Chapter 577: Journey to the Wasteland

After seeing off the vice commander of the royal knight order, the spacious reception room fell into a quiet stillness.

Gawain sat back in his chair, lost in a brief moment of thought. Slowly, Amber’s figure materialized in the air. The half-elf glanced at Gawain with curiosity. “So it really was a letter from that Wales Morn? What did it say?”

Gawain lifted his eyelids lazily. “You didn’t sneak a peek before?”

Amber put her hands on her hips, speaking with mock righteousness, “Of course not! Sneaking a look at someone else’s letter is just too unethical for me.”

This little scoundrel, who was always sneaking around and acting cowardly, suddenly had a strange sense of morality?

Gawain shook his head. “Better if you don’t know for now.”

“Hmph, if you won’t tell me, I won’t ask,” Amber pouted and gradually faded from the room. “I’m going to keep an eye on those envoys. You just keep daydreaming.”

As Amber’s presence dissipated, Gawain let out a soft sigh. “In the end, the one who truly sees through this quagmire… is him.”

The envoys from the royal capital didn’t linger long in Cecil City.

After all, their visit was more symbolic than practical—the elven messengers had already delivered all the necessary information. From the start, Gawain himself had been the first to advocate caution regarding the Wasteland and the fortification of the borders. As for repairing and reinforcing the Grant Wall, once the northern territories had prepared the materials, there was no need for negotiation with Gawain. The envoys from Saint Suniel were mostly there to go through the motions.

By the afternoon of the second day, all letters and pending matters had been handed over. The envoy group led by Cohen Loren boarded the fast river steamer, the Wavebreaker, and departed Cecil City.

They came in a rush, and left just as quickly.

The first batch of supplies jointly promised and prepared by Saint Suniel and the Eastern Territories arrived on schedule at the Whitewater River docks on the 30th day of the Harvest Moon.

Six large river cargo ships, fully loaded with bolts of cloth, metals, oils, and various magical materials. Seeing the cargo piled high, one couldn’t help but marvel that the nobles of Ansu had finally loosened their purse strings—Victoria and Edmond must have used quite a few tricks to get these stingy aristocrats to part with their hoarded treasures.

On the unloading pier, Amber watched as box after box of magical materials were stacked on the ground, growing higher and higher until they formed a mountain. She was practically buzzing with excitement. “Wow… how much do you think all this is worth?”

“All of it is for the barrier repair project,” Gawain glanced at Amber’s shining eyes. “Not a single brick is to be touched for anything else.”

Amber looked him up and down in disbelief, her voice full of surprise. “You’re really going to use it all for the project? Not even keep a little back? There’s so much! And no one’s watching you, so no one would know if you pocketed some—aren’t you always saying the territory needs to develop and resources aren’t enough?”

“I’m not out to take every advantage,” Gawain ruffled Amber’s hair. “Cutting corners on the Grant Wall is like digging your own grave.”

With that, Gawain walked away. Nearby, Rebecca muttered to herself, “Our ancestor’s words really make sense…”

Amber glanced at Rebecca. “You always think whatever your ancestor says makes sense.”

Rebecca nodded seriously. “Not always, but when it comes to things about digging graves, he’s especially convincing.”

Amber looked her over with a mix of admiration and amusement. “No wonder you get beaten up every now and then.”

Meanwhile, Gawain found Hetty waiting for him at the edge of the docks.

“Once this batch of supplies arrives, I’ll be setting out for the Wasteland,” Gawain told Hetty. “Domestic affairs in the duchy will be in your hands and the administration office’s. Military matters go to Byron and Philip. Each department has its own leaders and emergency plans. Just follow the development plan we’ve laid out.”

“Are you really going yourself?” Hetty bit her lip, unable to hold back. “It’s really not necessary…”

“No one knows the Wasteland better than I do, and I want to see the Grant Wall and the Wasteland with my own eyes,” Gawain interrupted her, smiling. “What, no confidence? Worried you can’t manage everything here?”

If anyone else had asked that, Hetty would have firmly denied it, responding with her usual maturity and composure. But this was her ancestor—the pillar of the Cecil family, the man who had led this land from eight hundred refugees and a cluster of tents to what it was today. In front of him, her pride and stubbornness were transparent.

“…I am a little worried,” Hetty admitted softly.

“You’ll do fine,” Gawain patted her shoulder. “When the Cecil family was at its lowest, you were the one who held it together. Now, under your management, the entire administration runs smoothly. You’re more capable than you think.”

Hetty wanted to point out that the land she helped Rebecca govern was just a viscountcy, while the Cecil territory now was the entire southern duchy—a world of difference. But looking at Gawain’s faint smile, her heart quickly settled.

“I understand,” she bowed her head. “I won’t let you down.”

“Just don’t let the people down. It’s not easy for them to live well,” Gawain nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll set up magical network relay devices along the way. Even at the edge of the Wasteland, I’ll keep in contact with the territory. Also, the roadbuilders have finished most of the road through the Black Forest. We’ll have a modern highway with vehicles and paved roads. You’ll soon see that the Wasteland, which seems so far away, isn’t really that distant.”

It was the 30th day of the Harvest Moon, fifteen days before the Harvest Festival.

After two days of preparation and personnel deployment, the first batch of supplies bound for the south was loaded onto advanced magical transport vehicles. A massive convoy—the pinnacle of Cecil’s magical industry—passed through the fortress in the Dark Mountains and set off from the South Gate Fortress, heading toward the Gondor Wasteland.

Gawain personally led the convoy. Alongside the magical combat troops, Solderlin led an elite unit of steel rangers as a guard. The convoy would soon catch up with the roadbuilders already deep in the Black Forest and join forces with the roadbuilding team and the White Knight guard. The supplies they carried would be used to build the last forward base on the edge of the Black Forest. Beyond that lay the Wasteland boundary—the Corrupted Plains.

…

“Open the gates! Convoy, proceed!”

With the gate controller’s shout, the magical machinery rumbled deeply. Heavy gears and hinges slowly pulled back the massive steel gates. Between the rocky slopes at the southern foot of the Dark Mountains, a fortified “rock wall” bristling with armor and turrets opened its heavily armed portals. One large transport vehicle after another rolled out, flanked and followed by several “multi-purpose combat vehicles” covered in lightweight armor plates, equipped with heat-ray gun ports, and topped with magical energy crystals.

At the rear of the convoy were several magical artillery pieces mounted on tractor chassis.

Amid the blaring whistles and roaring engines, the convoy rolled along the hardened road toward the Black Forest.

At the forest’s edge stood a towering giant tree, silently rooted among the twisted, rotting vegetation. These so-called “giant trees” could reach nearly a hundred meters tall, and in the Black Forest, the rampant corruption of magical energy had further mutated these towering giants. Its gnarled, leafless branches stretched out like withered limbs, clawing at the murky sky.

The convoy entered the Black Forest.

The giant tree’s branches rustled loudly. At its highest bough, a swirl of black mist condensed, revealing a massive corrupted raven. Its feathers were stained with rotting flesh, half its skull exposed.

The raven’s jet-black eyes fixed on the convoy. From its decayed throat came a hoarse human voice: “Gawain Cecil has left his territory… He’s personally gone to the Grant Wall.”

The raven tilted its head, as if listening to something unseen. It continued, “The North is more important, the North is more important… I know, I know. I’ll keep watching, but only from afar…”

Listening again, the raven suddenly grew angry. It flapped its wings furiously. “You ask why I watch from afar?! Do you know how dangerous those mad Cecils are? Do you know how terrifying those lunatics are?!

“Do you know how they build roads? Do you know how they ‘explore’ the forest? Do you know how they trample through traps and monster lairs without hesitation?!

“Those madmen, those Cecils filled with nothing but destructive impulse—they are the devil’s projection in this material world, the spawn of demons and volcanoes copulating. Listen, Dorn was blown to bits, ‘Corrupt Poll’ was blown up, along with their eighteen plague beasts and six corrupted brutes. And Pador—damn it, Pador just wanted to get close and observe, who would’ve thought the Cecils bombed the entire thicket? I’ll keep my distance. The farther from those lunatics, the better! Even those Stormborn, whose minds were broken by the deep sea’s roar, are calmer than the Cecils!!

“If you have a problem with that, send someone to replace me—I’d rather serve hard labor in the Flesh Abyss… Oh, damn it!!”

The raven’s curses abruptly stopped. It stared in horror at the steel-covered fortress walls in the distance, watching as several turrets suddenly swiveled to face its direction.

“Those lunatics might have spotted me!!”

The raven cried out and took flight. Almost simultaneously, a continuous roar shattered the Black Forest’s silence, tearing through the chaotic sky and the forest’s mist.

Massive clouds of smoke and explosions engulfed the distant corrupted woods. Inside the South Gate Fortress’s artillery control room, Chief Architect Gordon studied the holographic projection intently, watching the rising dust and the vast swathes of trees reduced to ash.

The fixed fortress cannons were indeed formidable.

The mechanical sergeant in charge of the turrets reported, “All main turrets on the upper defensive wall activated successfully. Upper turret number two requires calibration. Observation devices functioning normally.”

“Good. Record the data. In one hour, test the secondary turrets. George, take two assistants and check the status of turret number two.”

Methodically organizing the work, Gordon let out a quiet sigh of relief.

When construction first began on the South Gate Fortress, he had been tense and worried. The infamous corrupted lands were truly terrifying, and the gaping, unguarded rift at the site made it impossible to rest easy. But as the project progressed, with the southern defenses and turrets installed, his initial anxiety had completely vanished.

Just as the lord had said, the Black Forest was dangerous, but against the might of Cecil’s magical engineering, it was nothing to fear.

“Another quiet day,” a mechanical sergeant at a nearby console remarked, echoing exactly what Gordon was thinking. “Peaceful and uneventful.”

“Don’t let your guard down,” another sergeant warned. “There are still monsters in the Black Forest. Who knows when some completely berserk creature might charge the fortress.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not about to slack off.”

Gordon couldn’t help but admire their vigilance. Yet, deep down, he found himself wondering—

The monsters in the Black Forest… seem to be getting fewer and fewer…

(End of chapter)