Chapter 556: Immigrants and Deserters

Since the end of winter, Panshi City had grown more prosperous with each passing day.

This new city, located north of Cecil, had once been just a section of the southern fortress and plains of Panshi Fortress. The Cecilians had torn down the old fortress walls, leveled the ancient towers, and built a new fortified city amid the war-torn ruins. Around the outer layers of the fortress city, they erected a new “magical energy barrier,” and along the banks of the Dorgon-Whitewater River, they constructed a bustling dock plaza, breathing new life into this land scarred by war.

At first, the residents inside the fortress city were uneasy—they were the old fortress inhabitants, former servants of the kingdom’s garrison stationed at Panshi Fortress. Their awkward status made them constantly fear postwar reprisals from the Cecilians. But as the new fortress commander took office and the administrative office began functioning, the Cecilians honored each promise they made when taking over the fortress: no purges, no forced conscriptions, no demolishing houses, no land seizures. With these pledges fulfilled one by one, order gradually returned to Panshi Fortress, and the newly built Panshi City began to operate smoothly.

Designed from the start as a “gateway for exchange,” once Panshi City got going, it quickly flourished.

It was the vital artery connecting the Holy Spirit Plains and the Southern Territories, a must-pass route for merchants trading north and south. For traders, the Southern Territories always seemed to have an insatiable demand for ore and magical materials, while people throughout Ansu eagerly welcomed alchemical potions and magical network units from Cecil. The Dorgon-Whitewater River practically flowed with gold coins, so much so that a new saying caught on among merchants doing business in Panshi City: “If you can just carry a sack and stroll through Panshi City, even a donkey can make a fortune.”

Recently, the royal family had reached a new agreement with Cecil. The slow-witted nobles of Saint Sunir City finally acknowledged the authority of the Southern Duchy, and Cecil opened up more trade orders to the Holy Spirit Plains. Panshi City suddenly became even livelier, attracting new merchants and goods—cheap textiles, paper, and alcohol from the south were added to Cecil’s trade list. Their low prices stunned the merchants from the Holy Spirit Plains. In a short time, goods flowing from Cecil to the plains were no longer just alchemical potions and magical components. Meanwhile, Cecil’s purchases remained an endless stream of ore and magical materials.

This commercial boom propelled Panshi City’s rapid development, drawing more and more outsiders to settle here—not only residents from the Southern Territories but also displaced people from the Holy Spirit Plains, forced to leave their homes for various reasons.

At the immigration checkpoint in front of the dock plaza, a line of new arrivals had just disembarked from a ship, slowly filing through a narrow passage. For those crossing Panshi Fortress for the first time, the narrow passage and the rule of queuing were novel experiences. They weren’t used to it, but the fully armed dock soldiers ensured they adapted quickly.

A red-haired young man walked with his head down, blending into the crowd. The tall, thin man ahead of him stumbled through his registration, and then it was the redhead’s turn to stand before the registrar.

“Name?” the registrar asked.

The red-haired youth shrank his neck slightly, glanced around as inconspicuously as he could, and whispered, “Sara. No surname, sir.”

“Age? Occupation or skill?”

“Nineteen… eighteen. I used to be a carpenter, sir.”

The registrar lifted his eyelids, eyeing the youth’s hands and posture.

Calluses thickened at the base of his thumbs, his stance habitually leaned slightly forward, feet planted apart.

The registrar scanned the youth’s clothing and then his sturdy leather boots.

“Where are you from?”

“The Holy Spirit Plains… central region, a village near Giantstone City…”

“Can you read?”

“No, sir.”

“Your registration card. Go through the left passage; someone will meet you at the end to assist with immigrant placement.” The registrar handed over a card, and as the youth reached out to take it, the registrar gave him a long, penetrating look. “Young man, remember to obey Cecil’s laws—under that premise, the duchy will protect you. Also, don’t call me ‘sir.’ I’m just a registrar.”

“Y-yes, sir,” the youth stammered, a bit flustered.

He hurried off toward the left passage, clutching the card tightly. Printed on it was a number: 3.

The young man had no idea what the number meant, but the registrars working the docks did. It was a code: suspected deserter from the Holy Spirit Plains, recommended for secondary screening.

The registrar looked up at the long line still snaking through the passage, wondering how many more deserters from the plains were hidden among them.

Since the chaotic civil war had reached a stalemate, such people had become increasingly common.

The eastern front of the Holy Spirit Plains was reportedly tense. Neither the kingdom’s army nor the eastern forces could claim a swift victory. The deadlock forced both sides to pour more soldiers into the battlefield, and the prolonged war led to a rising number of deserters.

For the noble armies, lacking effective management and with low morale and loyalty, desertion was as common as wind and rain.

The young man was likely a soldier in the kingdom’s army, so he dared not flee east. He might also be a follower of a deity other than the Holy Light God, so he avoided heading north—these days, heretics faced harsh treatment in the north. Between the western and southern borders, the closer distance and generous immigration policies made the south a better choice for deserters.

The registrar shook his head. Cecil didn’t care about the backgrounds of these deserters—whether they fled from old noble armies or were refugees displaced from their homes, they were all valuable labor to the duchy. Though the registrar wasn’t a high-ranking official, he was trained and knew that every person crossing from the north of Panshi Fortress was the same in the duchy’s eyes: unqualified, all needing reeducation.

This scene played out not just at this checkpoint but across the entire dock plaza. At the end of each of the twenty-eight registration lanes, every registrar held cards marking special immigrants—deserters from the Holy Spirit Plains, heretics expelled by the Holy Light Church, suspected spies sent by northern nobles… Since Cecil’s situation stabilized and the duchy gained royal recognition, the south had reopened its doors to population influx, and among the massive wave of immigrants pouring in, all kinds of people could be found.

In a sense, Cecil’s rise depended on these “displaced people.” For the duchy’s administrative office, processing immigrants was practically routine business.

The red-haired youth carefully held his registration card as he walked toward the next registrar. In this vast, unfamiliar city, he felt confused and uneasy, but more than anything, curious and excited.

This was Cecil—or rather, a part of Cecil.

But it was nothing like he had imagined, nor like what he had heard.

The northern nobles claimed Cecil was a savage, desolate, cruel place where order had collapsed. They said the southern noble system was gone, destroyed by a barbaric warlord risen from the grave. They said this land had lost all hierarchy and authority, where lowly serfs and noble knights walked the same roads. They said Cecil was scorched earth, burned by magical fire, ruled by a warmongering duchy.

But what the red-haired youth saw were wide, clean streets, grand buildings, honest and friendly “sirs,” and a dock plaza bustling beyond belief. If this was the savage, cruel, lawless wasteland the nobles described, then were those nobles themselves living in a pit far worse than scorched earth?

Looking around the plaza, Sara thought the nobles had only one thing right: here, indeed, everyone walked the same road.

And that road was wide enough for all.

If only some fellow villagers who fled with him had chosen the same path… but sadly, those faithful to the Holy Light God had all gone north.

The red-haired youth slowed his pace, his eyes seemingly unable to take in all the new sights.

There was so much new here—too much to process, too much to understand.

Along the broad roads stood neat rows of lamp posts, but instead of oil lamps, they held glowing magic crystals. In a distant clearing rose a strange metal tower, topped with floating chunks of crystal. At the far end of his sight, workers were building something, using tools and machines he had never seen or heard of.

“Sam, you wouldn’t believe the place I’ve landed…” the youth muttered softly, naming his friend from back home. His steps slowed further, his attention fully captured by the strange magical devices around him. If not for the fences lining the passage, he would have dashed over to examine them closely.

His hesitation soon drew irritation from behind. Someone slapped him hard on the back. “Hey! Move it! You’re blocking the way!”

Sara quickly apologized and stepped forward, but just as he was about to move, a sudden flash of light and sound from nearby froze him in place.

At the center of the dock plaza, on a slightly raised platform, a large magical device suddenly activated. Above it, a massive holographic image appeared, accompanied by a brief musical piece—a blend of flute and seven-stringed zither.

The Cecilians on the dock remained calm, unsurprised, their faces showing pleasure and anticipation as they watched the sudden “illusion magic” appear in the plaza. But the new immigrants, including Sara, were startled—some even gasped aloud in the queue. Sara himself almost cried out but only opened his mouth in silent astonishment.

Then, within the magical projection, a beautiful woman appeared, her voice ringing out:

“Greetings, friends watching before the magical terminal. I am your old friend, the Witch Miss…

“Today, in Witch Time, I will introduce to you an exciting new magical creation…”

“…In just ten minutes, the duchy’s most advanced magical battleship, the Pioneer, will be launched. It will be the new pride of the duchy—a mighty blade and shield to protect every citizen…

“…Minister Rebecca believes that the cutting-edge technology of this new magical battleship will greatly advance the duchy’s shipbuilding capabilities, benefiting civilian industries as well…

“Now, let’s turn to the docks, where my colleague is ready to take us live…”

(‘Anomaly’ premieres June 22! We’re currently recruiting viewers for the screening—check out the details on Bilibili. If you have the time, please come support—it’s a dream of mine finally coming true after all these years.)

(End of chapter)