Chapter 553: The Envoys
The long, bitter winter had finally come to an end.
The fog that had blanketed the Aldern Plain throughout the season was beginning to lift, and with the arrival of spring, the world seemed to sharpen into focus. The daily winds remained chilly, but no longer bit with the same ruthless edge. Snow melted away, ice thawed into flowing streams, and rivulets formed from the melting snow and ice trickled down the black rooftops and spires of Aldern, draping the city in a fine mist. Thanks to the modern drainage system built over a decade ago, all this meltwater flowed smoothly into the underground sewers, sparing the foundations of buildings from damage. What once was a nuisance had become a unique kind of scenery.
A black carriage bearing the Wendell family crest rolled along the Imperial Avenue, its wheels creaking against the damp cobblestones. Grant Duke Perednan Wendell sat inside, peering through the small opening in the carriage window cover at the street outside.
It was early morning, and sunlight had just begun to brighten the streets. Normally, at this hour, the streets would be nearly deserted, but Perednan’s eyes caught sight of several small groups of commoners. They wore dull gray coats and felt or woolen hats, moving steadily in one direction. Though the early spring wind made them shiver slightly, they hurried on without pause.
“Workers from the textile mills, I suppose…” the duke murmured softly. “Out so early.”
His longtime butler, seated opposite him, explained, “To encourage the new factories, His Majesty issued a decree allowing cotton transport vehicles to enter the city at dawn without tax. So the mills start work very early.”
“Just to get an hour’s head start…” the old duke muttered, glancing out the window again.
He saw more textile workers emerging from their homes, heading toward the factories. Vehicles bearing the imperial and guild emblems rushed past—large wagons carrying components for the arcane network.
On Platinum Avenue, he noticed an old warehouse leveled to the ground. It belonged to Viscount Mori, who had decided to build a spinning mill on the site. On Iron Lily Street, a towering chimney billowed thick smoke—the new coal acidification plant was processing the fertile dust used as fertilizer.
The acrid smoke from that chimney seemed to hang in the air all around—though Perednan knew it was just an illusion. The chimney was a hundred meters tall; the smoke would dissipate high above, not affecting the streets below.
Still, the duke frowned.
Factories, arcane networks, boilers, towering chimneys—the bustling “Age of Investment” seemed to have sprung up overnight, as if everyone was involved and excited.
Having spent most of his life in the empire’s inner circle, Perednan had never seen anything develop so rapidly and feverishly. He didn’t consider himself a reactionary, but these sudden changes made him uneasy.
“Even the noble council’s discussions have turned to factories and cotton bills,” the grand duke shook his head. “That Viscount Hermil’s textile mill has drawn a crowd of investors.”
“Well, the new mills produce more and better cloth,” the butler said. “I heard Lady Milaf also wants to start a mill, but machines are scarce—there simply aren’t enough.”
“I’ve seen their cloth,” Perednan said with some disdain. “It’s sturdy enough, but rough and tasteless.”
The butler shrugged. “For most people, that’s good enough, sir.”
The duke frowned, then sighed softly after a moment’s silence. “Perhaps I’m just too old.”
“You remain a pillar of this nation,” the butler said. “His Majesty needs you now.”
Perednan said nothing, staring ahead as the obsidian walls of the palace loomed near.
Rumor had it that special envoys had arrived in the capital, bearing news from the southern continent. The emperor’s sudden summons was surely connected to this.
The empire was prospering, everything seemed to be advancing at a breakneck pace.
Yet for some reason, Perednan Wendell felt a vague unease.
The Obsidian Palace.
The imposing structure stood as always at the empire’s heart. Though only two centuries old, its somber tones and solemn style gave it a weight that seemed to transcend time, as if it could stand for a thousand years. Upon entering, Perednan’s earlier gloom began to ease.
He made his way toward the emperor’s audience chamber, his boots clicking crisply on the marble floor. Passing the Nightingale Hall, he paused.
An elderly mage in a black robe approached from the opposite direction, his expression dark and brooding. A faint, unsettling rustling or writhing sound accompanied his steps. A young female mage, no more than in her early twenties, followed behind him.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” the old mage greeted, stopping a few paces away and bowing slightly. His voice was hoarse, as if his vocal cords were corroding.
Perednan nodded with the dignity and pride befitting a high noble, replying politely, “Master Daniel, good morning.”
They were about to pass, but Perednan spoke again. “Master Daniel, I’m glad to see you’ve returned here. Lady Winsor Mapel must be pleased as well.”
“I am glad,” the old mage said.
As they walked away, Perednan watched their retreating figures and shook his head slightly.
Daniel Fred, once a member of the Royal Mage Association and mentor to Lady Winsor Mapel, had been a brilliant high mage. But after setbacks in his research and failed promotions, his temperament changed drastically. He exiled himself, and no one expected him to return to the empire’s highest magical institution. Yet recently, he had become a figure of note in the capital, shining in the Imperial Guild of Engineering and becoming a favored guest among many nobles. They seemed to have forgotten his pitiful departure years ago, drawn instead by the profits of the textile mills.
Perednan sighed at the greed of the lesser nobles, then continued down the corridor to the emperor’s audience chamber.
After being announced, the chamber doors opened. Perednan Wendell entered and first saw Emperor Rosetta Augustus seated in the main chair. His gaze then fell on several tall, slender figures of a different race.
Golden hair, pointed ears, delicate and refined features more slender and softer than humans’.
Elves—from the southern Silver Empire.
Just as the rumors had said, the empire had received a special delegation. But why had these elves come? The journey to Typhon was no small feat—it was half a continent away!
Though questions stirred in his mind, Perednan showed no surprise. He concealed all his thoughts and politely nodded to the elves before approaching Emperor Rosetta.
“Your Majesty, I have come in response to your summons.”
“Please, be seated, Lord Perednan,” Rosetta Augustus nodded slightly. “As you can see, we have guests—these elves bring urgent news.”
Perednan looked at the elves—each strikingly beautiful. To be honest, humans with face blindness might struggle to distinguish their genders. Perednan judged by their attire that the elf seated opposite him was a lady.
“Lady, it is an honor to meet you. I am Perednan Wendell, advisor to the emperor.”
“I am Shiva Wayfarer, messenger of Queen Belsethia of the Silver Empire,” the beautiful elf spoke—thankfully, a woman. “We bear an urgent mission: to warn the human nations that the Grant Wall is in grave peril.”
Perednan’s eyes narrowed instantly.
After a brief exchange, he learned the purpose of the elves’ visit and the current situation.
They had come to warn the human nations, honoring a seven-hundred-year-old alliance—ancient history to humans—bringing the latest news about the Grant Wall. According to them, the wall’s deterioration had reached a critical point, beyond what the Silver Empire could handle. The unsettling disturbance last winter was only the beginning of a series of catastrophic events.
As a top noble of Typhon, Perednan was well aware of that winter’s barrier anomaly. Every nation bordering the Grant Wall had witnessed it. The three-day-long flashes and sounds had alarmed border residents. The empire’s western region had even been placed under martial law, and the Winter Wolf Legion dispatched troops to monitor the wastelands. Fortunately, it had been a false alarm—the worst had not come.
Now, the elven envoys brought the most troubling truth: it was no false alarm.
“We paid a heavy price—twelve elven mages and nearly a hundred ranger warriors lost, and the Highland Kingdom sacrificed a third of a full mountain infantry regiment—to successfully reactivate the Sentinel Tower,” Shiva said calmly. “If it fails again, no number of lives will suffice to repair it.”
This was no mere scare. It was a true disaster.
The worst had already happened—it just hadn’t struck the people of Typhon yet.
Perednan Wendell felt the weight of this revelation press down on him. Yet he knew the elf before him was not trying to alarm or pressure him. From his understanding of elves, she was simply stating facts—facts that needed no exaggeration to be deeply unsettling.
He considered for a moment, glanced at Emperor Rosetta, then back to the elf. “What can we do?” he asked.
“We don’t have the means to rebuild the grand wall,” Shiva explained, “so the best we can do is reinforce the barrier before it completely fails—adding extra layers of protection to ease the strain on the Sentinel Tower’s core systems and prevent total collapse. But to pull this off, we’ll need the cooperation and support of every nation surrounding the barrier.”
(End of chapter)