Chapter 607: Catastrophe
More often than not, the world refuses to unfold according to your plans. Just as Gawain had believed the standoff between the royal family and the Eastern Territories would at least hold until the completion of the Grant Wall, granting Ansu a year of peace before the flames of war reignited, reality had other designs. Barely half a year had passed when another fire erupted from an unexpected quarter—frankly, the actions of the Cult of the End of All Things caught Gawain completely off guard.
He had always known that dark cult was a ticking time bomb, aware of the fanatics’ madness and destructive tendencies. But until the discovery of the “Vines” in the Shadow Realm, he hadn’t realized how deeply the cult’s corruption had spread. And until just last month, he never imagined they would strike directly at the royal family and the noble armies of the Eastern Territories. At this point, their actions had long since transcended the label of a mere “dark cult.”
On the 5th day of the Revival Month, Ansu Year 738, Gawain returned to Cecil City with Amber and the others, immediately convening a meeting with military and intelligence leaders.
In a high-level conference room within the Administration Hall, Amber relayed the latest intelligence just delivered by her agents:
“…About two-thirds of the Intelligence Bureau operatives have received orders and are en route back to the southern territories. The remaining third are currently unaccounted for. The last transmissions from them came on the final day of last month. An agent stationed in White Pine Town, within the royal-controlled zone, reported that local residents were holding secretive, suspicious gatherings, and the local lord has been absent for over three weeks.”
Gawain turned to Amber. “Where are the missing personnel primarily located?”
“The borderlands where the royal and Eastern Territories’ control zones intersect and confront each other. Intelligence from those areas has been completely cut off.”
Heddy, standing to Gawain’s right, spoke up: “Since late last month, all merchants, travelers, and adventurer groups from those regions have ceased crossing into the south. The last recorded entry through the checkpoints at Rockhold Fortress and the Grant region was on the 41st day of the Cold Month—a merchant caravan. We have been closely monitoring all individuals who entered from those areas throughout last winter and remain in the south. So far, no signs of curses, divine magic, or plagues have been detected, but quarantine measures continue. Meanwhile, intelligence from White Sand Mining remains normal, and order in the Eastern Territories is unaffected. I’ve ordered Holm to heighten vigilance and prepare for evacuation.”
Gawain nodded, then turned to Rebecca. “Any progress from Kamail’s side?”
Rebecca quickly stood. “Yes, yes. Mr. Kamail has compiled extensive data, including the characteristics of the divine blight’s mutation stages and its magical energy signatures. He says the blight’s most notable trait is its uncontrollable release of chaotic arcane energy. But he also cautioned that these are records from a thousand years ago and can’t guarantee the Cult’s current creations behave the same way.”
Finally, Gawain looked to Philip and Byron.
“The armored units have assembled and are on standby at Rockhold Fortress and the Grant region,” Philip was the first to rise. “Besides the heavy flamethrower-equipped war machines, we’ve prepared large quantities of ‘conventional’ fuel—alchemical oils and sticky resins.”
Byron followed: “The warships are ready to blockade the Dorgon River at a moment’s notice.”
Gawain exhaled deeply.
Fortunately, no matter how unpredictable the Cult’s moves were, he wasn’t entirely unprepared.
He always planned for the worst.
Then his gaze settled on Solderin.
The senior ranger had already risen, standing at attention, awaiting orders.
“Take your most elite team and the best equipment. Enter the eastern Holy Spirit Plains. We must get to the bottom of what’s happening there.”
Heddy inhaled sharply. Though she had anticipated this, she couldn’t help but warn, “That might be seen as provocation—or even invasion—by the noble lords of the Holy Spirit Plains…”
“Then let them come and protest to me with their heads,” Gawain said coolly. “They lack the strength to protect their lands and people. I’m helping them. If they can’t face the reality, I’ll do it for them.”
He continued, “Solderin, proceed along the Pompey-Lemberg-Giantwood Pass into the contested zone, but don’t go too deep. If you find refugees who can be saved, signal immediately. I’ll order Sir Valder to have mechanical boats ready at the Dorgon River’s mouth to extract you at a moment’s notice. But if you detect the plague spreading… pull back immediately.”
The senior ranger struck his chest in salute. “Understood.”
Gawain would do his best to aid the endangered people of the Holy Spirit Plains, but he couldn’t save everyone. He also had to consider the deadly plague already spreading deep within the royal-Eastern Territories standoff zone, and the infected refugees fleeing from those areas. In this situation, his first priority was the safety of the southern lands.
…
Deep within the Holy Spirit Plains’ contested zone, a sudden, thick fog blanketed the entire Giantwood Pass area.
White Pine Town, Giantwood Valley, the Gorondo region, Gray Mountain City, Boulderhold… within mere hours, over a dozen towns and countless villages, camps, and estates were shrouded in mist.
The sun had already risen high, yet its warmth failed to pierce the dense fog. Houses, churches, bell towers, and city walls all appeared as hazy silhouettes in the gray-white haze. The sunlight, dulled and powerless through the fog, cast a feeble glow over the land. Doors and windows were tightly shut everywhere, and towns seemed to have suddenly turned into ghost cities.
In front of a barracks, soldiers nervously watched the street scene ahead. The unnatural fog seemed to conceal a terrifying force. Even the bravest among them couldn’t help but tense up as they glimpsed the shadowy streets through the mist.
“This damn weather… this cursed fog,” one soldier gripped his spear tightly, cursing to ease his inner anxiety. “Spring’s fog’s never been this thick before!”
“I’ve never seen fog this bad in my life,” another muttered. “I heard only Typhon gets weather like this—they spend half the year living in the mist.”
“I’m feeling itchy all over—I swear I haven’t bathed all winter.”
“Don’t swear—damn it, you haven’t bathed all winter.”
Their casual banter seemed to ease the tension slightly. They relaxed and turned their gaze back to the vague shapes in the distance.
A tall figure emerged from the fog.
“Who goes there?” the soldiers instinctively tightened their grip on weapons, shouting at the figure stepping out of the mist.
Elsewhere, knights patrolling near a lord’s castle cautiously halted. A tall, shadowy figure was silently approaching through the thick, eerie fog.
Clad in a flowing black robe, the figure’s face was hidden deep within the hood’s shadow. The knights could only make out the astonishing height—nearly three meters tall—reminiscent of the mountain folk rumored to have half-giant blood.
The knights drew their swords and shouted, “Halt! You are trespassing on the Viscount’s forbidden lands!”
The tall figure stopped. Within the black hood’s depths, a pair of alien eyes silently fixed on the knights.
Suddenly, the knights felt an odd itch crawling over their skin.
One by one, in town after town, on street after street, towering black-robed figures nearly three meters tall emerged from the fog.
They wandered the streets as if aimless, yet appeared with uncanny regularity in every place.
Doors and windows that had been tightly shut slowly opened. Scores of civilians, hidden inside their homes, stepped out.
Some were anxious, some fanatical, some joyful. Wearing a variety of expressions, they silently and instinctively followed the tall figures onto the streets.
More confused and uneasy eyes appeared behind opened windows, watching the scene in a daze, as if unsure what was happening. But as the black-robed giants passed before them, the haze in their eyes gradually cleared. They too opened their doors and joined the procession.
On a church rooftop, twin elves—nearly identical in appearance—stood beneath the eaves, smiling as they watched the fog-shrouded scene below.
“Do you hear it?” they whispered. “The heart has truly begun to beat…”
…
The heartbeat echoed throughout the underground chasm—strong, powerful, shaking the minds of all who dared enter.
The cult leaders of the End of All Things stood on a platform floating above molten lava, holding their breath, eyes blazing with fanatic anticipation.
A massive, writhing mass of flesh, bound by rune-etched chains in midair, pulsed with each heartbeat. With every thump, the grotesque, twisted mass grew more solid, shedding its horrific, blood-soaked form.
Limbs began to take shape, fur sprouted, and slowly the form of a colossal stag emerged.
Countless slaves, blindfolded, earplugged, and wearing rune collars, lined the long bridge leading to the false god’s body. They shuffled forward in a trance-like state. Whenever they came within a few meters of the giant stag, an invisible force corroded their bodies, instantly transforming them into indescribable twisted flesh that merged into the false god’s form. Most of this flesh was discarded as waste, falling into the bubbling lava below. Only a few faintly glowing “factors” remained, serving as the “nourishment” for the false god’s growth.
These were the divine blight factors—remnants of godly essence passed down from the days of Gondor.
Now, they were reuniting, shaping a new god.
Yet the numbers were still insufficient. This level of sacrifice was not enough. The false god’s awakening stalled at the final step. The colossal stag, already radiating a faint aura of holiness and power, floated silently above the lava. Its eyes remained closed, its fur and the veins and muscles beneath constantly writhing, as if caught in an endless cycle of gathering and collapse.
From the shadows, a figure emerged. Draped in an intricately patterned black high priest’s robe, his face obscured by a shifting illusion, he stepped to the stag’s head. The cult leaders on the platform and the priests further back knelt in unison.
“High Priest!” they intoned.
For centuries, the High Priest of the End of All Things had secluded himself in his chamber, rarely appearing in public. Now, he had come to this final ritual site.
“Only one step remains,” the illusion-shrouded man spoke. “The awakening of an artificial god requires more divine blight factors, the first and final believers…
“Let us begin.”
…
Gulp.
A soldier nervously swallowed, even as the black-robed figure had already stopped just a short distance away.
He had no choice but to shout at the top of his lungs to summon his courage: “Take off your hood—right now!”
The figure in the black robe stood motionless. Only after half a minute did it slightly tilt its head, as if listening to some sound carried on the air.
Then, it removed its hood, and the black robe silently crumbled into ash.
Before him stood a giant woven from flesh and crystal, its eyes—entirely crystallized and devoid of any human trace—fixed on the soldier.
The soldier’s mouth fell open in utter terror, but no sound came out.
He stared at the giant, trembling all over, as if beholding a messenger of the gods. His teeth rapidly transformed into crystal, clusters of crystals sprouted across his skin, his joints cracked, and energy surged between his flesh and bones.
He lifted his head, and through his rapidly distorting vision, he saw a sacred light emerging from the depths of the thick fog. From that light stepped a colossal stag, pure white from head to hoof, with antlers forged of radiant light and eyes made of crystal.
The stag looked at him with pity, as if gazing upon every soul in the world. A sigh echoed from within the light.
That sigh carried endless regret and helplessness.
Year 738 of Ansu, the 10th day of the Month of Revival.
The first disaster unleashed by the power of the gods in this era was set in motion by human hands.
(End of chapter)