Chapter 518: Pittman’s Secret
The first snowfall of winter had finally arrived.
Soft, drifting flakes fell from the leaden gray sky, gently blanketing every inch of Cecil City. All the clock towers, rooftops, city walls, and watchtowers were soon covered in a pristine layer of white. In this endless, delicate snow, the boundaries between sky and earth, city and wilderness, houses and streets all blurred into one.
Tyr cautiously wriggled to the porch, extending her long tail outside. With the tip, she poked at the thin layer of snow beneath the porch. A visible shiver ran up her tail and through her entire body—the sea witch shuddered hard, then curled her tail back into a tight ball. “It’s freezing! There’s no way I’m going outside in this miserable weather!”
But Rebecca stood in the middle of the courtyard, turning back to wave enthusiastically at Tyr. “It’s rare to have a day off on the tenth day of the week. Come on, try it! Snowball fights are so much fun! I’ve loved snow since I was a kid!”
In Cecil, the workweek lasted eight days, with rest days on the sixth and tenth days. But due to the recent surge in research projects, Rebecca hadn’t had a proper break in a long time. This belated first snow gave her a perfect excuse to take a day off and brought back memories of joyful childhood winters spent playing in the snow. Though she had grown up and the world had changed drastically, snow remained the same—unchanging and joyful.
Tyr, born from the deep sea, couldn’t understand Rebecca’s source of happiness. This was only her second winter on land, and the cold, snowy, icy season—when water elementals were least active—held no appeal for her. “It’s just throwing snowballs back and forth, right? Humans have always loved throwing things since they started tossing stones—I just don’t get the appeal… And if you’re going to have a snowball fight, shouldn’t you at least wait until the snow stops? This little bit of snow isn’t enough for anything…”
As she spoke, the sea witch curled her tail tighter and tried to shrink her upper body into the ball her tail formed. “I’m tired. I want to go back to sleep…”
Before she could finish, a cold snowball suddenly flew through the air and hit her squarely on the forehead.
“Ah!!” Tyr’s carefully maintained balance was instantly broken, and her curled tail nearly rolled backward. “I said I’m not playing!”
“It wasn’t me!” Rebecca quickly raised her hands, seeing the snowball on Tyr’s face. “The snowball came from another direction…”
Before she could finish, another snowball suddenly appeared from the corner of the courtyard and smashed into her forehead.
“…Amber!!”
Tyr finally screamed. Her shout snapped Rebecca out of her daze. Together, they looked toward the direction the snowballs had come from—there, a cluster of snowballs was forming out of thin air, and sneaky footprints marked the snow-covered ground…
Amid the still-falling first snow, a small skirmish broke out in the lord’s manor courtyard.
“Young people really have it good…”
Behind the study’s floor-to-ceiling window, Gawain withdrew his gaze from the courtyard below and sighed softly.
Pittman sat in a chair beside the desk, sipping hot tea. He lifted his eyelids to glance at Gawain. “Your body is only thirty-seven years old—still quite young.”
“Thirty-seven is already too old to be having snowball fights with the younger generation in the yard,” Gawain replied, settling into his large chair behind the desk and casually lifting his teacup. “Drinking tea in the study is much better.”
Pittman chuckled. “Too bad you have a scruffy old man sitting across from you.”
Gawain said nothing, slowly taking a sip of tea. Then, looking at Pittman’s perpetually mischievous, playful face, he stared for two seconds before speaking. “I heard you solved the technical problem Kamail encountered—that thing called the artificial neural cord, right?”
“That’s right. It’s a product of combining druidic technology with alchemical engineering. Most people wouldn’t even think of such a thing.”
“Most druids wouldn’t,” Gawain said calmly. “That’s the technology of the Sleepless Ones. Strictly speaking, it was created by the Withering Priests of the End of All Things, then passed to the Sleepless Ones, who improved it through their biochemical engineers’ work on neural interfaces.”
Pittman’s expression finally showed a flicker of surprise. Then he shook his head with a helpless smile. “I thought you didn’t know about this. Since you do, why didn’t you tell Kamail? Just to make me say it?”
“No, I don’t like testing or investigating my subordinates that way. This situation was unexpected for me,” Gawain said frankly. “I didn’t tell Kamail because the technology is inhumane and carries huge risks: implanting artificial neural cords drastically alters the recipient’s personality and can even cause mental collapse.”
“…That’s true. Artificial neural cords are very unpredictable,” Pittman nodded. “It seems you really know a lot about the Sleepless Ones and the End of All Things. I’m curious—after learning their secrets, what do you think of them?”
“They possess extremely advanced technology in certain fields and seem driven by some sense of mission. I even suspect they believe they’re saving the world—that’s evident from some of their grand plans. But that doesn’t change the fact that their methods are evil, nor does it prove their goals are right,” Gawain said, setting down his cup deliberately. “If your direction is wrong, the more knowledge you have, the more reactionary you become. If your methods are wrong, the more effort you put in, the more evil you commit.”
For a moment, Pittman’s eyes changed. Gawain couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason or meaning behind it, but he clearly felt the old man’s usual playful, cynical mask slip away briefly, revealing a heavy, lonely aura—if only for a fleeting instant.
“You’re right—direction and methods…” Pittman smiled, a self-mocking smile. “Talent really does exist. Some people are born able to do things others can’t. You pointed out the key so simply, while I’ve been stumbling through life for decades before barely grasping the meaning of those two words.”
“Those aren’t my words. They’re the wisdom of those who came before. I’m just borrowing and adapting them,” Gawain said seriously. “Pittman, it’s time to be honest.”
Meeting Gawain’s gaze, Pittman fell silent for a few seconds before finally whispering, “I was once a Withering Priest of the End of All Things.”
So it was true.
Gawain exhaled quietly. He had suspected this more than once, but since Pittman never volunteered the information, he hadn’t pressed. Today, the topic of artificial neural cords gave him the opening he needed.
But before Gawain could respond, Pittman added, “And I was also a Nightmare Mentor of the Sleepless Ones—once.”
A follower of the End of All Things and a member of the Sleepless Ones?!
This completely caught Gawain off guard. He stared at the wrinkled old man in disbelief. “You joined two sects at the same time?!”
“I joined the End of All Things first,” Pittman shook his head. “That was when I was very young. To be honest, I originally wanted to be a proper druid. I really was of the Heart of the Woods school. But fate is cruel… There was a famine in town caused by magical corruption reducing crop yields. Conventional druidic spells didn’t work. Even my mentor ran off. No one could help until an outsider druid solved the problem. So I followed that new druid as his apprentice—only later did I learn he was a Forester of the End of All Things.”
“So you joined the End of All Things?” Gawain looked into Pittman’s eyes, curiosity barely contained. “Then how did you join the Sleepless Ones?”
“I thought the End of All Things’ technology could heal the land, solve disasters, and teach me true knowledge. But I soon realized they were just a bunch of lunatics. So I took the chance during an exchange to join the Sleepless Ones. Their memory databanks hold the richest knowledge in the world. Though I’m not skilled in dream magic, I was interested in their other knowledge…”
“And then you found out they were another bunch of lunatics,” Gawain said, knowing Pittman’s youth was far more complicated but sensing the old man didn’t want to elaborate. “You left the Sleepless Ones? Then what?”
Pittman shrugged. “Then? Then I met a lousy little thief and ended up adopting a chattering, disrespectful half-elf with him.”
Gawain was speechless, then chuckled. “I thought you might join the Stormborn next, since you’ve joined two of the three sects already.”
The Stormborn…
For a moment, Pittman’s face flickered with a memory, then he shook his head with a bitter smile. “I did look for them once, but I can’t swim, get seasick, and worst of all, I can’t stomach raw fish. So I never made it.”
Gawain: “…”
This seemingly unserious, scheming, mischievous old druid had lived a life full of twists and turns.
Though Gawain was intrigued by Pittman’s hidden, tumultuous past, the old man clearly avoided the topic, so Gawain simply nodded. “You’ve been away from them for a long time now.”
“Many years,” Pittman said calmly. “Honestly, I almost forgot I was ever one of them. When that modified human exploded at the docks, it startled me—I thought they’d finally come for me. But it turns out, compared to a small-time defector like me, it’s you, a legendary figure, who draws their real attention.”
“There’s one thing I’m curious about. Are you really just a low-level, third-rank druid?” Gawain sized him up. “Your true…”
Pittman smiled faintly. “Two defections come at a price. Now, I really am just a low-level, third-rank druid.”
“I see.” Gawain accepted this. Outside the window behind him, the laughter and shouts from the courtyard grew louder.
He asked, “Does Amber know about your past?”
“No, and I don’t want her to,” Pittman shook his head. “Joining two dark sects isn’t something to be proud of. Though I don’t think I did anything truly evil, I want to keep that part of my past separate from Amber’s life. Her life should have nothing to do with darkness. She should be carefree, without worries or burdens, and receive good training and education…”
“Well, considering she treats lockpicking like a hobby and even sneaks into people’s ancestral tombs to pry open coffins, I’m not sure you or her foster father are doing a great job educating her…”
Pittman thought for a moment. “…You do have a point.”
(End of chapter)