Chapter 630: The Mysterious Voyage and the Ultimate Rebellion

The talisman in Victoria’s hand shimmered with a faint golden glow. Its surface texture was unlike anything ordinary—somewhere between metal and crystal. When the light brushed across it, a thin, shifting halo appeared on its surface. No natural or man-made material known to humanity exhibited such a peculiar quality. And yet, Gawain was intimately familiar with it.

This was the material of the Eternal Slate—the very same that composed the shattered remnants surrounding the corpse of the great stag Amorn. It was the ancient alloy believed to have been left behind by a high-level civilization’s fleet!

But the talisman Victoria held was vastly different from those raw “fragments.” It bore clear signs of secondary craftsmanship, inscribed with human runes, and emblazoned with the heraldry of the Wilde family!

According to Gawain’s knowledge, humanity had not discovered any method to process the Eternal Slate in the past several centuries. Forget melting it down or reforging it—people couldn’t even chip off a fragment. Even during the Starfire Era, the Gondor Empire’s Kamail and his colleagues, equipped with advanced Gondorian technology, could barely manage to cut the debris around Amorn’s corpse!

So how on earth was this talisman in Victoria’s hand crafted?

“…This talisman was forged six hundred years ago by Duke Modir Wilde,” Victoria answered candidly, surprised by Gawain’s intense interest in her family heirloom. “It’s called ‘Frostbane.’ As you said, its material closely resembles Eternal Slate, but it wasn’t made from Eternal Slate itself… Exactly where Duke Modir obtained the materials or where he forged the talisman remains a mystery. All I know is that it’s connected to a sea voyage.”

The moment Gawain heard “sea voyage,” his heart stirred. He couldn’t help but ask, “A sea voyage?”

“Yes,” Victoria nodded. “The family archives record that Duke Modir Wilde was a legendary mage, passionate about exploration and immensely powerful. In his youth, he traveled across the entire Northern Continent. In his later years, after passing his dukedom to his heir, he challenged the Endless Sea—no one knows where he went. The family records only mention that he returned bearing the ‘Frostbane’ talisman, which he forged somewhere far from the mainland…”

A mysterious voyage, an unknown adventure, a challenge to the Endless Sea without the guidance of the Storm Church or any ocean navigators…

Though there was no concrete evidence, Gawain immediately thought of the missing memories from his own inheritance—the mysterious voyage of Gawain Cecil seven hundred years ago.

As the founding Duke of Ansu, Gawain Cecil had also embarked on a sudden, inexplicable sea journey. No one knew what he encountered. Gawain only knew that Cecil had entered the realm of the sea witches and returned with mysterious crystals from a place called the “Eternal Dark Sea.” Those crystals helped Gawain reestablish contact with the satellites orbiting above.

Six hundred years ago, Duke Modir Wilde had a similar experience, returning with the Frostbane talisman—an artifact theoretically impossible to forge with contemporary human technology, made from some ancient alloy.

Gawain had always been troubled by the gaps in his inherited memories, instinctively sensing a great secret hidden there. But he had never found any clues and had long set the matter aside. Today, however, he felt he had finally uncovered a thread—despite the century between Modir Wilde and Gawain Cecil, their similar voyages and mysterious “rewards” clearly connected. He couldn’t help but press on: “Are there really no other records about this in the Wilde family archives?”

Victoria cleared her throat lightly, still somewhat weakened by the Frostbane’s lingering effects. After a brief pause, she shook her head. “No. Modir is one of the Wilde ancestors with the fewest records. He loved to roam, but his career as duke was uneventful. The family’s official records don’t dwell on his adventures. It’s said he wrote a travelogue himself, detailing many of his exploits—essentially his diary—but that book was lost long ago…”

“I see…” Gawain sighed in disappointment but had to accept the truth.

Victoria hesitated, then offered, “If you’re very interested, I can search the Winterhold library for any indirect references after we return. There might be some related materials.”

“That would be good,” Gawain nodded, then turned to the busy soldiers. “But first, we need to end this disaster.”

The command node of the Crimson Maple City’s crystal legion had been destroyed. The entire Crimson Maple region, along with Giantstone City, the Fertile Woods, and the Slanting Forest Valley, had their crystal armies paralyzed. The Cataclysm Cult’s disaster had suffered an unprecedented blow. But the end of the Crimson Maple battle didn’t mean Gawain could relax.

This crystal legion was enormous. The Cataclysm Cult’s monstrosity had more than one command center. Those attacking Saint Suniel, those east of the Greatwood Pass, and those scattered across the Holy Spirit Plains all had separate command nodes. Losing Crimson Maple was a setback, but the remaining giants would continue to operate.

The main force at Crimson Maple had established a defensive line, clearing the infected crystal creatures who were now in a chaotic, weakened state. Because the Crimson Maple node was destroyed, the infected would blindly rush into the firewalls of burners and orbital cannons under the last psychic command. This process would last at least a day.

Meanwhile, the river fleet, having completed their artillery support, finally docked for repairs—they needed to fix their damaged arcane wing plates.

“We were hit by a real threat,” Byron explained over the arcane comms, detailing the brief interruption in cannon fire and the damage to the wing plates. “A group of crystal monsters submerged underwater, then suddenly surfaced after our fleet opened fire, trying to breach our hulls.”

Gawain hadn’t known the mighty warships had nearly been compromised. Hearing Byron’s report, he was alarmed and pressed, “And then?”

“Fortunately, the ships’ hulls have steel plating and watertight compartments. The monsters’ first attack failed. I then ordered half the arcane wing plates’ mechanical structures to be severed, submerging the waste energy release grids underwater to trigger a large-scale arcane explosion. That wiped out the monsters but cost us half the wing plates. Several smaller vessels were damaged to varying degrees; one modified gunboat was severely hit and lost all propulsion… I take full responsibility for these losses.”

Even the seasoned knight Byron showed no evasion in taking responsibility. But Gawain cut him off: “This incident isn’t your fault. Your response was appropriate and prevented greater losses. Plus, it gave us valuable experience. Compile a detailed report on the battle and the ship systems’ status, and send it to the Arcane Technology Institute and the shipyards for reference in future upgrades.”

“Yes, sir.”

The comms ended, and Gawain exhaled deeply.

He couldn’t let battlefield success blind him—even in such a smooth operation, there were critical lessons hidden. If ignored, the next time this happened, it could be fatal.

Despite being crushed repeatedly, the crystal giants had found an effective countermeasure. Gawain had focused on land and surface combat, neglecting the possibility of underwater attacks on the fleet.

It wasn’t that he lacked the concept of underwater warfare—he simply hadn’t considered it. In this era, facing a horde of infected monsters, underwater threats were a challenge he hadn’t anticipated.

It was like a fully armed modern soldier fighting a primitive wielding a wooden club—the soldier wouldn’t think to wear extra insulation or protective gear, but the primitive could summon a ball of lightning with that club…

If the crystal giants had more than just flesh and blood, if their enemies wielded weapons comparable to Cecil’s or only half a generation behind, those underwater ambushes might have sunk the river fleet.

At that moment, Victoria’s voice interrupted Gawain’s thoughts. “Is something wrong?”

The Northern Duke had just eaten a light meal and rested briefly, her condition much improved. Seeing Gawain’s serious expression, she assumed trouble at the front.

She also noticed the small arcane comm device before him—she had seen larger, fixed machines in Cecil City but now marveled at this portable one, admiring and envying it.

If only the kingdom’s army had such devices back then, things might not have deteriorated so badly… At least she could have gathered the uninfected troops instead of letting most forces far from Giantstone City fight alone and be turned into crystal giants with no communication…

But it was just a thought—she knew Gawain was always willing to promote such advanced tech if the price was right. Yet the kingdom’s nobles might resist anything that threatened their authority, especially the mage families controlling the communication towers and the plains nobles who tamed griffins. They would likely do everything to block this technology.

“Nothing serious, just a minor issue,” Gawain noticed Victoria’s gaze and guessed her thoughts but didn’t elaborate. “We’ll rest here for a day, then push north. The crystal legion is probably already attacking the capital. Hopefully, Saint Suniel can hold out until we arrive.”

“The key is to let them know reinforcements are coming,” Victoria said immediately. “I… know the capital’s nobles well. Without news of aid, they probably won’t last three days—even with the strongest fortresses in Ansu.”

“…My opinion of the capital’s nobles aligns closely with yours.”

…

Deep within the dark abyss underground, crimson magma churned at the base of jagged cliffs. Priests of the Cataclysm Cult, clad in black or dark green robes, gathered around the massive form of the False God, watching every breath of this artificial deity.

The enormous stag-like body was nearly fully formed, bathed in a vast, sacred radiance. Its pristine white fur, untouched by any dirt, shimmered with mysterious runes and holy symbols. It looked ready to descend upon the world—but the final chain still bound this artificial god’s body—

The chains coiled tightly around Its neck, linking between Its antlers. Runes flickered along the metal links—powerful seals and suppressive forces restraining the artificial god’s awakening impulse.

Opposite the false god’s form, on a floating platform suspended midair, two figures watched the colossal stag from afar.

One was a female priest, half-human, half-tree, her presence serene yet resolute. The other was a man cloaked in a simple black robe, his face hidden deep within the shadow of his hood.

“Archbishop, Heaton is dead,” Bertilla Augustus said softly, turning slightly to the man beside her.

The archbishop nodded faintly. His voice, hoarse and restrained, came from beneath the hood: “I sensed it…”

“We’ve lost a crucial pillar on the Holy Spirit Plains,” Bertilla continued. “The Cecilians will surely press further north. Their aggression, their destructive power, and military strength—it’s staggering.”

After a brief silence, the archbishop sighed quietly. “So be it… The Cecilians are stronger than I anticipated. If this path is blocked, perhaps they can be another way forward. One more path means one more card in mortal hands.”

“If word of that gets out, it will surely cause unrest.”

“Perhaps,” he admitted, “but before I leave this world, I want to speak as a man—not as a half-god archbishop.” His voice was rough, tinged with a rare vulnerability. He turned slightly, still shrouded in shadow, but a pale hand emerged from his robe, holding a heavy tome. “This book is in your care.”

“The Ultimate Book…” Bertilla’s eyes flickered with complexity as she glanced at the volume. “All the answers lie within its pages…”

“Yet perhaps some answers lie beyond the pages—like the wanderers from beyond the realms,” the archbishop murmured as Bertilla accepted the book. “Prepare the ritual. Red Maple has been destroyed. Our time is short.”

The floating platform slowly descended toward the molten lake below, connecting with the large floating island where the priests stood. As the archbishop stepped down from the platform, the priests of the God of Ultimate Demise fell silent in unison.

Centuries of plotting had led to this moment. In this indescribable instant, all stirring slogans and rousing speeches felt hollow and powerless. No cheers, no applause—these priests, fallen into darkness, simply bowed respectfully and stepped back, their eyes fixed on the robed archbishop as he approached the artificial god’s massive form.

The final act of defiance.

The greatest rebellion, the ultimate denial and confrontation of god by man.

Bertilla lifted her gaze as the archbishop drew near the sacred stag’s forehead. The figure in black spread his arms wide, his hoarse voice echoing through the flesh-and-blood abyss.

“God, open your eyes. Prepare to embrace your humanity!”

Then, the sacred stag’s eyes opened.

(End of chapter)