Chapter 503: Remembrance
The grand bonfire blazed to life, while from afar the clock tower tolled a series of melodious chimes. Amid the pervasive scent of death chrysanthemums that filled the city, Saint Suniel was gradually shrouded in a hazy, dreamlike mist. The flames scattered throughout the city seemed to push back the deepening night, creating a radiant glow beneath the star-studded sky.
It was impossible not to recall the legendary dark age—the era that shaped humanity’s fate during the Second Expansion. In the chaotic, shadowed tides of magic, had their ancestors also lit great bonfires like this one? Like beacons in the darkness, guiding lost kin through the storm of magic back to safety?
Perhaps this was the deeper, unspoken meaning behind lighting bonfires on All Souls’ Night.
Watching the flickering flames before him and listening to the officiant recite the lengthy prayers for the dead, Wales Morn stood silently, expressionless. As the nominal ruler of Ansu, he felt like an outsider in the courtyard honoring the Morn ancestors. Sparks rose and danced in the heat, drifting upward into the dark night, eventually blending with the autumn stars. Yet in that vast sky, he could not see the face of Charles Morn—his distant, unfamiliar forebear.
Soft footsteps approached from behind. The middle-aged crown prince suddenly felt an inexplicable wave of peace wash over him. He caught a glimmer of light in the air and turned to see Veronica Morn standing beside him, clad in a flowing white gown.
On her chest, a small white flower bloomed, nourished by holy light—pure and beautiful.
“Good evening, brother,” Veronica greeted him with her ever-calm, gentle smile, bowing slightly.
“Veronica…” Wales looked at his brilliant younger sister with surprise. “Shouldn’t you be praying at the cathedral?”
“Tonight is All Souls’ Day—the first since Father passed,” she said softly. “The Lord will understand.”
Her words were not what one might expect from a textbook pious “holy princess,” but Wales knew his sister had always been exceptional. She had her own thoughts and countless clever reasons to justify her actions. So he merely nodded, choosing not to press further.
After an awkward silence, Wales spoke first. “Duchess Victoria came by. She told me some things.”
“You’re about to become king.”
Wales blinked in surprise. “How did you know?”
“It’s not hard to guess. Given the situation, the regent has few options. And today is All Souls’ Day—what better time to say such things before the ancestors?” Veronica replied calmly, then bowed slightly. “Congratulations, brother.”
Wales furrowed his brow ever so slightly. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He looked into Veronica’s eyes—those eyes that always held a gentle, trustworthy smile. But to him, they seemed like exquisitely crafted gems—beautiful, perfect, yet lifeless. Neither kind nor cruel, just empty. He awkwardly turned his gaze away.
No one else seemed to notice anything unusual about the holy princess’s demeanor. Everyone treated her as a divine gift, a symbol of all that was good in Ansu. But ever since Veronica was young, Wales had felt a strange, inexplicable unease when alone with her. Under that pressure, he avoided being alone with her whenever possible. Yet tonight was All Souls’ Day—he had no reason to leave the courtyard early.
So he stayed, trying to change the subject. “I heard that after the Holy Order went to the front, the kingdom’s military situation has been improving…”
“Only enough to hold the line against the Eastern rebels,” Veronica answered. “And much of that stalemate is due to the cold weather—winter fighting is tough on both sides.”
“…I didn’t realize that,” Wales said with a self-deprecating smile. “See, I’m not cut out to be king. I don’t even think of these things.”
“No one is born fit to be king. You’ve just been away from Silverhold too long,” Veronica said, glancing at the bonfire. After a pause, she suddenly added, “This year, twice as many bonfires have been lit for All Souls’ Day than in years past.”
Wales was momentarily stunned, then caught on. “Because of the war.”
“The souls of the faithful return to the realms of the gods; the faithless fall to the domain of Death. Each spirit has its own destination. But people want to believe that the departed walk home on petals of death chrysanthemums to reunite with the living… Brother, do you believe those souls come back and watch us in the firelight?”
Wales looked at the great bonfire in the courtyard. The bright flames leapt into the night, and the smoky veil they cast was empty—yet he couldn’t help but imagine, for a fleeting moment, the face of Francis II appearing in the flickering haze. The aged king leaned on his staff, his expression calm, his gaze void of expectation.
“I hope they find peace in the kingdom of the gods,” Wales said, turning to Veronica. “And you? As the living saint of the God of Light, can you see Father and the ancestors in the flames?”
Veronica was silent for a moment, then turned away. “I see nothing.”
Me neither, Wales thought quietly.
He lifted his gaze to the smoke rising straight into the night sky, merging with countless other plumes far above. The combined smoke blurred the stars.
Under the night sky, in Cecil City’s largest square—the Pioneer Plaza—the massive bonfire roared.
The city’s mechanical clock struck eight. A giant psionic hand floated above the fire, scattering a powder made from blackstone and firephosphor into the flames. With a soft explosion, the fire flared brighter and larger.
The crowd around the fire cheered loudly. Amid the city-shaking cheers, the large arcane network terminals set up in the square activated, projecting a massive hologram above the plaza.
Simultaneously, terminals in other city squares, nearby towns, and along the cross-axis of the Duchy of Cecil also came online.
That night, nearly everyone gathered around bonfires, which were always set in town squares.
The people of Cecil were no longer strangers to such “magical wonders.” They neither gawked nor fled in fear. Instead, they looked up curiously at the figure emerging in the projection.
The image of Gawain Cecil appeared.
“Good evening, citizens. I am your lord.”
Some in the crowd were surprised. Once they realized who it was, many removed their hats in salute. Some children shouted excitedly, pointing at the hologram: “Look! The lord!”
The adults quickly hushed the children, and Gawain’s voice continued through the projection:
“Tonight is All Souls’ Day, a day to remember those who have passed. This festival began to honor a noble, but today, we use it to remember our parents and siblings, our departed friends and loved ones…
“In early spring, 375 years ago, disaster struck Old Cecil. Countless souls left this world that day…”
A smoky night breeze stirred, pulling Betty from her daze. She watched as others tossed branches into the fire and picked up a small twig she had prepared earlier. Stepping forward awkwardly, she threw it into the flames.
The small branch was quickly consumed. The young maid stared at the bright firelight, and in her dim mind, each flicker seemed to form a face.
“Mrs. Hansen… Mrs. Morris… Uncle Taylor…”
Betty whispered the names she had struggled so hard to remember, then suddenly bent low and bowed deeply—with that signature, almost forceful energy, as if throwing herself forward.
“I survived!”
A figure stepped past Betty. It was Rebecca, also holding a branch. The heir of the Cecil family tossed her twig into the fire. The flickering flames reflected on her face. Usually clumsy, she was unusually quiet now. After a moment, she spoke softly: “Eight hundred and eighty of us survived… Father, I did my best.”
Hetty appeared beside Rebecca. “Everything is going well now. Rebecca has grown a lot…”
Behind them, Gawain’s hologram still hovered above the plaza. His voice resonated through the air, reaching far and wide:
“To all unfortunate civilians who died, may your souls rest in peace. To all fallen soldiers, I salute you… May the departed rest easy. Rest assured, Cecil will continue to move forward. I promise all of you…
“To all the living and the dead, good night.”
The hologram slowly faded. The crowd stood quietly in solemn reverence.
Back in the Arcane Network Control Center’s broadcast room, Gawain stepped down from the platform used to capture the hologram.
Amber approached with a mischievous grin. “So this is another one of your rebellious moves—usually it’s the common folk commemorating nobles, but you’re the first noble to commemorate the common folk, and even ‘salute’ them…”
Gawain exhaled softly. “From now on, at least on Cecil’s land, All Souls’ Day will be a simple, ordinary day of remembrance… Even historians won’t cling to its original origins and meaning.”
“So your real goal is to stop everyone from celebrating your death anniversary with songs and dances, huh?”
Gawain gave Amber a quiet look, sensing something off beneath her teasing eyes.
He asked, “Don’t you have anyone to remember?”
Amber turned away. “I don’t even know my parents’ names. I’m not even sure if they’re really dead. Who would I commemorate?”
“What about your foster father?”
Amber remained silent for a few seconds before quietly saying, “…He was a thief wanted by the nobility, and when he died, a priest of the Holy Light performed a purification on him… There’s no place for him in the bonfires of All Souls’ Night.”
Gawain looked at Amber’s profile, and at last he understood why this half-elf harbored such deep resentment toward all priests of the Holy Light.
“What crime did your foster father commit?”
“He was just trying to find a book in the church, but accidentally knocked over a candle that the local lord had offered there. I’ve always said he was a lousy little thief…”
The room fell silent for a moment. After the quiet, Gawain broke it gently: “I can’t undo that purification, but as the ruler of the southern lands, I can grant your foster father a pardon. What’s his name?”
Amber looked at Gawain in surprise, then realized what he meant. “Sari… his name is Saril Randolf.”
Gawain raised an eyebrow. “He has a surname?”
“Yes, he does. I asked him once, but he never said anything… Later, I even checked many family records in the south, but I couldn’t find that name anywhere.”
“I see…” Gawain exhaled slowly. “Maybe he was a fallen noble’s vassal. In any case, Saril Randolf is now innocent.”
A pardon couldn’t bring the dead back to life, nor could it summon a soul lost in the depths of the afterlife. But often, what people seek isn’t practical justice—it’s peace of mind.
Gawain gently patted Amber’s shoulder. “While the bonfire still burns, go quickly.”
The next moment, the half-elf’s figure vanished into thin air.
(End of chapter)