Chapter 597: Gloom

Inside Sorin Fortress, the eastern stronghold built from massive stones, Edmond Morn sat in his high-backed chair, cloaked in a black coat, his expression as dark and still as deep water. Before him on the desk lay an opened letter, illuminated by the glow of a magic crystal lamp. The corner of the letter bore a crest—the crossed sword and plow of the Cecil family.

“The cultists of the End of All Things have infiltrated and sabotaged key functions of the Sentinel Tower… The earliest corruption may have begun centuries ago…”

If it weren’t for Duke Gawain Cecil’s team stumbling upon clues in the Shadow Realm by sheer chance, the cultists’ deeds might have gone unnoticed forever—until the Great Wall fell, until human civilization was destroyed.

A heavy, almost tangible pressure hung over the castle’s great hall. The sour mood of the high-ranking supernaturals silenced the servants and guards alike. Only when steady, resolute footsteps echoed from the entrance did the oppressive atmosphere begin to ease and return to normal.

Duke Selas Loren of the Eastern Realm, clad in full armor, strode directly to the head of the hall and bowed before Edmond Morn. “Your Highness—what has happened?”

“A letter from the south,” Edmond said without elaboration, sliding the letter forward. “Have a look, Duke Loren.”

Curious, Selas Loren took the letter sealed with the Cecil family crest and scanned it quickly, frowning. “Your Highness, when was this delivered?”

“Arrived at Sorin Fortress this morning,” Edmond replied in a low voice.

Since winter’s onset, the kingdom’s army and the Eastern Realm had both reduced their forces due to the biting cold. Edmond had temporarily returned from the front at the Greatwood Pass to Sorin Fortress, now serving as a temporary base. As a result, letters from the southern lands took longer than usual to reach him.

Selas Loren quickly calculated the letter’s journey and recalled the recent reports from the south. He mused aloud, “It seems Duke Cecil discovered these matters as soon as he reached the Wasteland border…”

Edmond inhaled softly and looked at Selas. “Loren, that’s not the point.”

“The point is those dark cultists,” Selas Loren said calmly, his gaze steady on Edmond. “Your Highness, we’ve known that from the start.”

“Yes, I know. They were never trustworthy…” Edmond closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, a chill had settled in their depths. “Loren, we should take Duke Cecil’s warning seriously, shouldn’t we?”

“Of course,” Selas Loren nodded expressionlessly. “Eradicating evil and maintaining peace is the duty of the nobility.”

“Good… Belk should be returning to Sorin Fortress soon. Once he’s back, I’ll entrust this matter to him—I trust that upright young man will handle it well.”

Selas Loren bowed his head slightly. “As you wish.”

With firm footsteps, the Duke of the Eastern Realm left the hall.

Edmond Morn sat quietly in his chair, his eyes returning to the warning letter from the south.

His gaze lingered on it for a moment before shifting to the other documents and maps spread across the desk.

After winter’s arrival, the kingdom’s army had adjusted its deployments. A mountain corps was stationed north of the Greatwood Pass, where the cold was even harsher than on the plains. Grant Duchess Victoria Wilde of the North had evidently come to the front herself, and her mountain guards were said to be unfazed by the bitter cold.

Some towns east of Sorin Fortress still suffered from poor security; the influence of former lords had yet to fully fade.

Political reforms within the Eastern Realm had met unexpected resistance. A large number of peasants were opposing the land redistribution laws—clearly not a spontaneous movement. Behind it were conservative lords stirring unrest, though Edmond had found no proof.

Efforts to promote education were slow. The people showed little enthusiasm for literacy, and the lower-level scribes and minor nobles tasked with enforcement barely took their duties seriously. In many areas, they treated these tasks as punishments or humiliations—“teaching commoners to read is beneath us,” they said.

The kingdom’s army was gaining ground, conservatives were resurging, reformers were fracturing, and those charged with enforcing laws were maddeningly inefficient. Meanwhile, the people—those Edmond desperately wanted to help—simply did not understand his reforms.

At first, everything had gone smoothly. The army’s string of victories and spoils had lifted morale, and the reforms faced little opposition. But as the war stalled and the new policies began to touch on “land” and “population,” countless obstacles and difficulties emerged.

A wave of frustration welled up inside him. Edmond suddenly felt restless. He reached out and picked up a cup of water from the desk, hoping to quell the irritation.

—He had long since sworn off alcohol to keep his mind clear.

At that moment, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the fireplace on one side of the hall flare up with an unusually bright flame. Within the flickering fire, a shadowy figure seemed to be trying to take shape. Even the candles on the decorative wall sconces nearby suddenly flared higher, as if pulled by some unseen force.

This was no secluded chamber or watchtower top—servants and guards stood everywhere in the hall. Edmond’s already foul mood darkened further. He frowned and waved his hand toward the fireplace. “How dare you!”

The flames instantly returned to normal. Whoever or whatever had tried to project itself was clearly interrupted.

Edmond snorted coldly and drained his cup in one gulp.

…

West of the Greatwood Pass, in the town of Whitepine under kingdom control, Viscount Horn sat inside a carriage, his dark red coat doing little to hide his displeasure as he listened to soldiers reporting outside.

Damn it, it was freezing winter! And here he was, a viscount, forced to trudge through slum streets inhabited by commoners to oversee some “eradication of evil.” Listening to those foolish soldiers babble on—where was the law in all this?!

Horn cursed silently but dared not voice his true thoughts. These orders came from Regent Duchess Victoria, the Northern Grant Duchess wielding the power of winter herself, stationed not far to the north. He felt every disrespectful word he might utter would instantly reach her ears—and that would be disastrous.

A cold wind seemed to seep through the carriage’s seams. Horn tightened his already thick coat. Though a low-level spellcaster, years of indulgence had drained his body. Even with a minor wind shield, the cold was unbearable. Meanwhile, outside, the soldiers continued their report:

“…Three bodies found in the cellar, all dead. They were clearly engaged in blasphemy. A bloodstained altar and containers with suspicious liquids were discovered at the scene…

“The original owner of the house is missing. Locals say they haven’t been seen since winter began, matching the informant’s description…

“…The three cultists may have committed suicide or turned on each other. That’s for you, my lord, to decide…”

Horn’s eyes flickered with impatience, but when he spoke, his tone was measured and deliberate—a cadence every noble was trained to maintain. “I understand. In short, someone reported cultist activity to the knights, and you found a blasphemous altar and three dead cultists here, clear as day, yes?”

“Yes, my lord. Also, one household is missing…”

“I know, I know,” Horn cut him off. “Handle it as it should be: burn the cultists’ bodies, purify the altar with holy water, and confiscate the house for the lordship. That’s all.”

He was about to order the carriage to move on when the stubborn soldier protested, “But… but my lord, shouldn’t you at least take a look… this is protocol…”

What a blockhead. Who put this idiot in the city guard?

Horn cursed silently again, quickly sliding open the carriage window to peer outside.

He saw a dilapidated street, melting snow rotting the walls and garbage piles. A few soldiers stood guard at a shabby house’s door. Three bodies, already beginning to stink, lay on a straw mat, surrounded by ritual daggers, clay pots, and stone shards—“evidence of heresy.” Nearby, fearful and timid poor folk watched from a distance—some standing by the roadside, others hiding behind windows and doors.

Their frightened, foolish gazes were deeply unsettling.

Horn glanced once, then quickly closed the window. “Fine. I’ve seen enough. Do as I said—Pierre, pay them for their work.”

Outside, the viscount’s steward handed three silver coins—the fee for disposing of the cultists’ bodies and purifying the altar—to the waiting soldier captain.

The viscount, his attendants, and stewards then left the street.

The soldiers left behind exchanged looks, some shaking their heads or muttering. They brandished their swords to chase off the curious poor folk who had come too close. The captain called one soldier over and slipped him a silver coin. “Alright, do as the lord said. Find two men to clean this place up.”

The soldier shrugged after the captain turned away.

He then noticed many ragged, gaunt poor still lingering nearby. Though some had been driven off, most hadn’t gone far. They stood silently by the roadside, their eyes vacant, numb, and hollow as they stared at the three corpses and the now ownerless house soon to be claimed by the lordship.

The soldier shivered inexplicably.

Damn this cold weather. These poor folk’s minds were probably frozen stiff.

Unease gnawing at him, the soldier abandoned any thought of searching the abandoned house for valuables—there probably wasn’t anything worth taking anyway.

He lifted his head, his gaze passing over the vacant, numb faces of the poor, and landed on the two corpse haulers waiting just outside the crowd. Those grimy, gray-black smocks and the death god amulets hanging around their necks were the unmistakable marks of the corpse haulers. These guys, who dealt with the dead day in and day out, had keen senses—no doubt, within half an hour of word spreading that there were bodies here, those two had already been lurking nearby.

“Today’s just my unlucky day…” the soldier muttered, calling the corpse haulers over. He casually handed them a few copper coins and instructed, “Drag the bodies outside the town and burn them—remember, they must be burned. That’s an order from above.”

Without waiting for their reply, he turned on his heel and strode away.

He walked quickly, mainly because he knew the corpse haulers would haggle—the extra wood and oil needed to burn the bodies would cost more than a few copper coins.

But once he left, it was no longer his problem.

The lord was gone, the steward was gone, and the soldier was gone.

Only a handful of poor souls remained scattered along the cold street, the three cultist corpses lying on straw mats, a mess of footprints in the dirt, and the two corpse haulers standing by.

(End of chapter)