepting the flower I pinned on him here in the Silver Fortress, forced to honor the dead on my terms,” Victoria said, tilting her head slightly as she addressed the heir who had passed over the throne once before. “Now that role has passed to you. It’s your turn.”

“I don’t see it as humiliation.”

“Perhaps not. But that’s not important,” Victoria’s tone was indifferent, almost detached. “Your father was a good king. To be honest, I respected him—though he might not have welcomed my respect.”

Wales looked at her, puzzled. He didn’t understand why this usually cold, aloof northern ruler, who rarely spoke at length, was suddenly sharing so much. Victoria ignored his confusion and continued.

“This kingdom has stood for centuries, with dozens having sat on the throne. But not all truly cared for it. Your father did. Whether you believe it or not, the Wilde family has always sincerely supported him.”

Wales opened his mouth but said nothing.

“I know what you think, even if you never say it aloud. You see it as coercion and control,” the duchess said without turning back, as if reading the subtle change in his expression. “But we have our reasons. Everything is for the sake of the Kingdom of Ansu.

“The Mist Moon Rebellion a hundred years ago taught us a harsh lesson. That conflict was sparked by a struggle for the throne, but the real cause of chaos was the last king of the First Dynasty’s reckless life and misrule. From that day, we realized—the throne must have a lock.

“The king is supreme, but the king cannot be unchecked. For lasting stability, someone must be able to rein in the crown when it spirals out of control. So, in the Second Dynasty, we established the Regency system. The crown is watched and controlled, but in turn, the king also balances the power of the regents. You know this well.

“No one should hold absolute power. Every power must have a backup plan. These are the lessons the Wilde family drew from the Mist Moon Rebellion.”

Wales finally broke the silence. “Have you considered the variables of Edmond and the Duke of the East?”

“…The human heart is always unpredictable,” Victoria said after a brief pause. “But that doesn’t mean our lessons are meaningless. In fact, Ansu survived the Mist Moon Rebellion because of the Regency system. It may need improvement, but it’s far from obsolete.”

Wales fell silent again. After a long moment, he looked up at the duchess. “Why tell me all this now?”

“My father said the same to your late king before he ascended,” Victoria said calmly. “Three years ago, on the Day of the Departed, I intended to say this to Edmond.”

Wales’s breath caught for a moment.

“The throne has been vacant for a long time. The kingdom has functioned without a king for over half a year, but it cannot go on forever. The nobles need someone to pledge loyalty to. The royal army needs a banner to rally behind. The people need to know who the legitimate ruler is,” Victoria turned to meet his eyes again. “At first, we thought the war would end quickly. The royal army outnumbered the Eastern rebels two or three times over and had better supplies. But we miscalculated. Now we’re stuck in a stalemate, and we must prepare for a prolonged struggle.”

Wales opened his mouth. “I…”

“You cannot wait until after the war to be crowned, Your Highness,” the duchess said, emphasizing the title. “Edmond will soon realize he cannot enter Saint Suniel within the year. He will crown himself at any moment. The Duke of the East will use his influence to secure the loyalty of the nobles in the East and half of the Holy Plains. The common folk will soon accept it blindly. Therefore, you must become king before Edmond’s coronation.”

Wales’s eyes widened slightly, but having lost the throne once, he quickly regained his composure. Looking at Victoria with frankness, he asked, “How many will recognize me as king? How many nobles will swear loyalty to me?”

“The Wilde family will support you fully. The Franklin family as well. We can secure the loyalty of at least half the kingdom’s nobles—at least publicly.”

Wales pondered for a few seconds before speaking again. “Have you considered the greatest variable?”

As he said this, he pointed to the death daisy pinned on his chest.

“I am ready to travel south. I will speak with the founding duke in person,” Victoria said solemnly. Even the so-called Ice Queen of the North could not hide the gravity in her voice. “I will do everything in my power.”

“What are the chances he supports me?”

Victoria took a deep breath. “…I only hope he does not oppose you.”

After that, the two fell into silence together.

They gazed at the towering pile of firewood in the courtyard, at the wreaths of straw and the death chrysanthemums arranged here and there, and at the mages and ceremonial officers busily preparing for the ritual.

The sky was growing dim, the fading light signaling that the time to light the bonfire was drawing near.

The most important part of All Souls’ Day was about to begin.

It was a day to honor ancestors and to pray for blessings from the ancient departed.

But the very ancestor this festival originally commemorated… had now returned from the other shore where the death chrysanthemums bloom, back to the world of the living.

Victoria Wilde walked silently toward the courtyard, picked up a branch of oak from the stone table, and tossed it onto the woodpile before ordering the bonfire to be lit.

Watching the flames slowly catch and rise, the northern ruler sighed.

If only it were truly as simple as throwing a stick into the fire to earn an ancestor’s blessing… how much easier that would be.

(End of chapter)