Chapter 611: A Kingdom in Turmoil

The sky hung heavy and gray, a restless wind sweeping in from the plains, carrying with it a lingering chill that seeped into the city. Under the dim light, Count Pompei stood on the terrace of his family’s castle, his mood darker than the overcast heavens above.

Whispers and rumors were spreading like wildfire between the city and the countryside, and their content was deeply unsettling. Some spoke of a terrible plague breaking out near the Greatwood Pass; others claimed the kingdom’s army had suffered a crushing defeat, with key cities and strongholds falling one after another. The stories were chaotic and conflicting, and even nobles like the Count himself could not obtain reliable intelligence from the north. That, more than anything, was the source of his unease.

From the castle terrace, the view stretched wide—overlooking the entire city and the vast plains beyond. The slightly stout Count Pompei, wrapped in a thick, warm cloak and leaning on his cane, scanned the distance against the biting wind. His gaze first settled on the hills and forests to the north. Not long ago, a peculiar group had passed through the edge of his lands, heading north from the Rockhold Fortress. Led by an elven ranger, riding a strange magical vehicle and carrying odd equipment, they bore a safe-conduct signed by Duke Gawain Cecil. They had not disclosed their mission or destination.

Pompei had not dared to stop them.

Judging by their disciplined demeanor and direction, the Count suspected their mission was connected to the recent upheavals in the north.

His eyes drifted over the hills and plains, catching the shimmering surface of the Dorgon River, then the distant mountain ranges and the hazy silhouette of Rockhold Fortress nestled between them. The imposing fortress remained shrouded in a shimmering magical barrier, the mountains and walls sealing off all prying eyes from the south.

Since the Cecil family reclaimed control of the southern lands, that territory had closed its gates—at least symbolically. Physically, the gates would open from time to time, and Rockhold city itself welcomed visitors occasionally. But since the end of the Unification War, the “gates” of the south had remained shut.

The kingdom’s century-old surveillance and control network had been severed at its roots. No one knew what the resurrected founding duke was plotting within his domain, nor what changes had taken place there over the past two years. People could only rely on the wild tales brought back by merchants and adventurers, and the fleeting glimpses caught within Rockhold city. Beyond speculating about the southern lands’ customs, many were fixated on one question: when would the gates of Rockhold Fortress open? Under what circumstances?

That mystery was perhaps even more perplexing than the current turmoil in the north.

Perhaps when those gates finally opened, it would spell the end for this “local count” himself.

Pompei’s lands lay adjacent to Rockhold Fortress, with his entire family within cannon range. Lacking royal support and having lost nearly all his troops in the last southern war, his domain’s economy was now tightly controlled by merchants from the Cecil faction. He had endured this agonizing situation for a long time and had come to accept it.

Lost in thought, he gazed toward Rockhold Fortress. Thanks to his supernatural sight, he could faintly make out the fortress and the mouth of the Dorgon River even without using Eagle Eye magic. Then, suddenly, a sight shook him to his core—at first, he thought his eyes deceived him, but quickly he confirmed it clearly with Eagle Eye.

The main river gate on the western mouth of Rockhold Fortress was open.

Normally, only a side gate would open to allow merchant ships in and out, but now the entire mouth of the Dorgon River lay wide open.

Three massive ships, their sails furled and oars absent, glided swiftly down the river like great wings cutting through the waves, heading north.

Count Pompei’s eyes widened. The magical glow of Eagle Eye shimmered before his eyes as he watched clearly: behind the three large vessels followed a flotilla of smaller boats; the fortress’s cannons were rising from their hidden positions; countless soldiers were running along the battlements.

The main gate of Rockhold Fortress remained closed for now, but Pompei suddenly realized one thing—

The South had opened its gates.

…

In Saint Suniel City, both the inner and outer districts bustled with life. The arrival of the Renewal Festival, coupled with a timely rain a few days prior, had given people hope for a good harvest this year. The city officials had opened the markets early, and wealthy residents of the capital hosted numerous celebrations across the districts. Even the poorer commoners in the outer districts joined in the festivities. The lively scenes seemed to mask the long-standing shadows hanging over the kingdom—the civil war raging in the plains, the strange disturbances at the Wasteland Barrier—all these unsettling matters were hidden beneath the surface of joyous celebration.

Yet deep within the royal city, inside Silverkeep Castle, the kingdom’s leaders sensed the growing unrest in the air.

In a study lined with deep blue velvet, Wales Morn sat upright behind his desk. Beside him stood Duke Bertram Franklin, while opposite them was an elderly royal mage clad in a black starry robe, his white hair and beard framing a face full of guilt as he reported, “…We still cannot contact the Mountain Legion, Your Highness, Your Grace. The magical communications at Greatwood Pass have been severed, and there has been no response from Duchess Wilde either…”

Wales’s face darkened like still water. Duke Franklin asked on his behalf, “No signal fires lit?”

“None, Your Grace.”

After a brief silence, Franklin nodded. “Very well. Thank you for your efforts, Master Rotas.”

The old mage bowed and left. The Duke lowered his gaze to Wales, who remained seated. “We should dispatch another batch of griffon messengers, and send knights through the Valley Corridor. Perhaps the spring’s usual surge of magical energy is interfering with the communication spells.”

Wales nodded expressionlessly. “Arrange it as you see fit, Duke Franklin. I’m somewhat weary.”

“Then leave this matter to me,” Franklin said with a slight bow, hand over heart, his tone impeccably courteous. “Please rest assured, Your Highness.”

The Duke left the room. Wales Morn sat quietly for a moment, his eyes scanning several documents recently delivered for his review. After a pause, his gaze settled on a stack of files on the desk.

The heir apparent pondered briefly, then pulled the files closer for a detailed look.

Key points caught his eye:

Activities of the Cult of the End of All Things… Dark rituals… Several small outbreaks near Greatwood Pass…

The reports were outdated, many from late last year. Winter’s harsh roads had delayed messengers, and only now had the intelligence reached Silverkeep.

Wales knew Duke Franklin likely had a copy too, but probably hadn’t had time to read it yet. After all, compared to the “nominal heir,” the regent duke who actually managed state affairs was far busier. These “minor matters” involving cultists and dark rites were not priorities.

As he read carefully, a frown slowly crept across Wales’s brow.

Outside the study door, a figure in a pure white robe, faintly glowing with holy light, paused briefly. Veronica’s hand rested on the doorknob, but before turning it, she stopped.

A faint, ethereal heartbeat echoed in the “Saint Princess’s” ears. She looked toward the southeast, her usually serene face suddenly grave and solemn.

“Someone has walked the forbidden path,” Veronica whispered to herself. “The situation has changed…”

Without hesitation, she abandoned her plan to visit her brother and left the study doorway. A flash of light followed, and her form transformed into pure holy radiance, vanishing into the castle corridor.

Moments later, that pure light flowed into the Great Cathedral beside Silverkeep, gathering atop the cathedral’s dome of holy light before descending to the throne of Pope Saint Ivan III.

The Great Hall of Light was empty except for the Pope himself, seated at the center of the radiant focus, engaged in solemn meditation and silent prayer. Veronica’s arrival interrupted his devotions. The extremely aged man slowly opened his eyes, which, though clouded, quickly filled with a pure flame of light.

“Veronica, the most devout child of the Lord—you were to visit Prince Wales, were you not?”

“Your Holiness, I was suddenly struck by a revelation from the holy light,” Veronica said, her expression troubled and voice low. “Shadows gather. Someone challenges the Lord’s authority, seeking to defile His land.”

The Pope’s ancient face remained unchanged, but the dome of holy light above the Great Hall suddenly stirred. Behind the Pope’s throne, a luminous image resembling a tree of light grew rapidly, its countless branches bearing “fruits” that opened like eyes, as if a powerful being hidden at the world’s edge had cast a fleeting glance upon this realm. Veronica had quietly averted her gaze, avoiding eye contact with the “Tree of Light” behind the Pope. Moments later, the tree returned to its original form.

Then the Pope’s expression shifted. His eyes widened slightly. “This is a grave sacrilege. Where has it occurred?”

“On the battlefield where the kingdom’s army faces the Eastern forces,” Veronica replied. “An evil heretical cult has turned the site into a ritual ground. The many holy knights sent by the church there have been tainted by dark powers.”

She paused, then looked up at the Pope. “Your Holiness, we must prepare to defend the Lord’s glory.”

Amid the surging holy light in the Great Hall, the Pope’s gaze wavered briefly before he murmured as if in a dream, “Yes… we must prepare to defend the Lord’s glory…”

…

Prayers to the gods seemed to be losing their power.

In the wilderness southeast of the Holy Spirit Plains, Belk trudged through mud and broken stones, each step a struggle.

His cloak was tattered, with only a few ragged strips of fabric clinging to the clasps on his shoulders. His lightweight armor was cracked and mottled, bearing the worn scars of countless brutal battles. The wounds he’d suffered days ago still hadn’t healed, sending sharp, subtle stabs of pain as a constant reminder. Yet Belk pressed on, trudging through the open wilderness.

He had no idea how far the deadly corruption had spread, nor how far those monsters could pursue him.

After crossing a small stream, Belk paused. He looked up at the sun to get his bearings, then pulled a small talisman of the war god from his chest pocket. He muttered a brief prayer, seeking blessing and restoration for both mind and body.

But the prayer barely helped.

It seemed the exhaustion and pain he’d accumulated over these days had already surpassed what divine grace could mend.

Belk sighed and tucked the tiny charm away. He scanned the area around him.

There was no sign of human life nearby. In fact, he hadn’t encountered a single soul in days.

He’d deliberately avoided inhabited places, fearing that anywhere people lived was already tainted by the “crystal cluster curse.” Yet along the way, he hadn’t even come across merchants or travelers. Either it was a strange coincidence—or something far worse.

Shaking his head, Belk pushed those grim thoughts aside. He still had a long journey ahead, and he couldn’t afford to let fear consume him before reaching his destination.

He was heading south, toward the Duchy of Cecil.

The roads north were overrun by those crystal giants, and the eastern routes were nearly as bad. His only options left were west or south—both possibly still untainted. After some thought, he chose to go south.

There was no grand reason—just a gut feeling. In a situation this dire, instinct was the best guide. It told him he needed to reach the southern lands and warn their guardians about the situation at the Greatwood Pass.

Duke Gawain Cecil had already sounded the alarm for the realm more than once. Now it was time to repay that warning.

Belk took a deep breath, adjusted his course, and set off toward the south.

(End of chapter)