Chapter 541: Aftershocks in the Shadows

Pittman’s words made Gawain stop in his tracks once again.

“The other half you mentioned is…?”

Pittman twirled his somewhat unruly beard—a rare trace of seriousness flickering across the usually irreverent old man’s face. “So far, all magical devices can only cast spells that are ‘instant release.’ They can’t handle those guided by the mind, like the Mage Hand, right?”

Gawain immediately grasped the implication and widened his eyes slightly at the potential breakthroughs in neural cord technology.

Magic technology had its flaws—or rather, inherent limitations. These limitations had existed from the very beginning.

In this world, spells generally fell into two categories. One was instant release: once the caster completed the spell’s pattern or set up a rune array in advance, all that was needed was to inject energy, and the spell would fire immediately without further intervention—fireballs, ice bolts, repulsion cantrips, and the like. The other category was “mind-guided” spells, which required continuous mental focus and control—such as Mage Hand and various mind-affecting magics.

Clearly, current magical technology could only handle the first type: by arranging specific rune arrays, the spell’s pattern was stored in the machine beforehand, and pressing a button would release the spell. This was the essence of most magical devices.

This was also the only method Gawain’s “Earth logic” could conceive to universalize magic.

But magic wasn’t limited to just one kind. For those mind-guided spells, magical technology was woefully inadequate—ordinary people without magical sensitivity couldn’t control complex, ever-changing spells by simply pressing a button. Although Jenny’s team had been trying to use rune arrays to manipulate Mage Hand for various tasks, searching for a breakthrough with mind-guided spells, their prototype was clumsy, slow, and error-prone, showing no practical value and no hope of progress in the foreseeable future.

Moreover, this limitation had severely constrained the development of some devices—like the recently completed immersive neural cockpit. The “suggestive scenarios” stored inside, which helped users distinguish reality from illusion, had to be edited by mages; technicians without magical backgrounds couldn’t intervene. This clearly clashed with Gawain’s development philosophy.

“The Sleeper’s original commission to the End of All Things cult to develop neural cord technology was meant to expand their order,” Pittman explained calmly. “They wanted those who weren’t Sleeper priests—converted merchants, minor nobles, even heretical clergy—to access their dreams and undergo transformation by the dark doctrine. Though their motives were dark, their goal was close to ours: to enable ordinary people without extraordinary talent to wield supernatural power through tools.”

Pittman’s voice was steady, as memories long buried in the depths of his mind resurfaced after years away from the dark cult. These obscure truths slowly intertwined with the marvels of the magical city before them, sharpening his thoughts.

“The neural cord links the human brain to runes, replacing the process of ‘magical sensitivity.’ So why not expand this idea: if ordinary people who can’t sense magic connect to the neural cord, could they indirectly control magic? If we add auxiliary power sources, casting mechanisms, and support machinery… then a normal person connected to the neural cord and full external gear—how different would they be from a true mage?”

The breakthrough for mind-guided spells had been found.

Surprisingly, it lay outside conventional magical technology—in the heretics’ own tech tree.

“There is a difference…” Gawain suddenly laughed, looking at the old druid before him. “A real mage takes years of training, plus luck, talent, and money to level up. But an ‘artificial mage’ connected to a neural cord? Upgrading might just mean swapping in a bigger mana capacitor.”

Pittman shrugged. “Developing new mana capacitors takes time too.”

“That’s true. But once developed, it could be deployed to hundreds of thousands, even millions, immediately…”

Amber, standing behind them, glanced between the two men. The half-elf had been fighting off drowsiness since their technical discussion began, but she still understood what they were talking about. When she heard the last few sentences, she couldn’t help but blurt out, “Oh my god… are you guys serious?”

“Any technology that challenges convention sounds like fantasy before it’s realized,” Gawain smiled. “But ‘convention’ is exactly what’s meant to be broken.”

He then turned to Pittman with solemnity. “I think this idea is very feasible. You should give it a try—you’re the expert in druidic fields. But one thing: we’re neither Sleepers nor the End of All Things cult.”

“I understand,” Pittman bowed deeply. “Rest assured, I am not, nor will I ever be.”

…

Everything seemed to be back on track. The continent continued along its original path: nobles indulged in decadence, kingdoms schemed openly and covertly, civil wars raged on, development pressed forward. The strange phenomena of the Great Sun and the Grant Wall had sparked some panic, but as the barrier was restored, fears gradually subsided. On the surface, the world was as usual.

But for those watching the wasteland closely, the aftershocks of the Grant Wall’s anomaly still rippled on.

Deep beneath the eastern Ansu region, in an underground palace.

The rustling of roots scraping stone echoed through the shadowy depths. Magic crystal lamps embedded in ancient stone walls cast pools of light and shadow across the dim hall. Beltira walked down a corridor she knew intimately, arriving at the chamber where the high priests convened.

The spacious hall held long tables and chairs, the crystal lamps’ glow pouring from the ceiling to illuminate the faces of those gathered. Some turned toward the entrance. One high priest frowned upon seeing Beltira. “You’re late again, High Priestess Beltira.”

“As long as you haven’t come up with anything useful, I’m never late,” Beltira replied with a hint of sarcasm, taking her seat. “Or have you already found something?”

Her tone was always like this; the other priests were used to it. The elven twins Filna and Relna opposite her laughed in unison. “Ha, no, nothing yet—if you hadn’t shown up, we might have started discussing dinner.”

“We can talk about that later. For now, let’s focus on the wasteland,” Beltira shook her head. “The High Patriarch saw a revelation in the Ultimate Book. Our sun… is indeed in trouble. Its power is stirring the world’s magical environment, accelerating the barrier’s collapse.”

The priests murmured among themselves. After a brief discussion, someone looked up at Beltira. “We suspected this, but the key question is—how severe is the sun’s influence? How long can the Grant Wall in Gondor’s wasteland hold? If it’s going to fail early… how much earlier?”

“Unfortunately, the Ultimate Book offers no answer. It’s an artificial forgery, after all,” Beltira said, shaking her head. “And we don’t know the exact technology behind the elven barrier.”

A tall, thin middle-aged man glanced at the elven twins. “We do have two elves here…”

“Too bad we don’t understand shielding tech,” the twins giggled. “But we can say one thing for sure—our queen will act. She’s probably already sent teams to warn the kingdoms and repair the barrier.”

After the twins finished, Beltira cleared her throat and stood. “Whatever the elves do, we must prepare. Given the wasteland’s early unrest, we should move our plans forward.”

A voice whispered in alarm. “It’s come to this?”

“This is the High Patriarch’s will,” Beltira said, looking toward the speaker. “The Ultimate Book’s prognosis is grim. We don’t have time to prepare slowly.”

Someone at the end of the table stood. “If we accelerate the plan, we must contact our brethren beyond the wall…”

“Our communications with the wasteland have been cut due to the Grant Wall’s system failure,” said a black-robed man whose half-bark-like face was grotesquely mutated. “The elves will update the comm channels while repairing the barrier, rendering our ‘dark bridge’ useless. We must restore contact quickly to monitor the situation inside the wall.”

“I’ve sent people to contact the Sleepers—their mind projection tech might penetrate the barrier,” Beltira said. “High Priest Heaton, how’s the biomass collection progressing?”

Heaton, tall and gaunt with a grim expression, looked up. “There are still gaps—the southern front’s developments were unexpected.”

“We thought the southern war would last years, but Gawain Cecil crushed all the noble coalitions,” another priest shook his head. “He’s also spreading cremation and purification rituals widely. Biomass sources there are scarce.”

“Stop complaining,” Beltira cut in. “We take what we can get. The False God’s body is nearly complete. The missing biomass… after next spring, the kingdom and eastern armies will supply it.”

The meeting ended.

One by one, the robed priests rose and left, the vast hall quickly falling silent. Beltira remained, joined only by the elven twins.

“Beltira, you’ve seemed restless lately,” the twins approached, their smiles like twin blossoms. “Want us to ‘treat’ you?”

“I’m not that desperate,” Beltira coldly declined. “But you two elves—don’t you care about the Silver Empire’s fate after the barrier falls?”

The twins laughed, their silver bells ringing. As they turned to leave, one called back, “Don’t you care about Typhon’s fate either, Lady Augustus…?”

Beltira watched them go, letting out a faint sigh before sitting back down and gazing up at the ancient stone ceiling.

“Augustus… it’s been a long time since I heard that name.”

The weathered ceiling still held bright crystal lamps. Around them, newly affixed metal plates were neatly arranged, stretching up to nearby pillars. The runes on the plates flickered faintly in the dark, as if breathing.

“No matter what, the magic network really is a handy thing.”

(End of chapter)