Chapter 588: Restlessness

When he came to from the brief dizziness and the disorienting sensation of spatial displacement, the first thing Gawain saw was Amber’s face looming right in front of him.

He sighed in mild exasperation and pushed the half-elf away by the forehead. “Do you have to get this close every single time?”

Amber planted her hands on her hips, speaking with mock indignation, “I’m bored, okay? And you insisted I watch over you. If you don’t want me around, find someone else next time.”

Gawain ignored her nagging and stood up, stretching his stiff limbs after sitting for so long. Then he glanced around the room.

It was a plain chamber—walls made of metal frames combined with wooden panels, a roof covered in iron sheets, and simple, easy-to-assemble furniture arranged inside. The style was unadorned and practical. Aside from the necessary tables, chairs, and bookshelves, there was almost nothing superfluous. Not far off, a window covered with translucent resin revealed a faint view of the majestic Sentinel Tower standing tall on the land outside.

This was the “Pinnacle Base” near the Grant Wall, the place where he rested and worked.

Gawain rolled his neck and casually asked, “Did anything happen while I was connected?”

“Solderin came by once to report on the Sentinel’s defense status. I told him to leave the report on your desk. No one else showed up.”

Gawain nodded and exhaled. “Alright… got it.”

His mind drifted back to the new clues from the earlier network meeting.

The Cult of All-Things-Perishing had mastered a technology called the “Dark Bridge”… It was connected to the Grant Wall and could be used for communication, but apparently not for ordinary contact.

Recalling Solderin’s earlier encounter, it seemed that a high-ranking cult member had been operating near the Grant Wall, sneaking into the elven monitoring station’s communications center… Was their goal to use the Dark Bridge?

Some of the shadow realm’s creeping vines were linked to the Sentinel Tower’s communication modules, and when those vines burned, the parts connected to the communication modules were the first to be affected…

Amber blinked, watching Gawain fall silent and contemplative the moment he woke from the network. Curiosity got the better of her. “What’s going on?”

There was no need to hide such matters from Amber—she was an expert in intelligence and infiltration. So Gawain spoke plainly: “Those vines in the shadow realm might be connected to something called the ‘Dark Bridge.’ It’s a secret communication method the Cult of All-Things-Perishing set up inside the Grant Wall… They didn’t just corrupt and tamper with parts of the monitoring system using the vines—they even stole some of the Wall’s functions.”

Amber’s eyes widened in surprise. “They’re causing that much trouble?”

“The Dark Cult’s history is as old as the human kingdoms. They were born in the same era as the Grant Wall. It’s not surprising they can pull off something like this,” Gawain said casually. “What really concerns me is why they built such a special communication channel… What exactly are they trying to contact?”

“Hm?” Amber frowned, not quite following. “What else would they be contacting? Obviously their cult followers.”

“Do you think they need to steal lines from inside the Grant Wall just to contact their own members?” Gawain glanced at her. “The Cult’s activities are mostly limited to parts of Ansu and Typhon. Their members aren’t spread out enough to require a transcontinental communication line. And the Dark Bridge probably isn’t very convenient to use. To get a signal, they have to risk approaching the elven sentinels. It’s not practical for everyday cult communication.”

His meaning was clear: given the Cult’s current scale, building such a risky and inconvenient communication channel doesn’t make much sense.

Unless they have a target they can only reach through the Dark Bridge.

The two fell into thoughtful silence. After a moment, Amber—sensitive to blind spots from years of intelligence work—looked up thoughtfully toward the resin-covered window, gazing out at the vast wasteland beyond.

…

After disconnecting from the mental network, the unpleasant dizziness and temporary numbness left Hetty resting inside the immersion pod for a few seconds.

Others connected through immersion pods experienced similar symptoms—except for Kamail, who lacked a nervous system.

As everyone sat up from their pods, the ancient archmage had already begun projecting holograms of those intricate elven runes in the open space of the “Network Connection Hall.”

“The elves’ bottleneck situation is indeed severe,” the arcane master noted, noticing Jenny and the others rising. “To be honest, I’ve seen some of these rune arrays before—in the Starfire Age a thousand years ago, the elves were already using this kind of structure. A millennium later, it’s clear they’ve made some small improvements—more precise, complex, and efficient—but fundamentally, the organization of these runes remains the same as in the Starfire Age.”

“But their gravity manipulation technology is still far more advanced than ours,” Jenny couldn’t help but say. “If we can really translate and optimize these rune arrays, the ‘air force’ the lord envisioned could become a reality.”

“I want to fly!” Rebecca’s excited voice cut in. “You know, the biggest blow to me when learning magic was not being able to master levitation or flight spells—well, I couldn’t learn much else either, but flying magic was what I cared about most!”

They dove into lively discussions about rune logic and elven magical techniques.

Amid the animated chatter, Hetty quietly stepped out of her pod. She listened to Kamail and the others discuss the mysteries of the magical world, watched Rebecca gesticulate excitedly among the three of them, and smiled faintly.

She was a mage too. Once, she had lost herself in the lab, immersed in runes and formulas.

How wonderful.

But the legacy their ancestors built needed a steward for internal affairs more than another average researcher.

Hetty tidied her slightly messy hair and smoothed the wrinkles in her dress from the immersion pod. Moments later, Cecil’s remarkably capable steward returned.

With the lord away from the territory today, she still had many tasks to handle.

Of course, first on the list was to give Rebecca a good knock on the head—after all, it had been three days since the last time.

…

Deep within the dark underground palace, high-ranking priests of the Cult of All-Things-Perishing—clad in black robes or clerical vestments, their bodies bearing various mutations—sat around an oval table.

“Our ‘Dark Bridge’ has been exposed,” said the tall, gaunt, grim-faced High Priest Highton, rising from his seat. “Gawain Cecil has noticed the shadow realm’s creeping vines. The elves will soon be warned.”

The cultists murmured quietly, but soon a pale, gaunt black-robed figure, with limbs like gnarled branches, cleared his throat. “Cough, cough—there’s no need to overreact. After the Grant Wall was damaged, the Dark Bridge was abandoned. We’ve reestablished contact with the Wasteland through the Sleeper’s assistance. Those vines in the shadow realm… are now just rotting plants. The loss is acceptable.”

“Our plan has entered its final phase. The ‘God’s’ awakening will solve everything. Given that, the loss of the Dark Bridge is tolerable,” a female high priest added. “Still, we must be cautious. The exposure of the Dark Bridge could bring unforeseen changes. That Gawain Cecil is extremely vigilant. He will warn every faction he can reach.”

“Damn it, can’t we just get rid of that old skeleton who crawled out of his coffin?” grumbled a short-haired, hooked-nosed, deep-set-eyed priest angrily. “He’s a huge uncontrollable factor—and now he’s away from his territory, near the Wasteland border. We have an opportunity to strike.”

“Even away from his lands, he’s a legend,” Belltrilla, who had remained silent, finally spoke coldly, casting a glance at the short-haired priest. “A legend with multiple high-level warriors at his side and an army armed to the teeth. Do you want to use your fibrotic brain to assassinate him? That would only create more chaos.”

The short-haired priest shrugged. “We have to do something.”

“Speed up the awakening of the pseudo-god’s body and ensure the deployment of the divine corruption mutagen—that’s our priority,” Belltrilla said calmly. “Our brethren’s reports from the Wasteland are hard-won. We must make sure this precious knowledge is put to use.”

“Now, let’s discuss the next issue—the passage between the Flesh Abyss and the surface.”

The meeting didn’t last long. Cultists were always more efficient than kings and nobles. Soon, all matters were settled, and only a few remained in the vast underground hall.

Belltrilla stayed with the elven twins, and Highton did not leave either.

“Let’s talk about the divine corruption mutagen,” Belltrilla said slowly once only these few remained. “Although everything is publicly normal, I’ve heard… the mutagen has shown some unexpected… activity?”

“Just a minor issue,” Highton said sternly. “It’s likely that humans, after seven hundred years away from the Wasteland environment, have developed some genetic variations causing an exaggerated reaction to the mutagen. It’s unavoidable. Our brethren inside the Wall were mutated in the original Wasteland environment. The mutagen’s effects outside will naturally differ.”

“The High Priest doesn’t care about the cause, only that the mutagen works as planned,” Belltrilla said, then looked toward the elven twins nearby. “How is the Sleeper’s mental projector? When can we establish the next connection with the Wasteland?”

“The projector is ready anytime, but it requires the ‘Wanderers’ in the Wasteland to reach the projection site nearby to establish the link,” the elven twins said in unison. “According to the schedule, they will arrive between tomorrow and the day after.”

“Good,” Belltrilla nodded slightly and stood. “The High Priest will be pleased.”

With the sound of roots scraping the ground, the centuries-old woman left the hall.

…

Deep in the Wasteland, in the corrupted and mutated homeland of Gondor, the tireless Wanderers continued their seemingly endless trek.

Twisted and grotesque, colossal “trees” slithered between soil and rock, their tentacle-like roots licking the cracked, barren earth. A chaotic wind howled through their branches, carrying deadly radioactive dust in its wake.

The lead giant tree came to a halt. Behind it, all the others—those towering trees and the grotesquely mutated beings trailing the “forest”—stopped as well.

On the bark of the lead tree, the surface writhed, and an ancient, eerie face emerged from the cracked wood. From its rustling branches and roots came a dry, unsettling voice: “The uninvited guests have begun reinforcing their cage.”

“They can only buy themselves some time,” another giant tree spoke. “Our promised land will one day spread across the new world. The foolish creatures of the old world are destined to become nothing more than dust in the sands of time and history, just like their gods. Every struggle they make now only serves to make the coming apocalypse all the more violent.”

“Soon… very soon…”
“Soon…”
“Soon…”

A chorus of voices rose from the writhing forest, the rustling and squirming sounds chilling to the bone. Amid this eerie harmony, the roots stirred once more, and the endless wandering continued.

“The new world will come…”

The crawling forest echoed in unison.

“We will take root in the new world.

“We have already found the perfect place for the next era.

“This place… will be untouched and unseen by anyone from the old world…”

(End of chapter)