Chapter 618: The Iron Throne

The holographic projection from the arcane network terminal shimmered softly, casting an otherworldly glow in the dimly lit room after dusk—a blend of fantasy and cutting-edge technology. High atop his seat before the communicator, High Lord Gawain listened intently as Kamail relayed the latest report from the rear laboratory.

“…Pittman has confirmed that the high-tier Crystal Giants are transformed priests of the Cult of the End of All Things. While it’s possible that in the future ‘commanders’ might be created from other supernaturals, at this stage, the fanatical cultists form the core leadership of the Crystal Legion…

“Crystal Giants transformed from ordinary humans are smaller and less powerful. Their cognitive abilities—or what little rationality remains—depend on higher-ranking individuals for maintenance. There’s a peculiar symbiotic relationship between upper and lower-tier Crystals. The lower-tier giants can think, but their thought processes are incomplete…

“Pittman and I both suspect that this unique connection indicates a form of telepathy. Commander-level Crystal Giants may be able to control nearby units or sense the status of distant Crystal forces through this mental link. However, this telepathy is fuzzy and degrades sharply with distance—this conclusion comes from several isolation and control experiments.

“Once the commander is lost, the lower-tier Crystal Giants rapidly weaken and lose their sanity, regressing into instinct-driven monsters. Complete deterioration takes about an hour—though their rationality ceases almost immediately…”

Gawain absorbed every word without missing a beat, his brow furrowing and relaxing in turn.

Thanks to the researchers behind the lines, the frontline soldiers no longer faced an unknown enemy. As more infected samples arrived and Kamail unlocked memories from the ancient days of Gondor, the true nature of the “Divine Blight” carriers was finally unveiled to the world.

Beside Gawain, Sir Philip, who was quietly observing, wore a thoughtful expression. “A certain degree of telepathic ability… no wonder they managed to organize such a massive pursuit of Solderin in such a short time, and maintained such high coordination without conventional scouts or messengers.”

Gawain looked at the young knight, who was steadily maturing into a seasoned commander. “What’s your take?”

Philip considered carefully. “The Crystals’ telepathy is a thorny advantage. It means their information flow on a small battlefield is as fast as ours, maybe even faster. But clearly, their telepathic network is limited and somewhat chaotic. It’s not unbeatable. More importantly, I think the real weakness lies in the huge gaps within their organizational structure.”

Gawain nodded slightly. “Destroy the command nodes, and they’ll collapse quickly. Mindless monsters are far easier to handle than organized soldiers.”

“I’ll work with the adjutants, staff officers, and strategists to devise a viable tactic,” Philip said solemnly. “If it works, our advance will accelerate.”

Gawain couldn’t help but smile inwardly. Without Byron’s usual quips distracting him, Philip’s tactical thinking was clearly more efficient—perhaps he was saving all his mental energy for strategy instead of banter.

Kamail resumed the report. “Additionally, we compared the magical reactions and levels of corruption in Divine Blight carriers and mutants. We’ve reached a preliminary conclusion about the ‘ritual power’ that triggers their sudden mutation—it’s related to divine interference.”

Gawain exhaled softly. “So it really is the power of the gods…”

“I found activated Divine Blight factors inside an infected individual who had fully transformed into a Crystal Giant. Although equipment limitations prevented complete isolation, I can confirm they were triggered by some catalyst. Just as the ancient Gondor Empire extracted flesh and power from the Great Stag Amorn to create the first generation of Divine Blight, the Cult of the End of All Things must have their own ‘energy source’ to reactivate these latent factors. So far, no direct evidence, but theoretically, the cult has harnessed some form of divine power—or a substitute for it…”

Gawain’s face remained calm, unsurprised.

Long before this catastrophe erupted, he had sensed the cult’s dark schemes brewing behind the scenes, vaguely connected to the gods. After all, the three major dark sects’ corruption all had tangled ties to the divine realm. Their ultimate goal pointing toward the gods was hardly shocking.

Later, in conversations with Tyr, the sea witch with extensive experience in the realm of god-devouring, the leaked information only confirmed Gawain’s suspicions. He even asked Tyr to prepare for the possibility of confronting terrifying divine conspiracies.

Now, Kamail’s research provided empirical evidence: the Cult of the End of All Things had dragged “gods” into this battlefield.

The weight of this realization pressed heavily on Gawain, but he did not despair.

Divine power is terrifying to mortals. If an angry true god descended, perhaps Cecil would be powerless to resist. But could the cult really summon a true god to fight for them? Obviously not. At best, they found remnants of a being like the Great Stag Amorn and reactivated part of its power, or used forbidden rituals to create a powerful, semi-divine monster. Either way, since these abominations were crafted by human sorcery, they were not invincible.

If the cultists could control it… it must have a health bar, right?

Even if the cult had created a living “artificial god” that Cecil’s cannons couldn’t destroy, Tyr and her sea witch allies could help. Those deep-sea creatures might not handle a true god (though they regularly feast on the Stormlord’s remains, which are unresisting corpses), but as the fallen empire’s masters of advanced technology, they could certainly deal with a “knockoff” god.

Besides, Gawain had once studied the battle reports of the “Godslayer Fleet.” A former atheist in his past life, he might be cautious or nervous about divine matters, but he always retained a measure of confidence—though at this stage, it might be more of a mysterious self-assurance.

At least it was confidence.

Gawain was curious how Philip would react upon learning the cult might wield forbidden divine power.

“I don’t have much to say,” the young knight answered solemnly when asked. “Obeying the sovereign’s orders is a knight’s duty. Protecting the realm and its people is a knight’s duty. Within that framework, I only care where the enemy is, not who they are.”

Gawain was a little surprised. He studied Philip closely, finding the young man’s straightforward courage almost unreal. “Even if the enemy is a god—or an evil god, or something beyond human understanding?”

“Exactly,” Philip nodded. “Charging forward is the same no matter who. The only difference is whether you come back.”

Gawain chuckled softly, then shook his head after a moment. “I thought you’d at least feel some fear.”

Philip’s expression flickered oddly, then he looked down, a bit embarrassed. “Actually, I am a little scared…”

“Oh?”

“So if it really comes to that battlefield, I’ll pull my mask down to hide my trembling lips. I’ll tie my weapon to my hand so it doesn’t slip away. But I probably won’t write a will—I have no wife or children, no other family. My property can just revert to the duchy…”

His answer suddenly felt very real.

Seeing the young knight’s earnest face, Gawain couldn’t help but press a hand to his forehead. “Now I think I understand why Byron loves to spar with you so much…”

Philip blinked, confused. “…Huh?”

“In any case, don’t waste time thinking about noble sacrifices. We’re fighting a war, not marching to our deaths. No one fights to die,” Gawain said, patting Philip’s shoulder. “Go arrange your tactical meeting. We need to push into the Red Maple region as soon as possible—if we can open that corridor quickly, the last remnants of the kingdom’s army might still have hope.”

Philip left the barracks, and after a final update on laboratory operations, Kamail signed off the comm channel.

Gawain sat at his desk, gathering his thoughts. His eyes fell on a brief message from the rear, sent by Amber:

“Eastern Front situation deteriorating. The Iron Throne has departed—Hetty.”

“You’re deteriorating too… good,” Gawain exhaled softly. “That saves me a lot of trouble.”

…

Since the outbreak, the entire Eastern Legion had been swallowed by a thick fog. Communications west of Solinfort were cut off. The Duke of the East and Prince Edmond had vanished without a trace. Order in the East rapidly spiraled into chaos.

Rumors ran rampant, no one held authority. The local nobility left behind sensed a terrible omen but lacked the power to control the situation or maintain order. News of the legion’s total annihilation spread like wildfire. Small noble houses lost control first, followed by higher-ranking lords. Chaos spread from west to east. The once-solid eastern region, held tightly by Prince Edmond and Duke Loren, began to fracture.

Worsening the situation were terrifying reports from the borderlands adjoining the Western and Holy Spirit Plains.

A monstrous army had risen from the ruins of the Eastern Legion and now roamed the Holy Spirit Plains.

These creatures seemed not yet focused eastward; their target was likely the northern Holy Sunil. But the mere presence of this monster horde shattered the last vestiges of order the Eastern nobility clung to.

The local lords responded in the most natural way for this era: they summoned their vassals, sealed their borders, and overnight reverted to fragmented fiefdoms. In tense standoffs, wary of monsters and each other, the entire region became a powder keg.

Amid this turmoil, the White Sand Mining Company—the bulwark of the Duchy of Cecil—sent critical intelligence inward.

A war machine, freshly completed and tested in the Grant region, responded to the call and sped toward the East.

Magical roads stretched across the land, continuous arcane shields enveloped the tracks. With the deep rumble of steel wheels and magical mechanisms in harmony, a massive train solemnly rolled into the White Sand mining district.

Bathed in the orange-red glow of the setting sun, the armored train gleamed with a cold, steely light. Its massive rail-mounted cannon and densely arrayed turrets sparkled under the twilight, while inside its carriages sat fully armed soldiers and heavily armored white knights. On its transport chassis, rows of battle tanks and towed howitzers were securely fastened—this was no mere train, but a fully armed fortress of steel, a walking bastion of power, heavy and imposing.

Hohm, the chief executive of Baisha Mining Company, stood quietly atop the tower beside the station, his gaze fixed on this marvel of arcane industry, a treasure of engineering, a symbol of Cecil’s might—

The armored train, the Iron Throne.

Twenty minutes later, Hohm found himself on the usual platform used for loading ore and heavy machinery, where he caught sight of the man commanding the Iron Throne: a middle-aged knight clad in black arcane power armor, his eyes deep and his face weathered by time.

“It’s an honor to meet you, Sir Mariland.”

“Please, don’t call me ‘Sir,’” the knight smiled gently, reaching out to shake Hohm’s hand with calm assurance. “That title was bestowed by the Morn royal family—it belongs to the past.”

(End of chapter)