Chapter 601: The Day of Falling Snow

After a simple yet dignified dinner, the visitors from Cecile were led on a tour of the Typhon camp. They saw the barracks, towers, and walls all shaped by magical power, the partially constructed “sub-towers” of the protective barrier, and the expansive mage district. By the time the hospitality concluded, the sunlight behind the murky clouds was dipping close to the horizon. Before nightfall, Gawain and the others were escorted to the “guest quarters” inside the Rosetta Palace.

The so-called guest rooms were also built from magically shaped stone blocks, their dull gray texture no different from the other spires in the base. Yet the hosts had clearly found ways to elevate the rooms’ taste and comfort with extra decorations. Richly woven tapestries, plush rugs, and large oil paintings infused the cold “artificial stone” with a warm Typhon flair. Inside his own room, Gawain found a full set of exquisite wooden furniture, gilded porcelain, silver candlesticks, and a collection of books to pass the time. For a spire base bordering the ruins of Gondor, such accommodations were nothing short of luxurious.

After a servant informed him of the dinner’s time and place, Gawain closed the door and moved to the bookshelf on the west side of the room. Amber’s amber-hued figure appeared beside him.

At least for now, the half-elf was dutiful: “No surveillance devices detected. The shadow energies nearby are very calm.”

“Of course not. Rosetta Augustus wouldn’t be so reckless—secretly spying on a legend isn’t that easy,” Gawain said casually, his gaze scanning the shelves. “…‘A Brief History of Northern Continent Heraldry’… If I had to kill boredom with this kind of thing, I’d probably get even more bored.”

Amber sized him up, then after a moment couldn’t help but say, “Honestly, I don’t quite understand you today…”

“In what way?” Gawain had long suspected the half-elf was holding back a whole bunch of questions, and that she wouldn’t be able to keep them in. He smiled leisurely.

Amber opened her mouth as if to ask, but at the last second bit her lip hard, glanced quickly around, and finally puffed out her cheeks: “I won’t ask!”

Gawain was momentarily taken aback, then a trace of relief softened his smile. “Good.”

Never underestimate others. Never lose vigilance in unfamiliar surroundings. No matter how many times you check, always keep one last secret. It proved that if this half-elf really put her mind to it, she was far from stupid.

After a casual compliment to Amber, Gawain shifted his attention away from the uninteresting books and asked lightly, “What do you think of this camp?”

He knew Amber had already seen most of the camp, whether the Typhons had shown her around or not. She had surely noted far more details than others—her direct combat ability might be lacking, but as a scout, she was invaluable.

From here on, their conversation would no longer touch on long-term plans or secrets, so there was no worry about eavesdropping.

Amber thought for a moment and said bluntly, “In my opinion, the Typhons are just way too rich. Way too rich!!”

“Oh?”

“You can probably tell that this camp is almost entirely built by magical power. I checked their camp and mage district. I’m certain they have at least eight hundred low- to mid-level mages gathered here. These supernaturals’ job is to ‘build houses,’” Amber said seriously. “With these mages, the base’s construction speed shouldn’t be any slower than ours, and their efficiency in every aspect is at least on par, maybe even better.”

“Typhon began implementing a systematic, professional management of supernaturals over a decade ago, applying various supernatural powers to production and development. They even modeled a newborn screening system after the ancient Gondorian Empire, actively cultivating supernaturals from infancy. This has resulted in nearly twice as many supernaturals as Ansu, along with extremely advanced management systems to ensure every supernatural is registered and assigned duties,” Gawain explained evenly. “Most of the mages you see here should be called ‘engineering mages.’ They’ve been trained from the moment they first accessed magic, focusing almost exclusively on construction-related spells. Inside Typhon, there are tens of thousands of such ‘specialist mages.’”

Amber’s eyes widened, speechless for a moment.

Gawain glanced at her with amusement. “What are you thinking?”

“Do you think they’d accept me if I defected now?”

“Why don’t you try?”

Amber shrank her neck. “No thanks, I’m afraid I’d get beaten to death.”

Gawain chuckled, not taking the joke seriously, and casually remarked, “As you can see, Typhon is indeed very strong, but on the other hand… they’re not very smart.”

Amber blinked, already guessing his meaning. “You think they’re wasteful, right…”

“Exactly. A huge waste—using researchers on construction sites,” Gawain shook his head regretfully. “Mages are researchers, inventors, creators. How can you waste them on construction?! If you ask me, they shouldn’t be treated as battlefield forces or production laborers. They should all be sent to labs!

“You saw eight hundred mages here building a base as fast as our mechanized teams, maybe even faster. But if it were up to me, I’d turn all eight hundred into researchers, having them develop more advanced magi-tech, better alchemical materials, and technologies to widely replicate their efficient spells. Then I’d spread those technologies to eight hundred thousand ordinary workers, enabling each one to work with the efficiency of an ‘engineering mage.’ That’s the proper use of knowledge.”

Amber blinked again. In Gawain’s brief vision and description, she finally grasped what the true power of magi-industrialization really was.

Gawain sighed. After his righteous speech, he couldn’t help but shake his head. “But there’s one problem—a very real problem troubling us…”

“What problem?”

“As you said, Typhon is just way too rich. Too rich… They have money, people, resources…” Gawain sighed. “We can indeed use the technical achievements of eight hundred mages to ‘arm’ eight hundred thousand workers, but Typhon… they might really be able to field eight hundred thousand engineering mages…”

Amber: “…”

Gawain sighed again. “This is what we call ‘cash power.’”

Amber looked dazed. “Cash power… can you really describe it like that…?”

In this world, there was no word for “cash” as such. Gawain had coined the term by combining “currency” and “ability,” and Amber clearly understood what he meant.

Having understood the true source of magi-industrial power, Amber also grasped why, even with such a powerful tool, Gawain still regarded Typhon as the strongest and most terrifying enemy.

She glanced at Gawain, vaguely realizing one thing.

No matter what business this resurrected man planned to do with the Typhon emperor—whether to accept Typhon’s cotton dumping or help them build railways—his sole purpose going forward…

Was to confront Typhon’s “cash power.”

…

Snowflakes danced in the air. The coldest season of the year had descended upon the land.

On the Holy Spirit Plain, in an unnamed village half a day’s ride from White Pine Town, snow had already piled past ankle height. But this snowfall was only the beginning; flakes continued to drift down.

This pure, heavenly gift blanketed everything indiscriminately, blurring ridges and ditches, roads and wastelands, even the boundary between earth and sky. The nameless village looked like a pile of stones in the snow, its man-made buildings slowly wrapped in silver. On this perilous, freezing day, every household tightly shut doors and windows, sealing every crack in their worn walls to keep precious heat inside. People huddled indoors, sheltered from wind and snow, conserving strength and warmth, hoping to survive the winter safely, while anxiously listening to every creak and groan from the roof.

The snowy village was silent.

Yet beneath the snow, in the cellar of a longhouse, a secret gathering was underway.

Cheap, poor-quality candles flickered on a battered wooden table, casting wavering shadows. On the table lay earthenware jars, daggers, stone shards, and strange red paint forming eerie, sinister magical symbols and twisted images that sent chills down the spine. Around the table, a dozen or so ragged figures sat solemnly in the candlelight, their eyes burning with fanatic fervor, fixed on two figures standing nearby.

The two were tall, clad in tattered gray-black cloaks, iron death’s-head amulets hanging from their necks—grim reapers of the dead.

“Brothers and sisters, the days of suffering are coming to an end…” one reaper spread his arms, preaching.

“To those who suffer, accept this blessing!”

The other bent down, praying devoutly as he lifted a jar filled with a dark red liquid.

One by one, the people around the table rose, eyes alight with expectation and zeal, stepping forward to have the dark red liquid daubed on their foreheads by the cloaked figure.

“Once blessed… the days of suffering will end—not after death, not in the afterlife, but a heaven on earth, soon to come…”

“The days of suffering will end…”

“Heaven on earth…”

“Soon to come…”

The chanting and prayers echoed through the secret cellar. Above, in the longhouse standing amid the snowstorm, several cold, watchful eyes pressed against narrow window slits, staring out into the snowy world.

In the surrounding houses, in nearly every home in the village, similarly cold and wary eyes peered from behind every window.

…

To the east of the Holy Spirit Plain, in Solinfort, snowflakes also drifted down.

A squadron of knights rode into the city in the afternoon. Their armor gleamed, their equipment was top-notch, even their warhorses wore the finest steel mail, adorned with amulets to soothe the mind and boost endurance. They rode down the widest main gate avenue, and everyone along the way—including patrolling soldiers—stepped aside with reverence upon seeing the black crossed swords emblazoned on their insignia.

That mark belonged to Duke Selas Lorren of the Eastern Marches.

At the head of the procession rode the young Marquis Belk, clad in full armor, guiding his steed’s pace—and with it, the entire group’s speed—to prevent his somewhat rough-mannered men from accidentally harming any pedestrians along the street. Though, on this snowy day, there were hardly any passersby to worry about. He lifted his gaze toward the imposing castle perched on the nearby high ground.

After spending so long safely tucked away in the rear—endlessly dealing with those irritating local nobles or watching the Cecilian forces methodically blow up the White Sand Hills (now he suspected they might be planning to turn the whole area into a white sand quarry)—Belk felt his patience and sharpness wearing thin. But thankfully, he had finally received orders to return to Solinfort.

The young marquis straightened his back, adopting the impeccable posture of a knight ready to meet all eyes—even if no crowds had gathered around him. He looked out over the wintery street, his mind already turning over the reports he would need to deliver after seeing his father and Prince Edmund.

The situation in the White Sand Hills required constant updates; the Cecilians’ plan to build a new road there was something His Highness needed to know about immediately. He also had to report on the recent quelling of bandit troubles in two territories. Beyond that… there was the issue of the lower nobility’s lax enforcement of the “Serfs’ Freedom Edict” and the “Land Exchange Act.”

(End of chapter)