Chapter 645: The End of the Royal Banner

Gawain had suspected that Wales wasn’t truly attached to the throne, but to be honest, he hadn’t expected him to go this far, to take things this completely to the extreme.

Wales didn’t just overthrow Gawain himself—he shattered the seven-century-old noble tradition of Ansu: that the king is the lord of lords, and the lords are the king’s extension.

As the man who broke this rule, he led the furious nobility to depose him. And once he stepped down, the king-noble structure of Ansu would crack irreparably. This system would become vulnerable, easy to destroy, and nearly impossible to restore.

Some had seen this coming but chose to stay silent. Others hadn’t realized it yet, still caught up in the strange thrill of toppling a king. A few sharper minds noticed the undercurrents swirling through the crowd—and the iron war machines of the Cecils not far off.

A new era had arrived—the conservatives had rejected it, but it came anyway.

And it came crashing down.

In full view of everyone, Wales calmly removed his crown. It wasn’t until he handed it to the attendant beside him that the nobles and soldiers present finally registered what had happened. A ripple of unrest stirred—the moment had finally sunk in: the king who had sat on the throne for only eight days had relinquished his royal authority. And with that realization came confusion.

The king has stepped down… but who is the new king?

Bertram Franklin didn’t hesitate long. Before the murmurs could spread, he stepped forward and raised a piece of mythril plate.

“Since the time is ripe, I will now reveal a special law passed down only between the Protector Duke and the royal family. This law was jointly established by the founding monarch Charles I and the first Protector Duke, sealed in several mythril contracts and hidden across the four borders. Both myself and Grant Duchess Victoria Wilde can attest to its authenticity.

“This is the Emergency Succession Act, and its contents are as follows—”

As the seven-century-old secret statute was unveiled, every eye in the square widened.

It was beyond what almost anyone had expected.

Shocked glances exchanged silently in the air. The crowd at the edges whispered uncontrollably, while the nobles at the center fell into an eerie silence. Some wore thoughtful expressions, others seemed to grasp the truth, but no one dared to question it.

Because knowing when to adapt has always been a noble virtue. With their keen senses, they had long realized that today would bring upheaval.

“Today, the Morn bloodline has no direct heirs fit to inherit. The collateral branches cannot bear the weight of the crown. The Ansu kingship hangs vacant. Yet the first founding duke still lives. According to this Emergency Succession Act, Grant Duke Gawain Cecil shall automatically become the new king.

“Duke Cecil, you may now accept this oath.”

Bertram extended the mythril plate toward Gawain, his eyes quietly fixed on the founding duke before him.

All eyes in the square lifted, unblinking, focused on the scene at the center.

Gawain smiled faintly and reached out for the mythril oath. “Indeed, this country needs a protector and a ruler now, or it probably won’t survive this winter…”

At those words, the nobles showed complex smiles, then each bowed their heads slightly, masking the turmoil in their eyes, preparing themselves to cheer for the new king.

Gawain’s hand brushed lightly over the mythril oath.

“But I do not intend to take the crown passed down by Charles.”

The solid mythril plate silently crumbled into fine ash, drifting away on the wind.

The calm on Duke Bertram’s face shattered. He stared in shock and disbelief. Even Victoria, standing beside him, couldn’t hide a flicker of surprise. Only Wales, standing just behind Gawain, remained composed, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing at his lips.

The nobles in the square bowed their heads, waiting for Bertram’s signal to cheer. When none came, they looked up in confusion—and finally saw the last of the powder scatter in the breeze. Low murmurs of astonishment spread.

Gawain rubbed his hands, brushing away the last traces of mythril dust from his fingertips, then turned to face the crowd.

“The Ansu kingship has ended. It began with Morn, and it ends with Morn. It will conclude with dignity, not dragged out in embarrassment. The last king of Ansu protected this country—I hope you will remember that.

“This land will endure. This disaster will end. New shoots will grow from the scorched earth. But ‘Ansu’ is now history. A brand-new nation will rise here, to protect this land and its people. I hope you understand that.

“I promise this process will be smooth and stable. This land will prosper and grow strong, never descending into chaos or decline. I also promise that any acts that disrupt order will be severely punished. This is to protect everyone’s safety and rights.

“This is not a suggestion, but a declaration. I have made this clear to everyone present. Now, any opponents, step forward.”

The square fell utterly silent. Only the Cecil Legion’s war machines and magi-tech soldiers stood silently by, neither joyful nor sorrowful, disciplined and orderly.

After a painfully long silence—like a century compressed into a moment—Victoria spoke softly, “I support this.”

Duke Bertram glanced at the Northern Duchess.

The southern lands belonged to the Cecils, the eastern lands were all but lost, the north had pledged allegiance, and most of the Holy Spirit Plains were under Cecil control. The capital lay within range of those war machines.

Whether they supported or not no longer mattered. Besides, Gawain Cecil already had the right to inherit the crown. What he was doing now was simply taking that right a step further.

“I support,” the Western Duke stepped forward half a pace, his voice grave.

Gawain nodded to the two guardian dukes, then scanned the crowd with a faint smile. “Good. No opposition. Then I will fulfill my promise.”

He continued, “Since we are about to write a new chapter in history, there is much to be done—please prepare to return to the capital as soon as possible. I will meet with the two guardian dukes to discuss how to restore order quickly, how to establish the framework of the state, and how to resume production. Also, this crisis is far from over. I believe those of you who favor war understand that well. We are not yet at a point to relax.”

Gawain’s reminder of the looming crisis was meant to rouse the nobles of the capital from their daze, to keep them alert and reduce the chaos that might follow.

This drama had unfolded in an unexpected way—and ended just as unexpectedly. The grand procession reformed and, beneath the sinking sun, marched toward the capital.

The Cecil Legion entered the city.

Mighty and awe-inspiring, the war machines’ treads crushed the ancient stone streets of Saint Suniel. Fully armored magi-tech soldiers marched in perfect formation, white knights bearing war hammers led the column, holy light shimmering, banners fluttering.

Citizens who had just survived the brink of death lined the streets, crowding around the procession with curiosity and reverence. Some were so frightened by the strange noises of the tanks that they turned pale and prostrated themselves. Others, gaunt peasants and serfs, knelt by the roadside as if ready to kiss the boots and footprints of the magi-tech soldiers.

They were numb yet fervent, joyful yet terrified.

Amber stood beside Gawain inside one of the war machines, half her body leaning out (she was standing on a stool).

Watching the scenes along the road, seeing those prostrate on the ground, the half-elf frowned. “You’re going to make all these people stand up again, right?”

“Of course. Just like I did in the southern lands.”

“I know. I’m just double-checking…” Amber whispered. “I’m a little scared… You really went through with this… Although the administration had contingency plans, and the departments were prepared, I doubt anyone expected it to happen this fast.”

Gawain glanced at the slightly flustered half-elf and smiled. “I told you, I’d fight all the way to the capital.”

At the rear of the procession, Wales Morn turned back to look once more at the towering walls of Saint Suniel.

On those walls, stained with countless bloodsheds and defended by knights and warriors who gave their lives, the blue-and-gold Ansu royal banner was slowly being lowered.

The man lowering the flag was none other than Kornloren, captain of the Royal Knights—a gesture of dignity left by Duke Cecil for the Morn royal family.

Beside Wales, the burly, gray-bearded Earl of White Mountain, Clenwell, also looked back at the descending banner. Bathed in the glow of the setting sun, the flag vanished from the ramparts. The earl choked back tears. “Your Majesty, the royal banner has been lowered, I…”

“I am no longer king,” Wales corrected quietly. “A new banner will rise. Earl White Mountain, hold your head high. You and your family serve this country—and this country has not fallen.”

Clenwell, who bore dwarf blood and was a rarity among Ansu’s nobles, took a deep breath. “I salute you.”

The Ansu royal banner was lowered. The banner of the Cecils began to fly over Saint Suniel’s walls. Though the new nation’s framework was not yet established, and the transfer of power had yet to truly begin, the change of banners alone spoke volumes.

At the highest spire of Silverkeep, a figure in a pale purple silk dress, her face veiled by translucent fabric, quietly watched over the “ancient” human capital, observing the change of banners in the distance.

After a moment, Melita Pernia pressed her ear, and a pale gold communication interface appeared before her eyes.

“The Ansu kingship has changed hands. Gawain Cecil will become the new master of this country, but he seems to have chosen not to inherit the title of King of Ansu. Instead, he intends to establish a more radical new nation.”

The lines on the communication screen flickered, accompanied by static and crackling. “…The succession was expected… but his choice to end the Ansu kingship rather than inherit it is surprising, though understandable. This human kingdom has been completely reshuffled. It’s far easier to paint on a blank canvas than to keep retouching an old oil painting…”

Melita blinked. “What about my last report…?”

The voice on the other end fell silent for two seconds, then sighed softly. “The council ultimately accepted your explanation and will not pursue your unauthorized actions. But the council leader asked me to privately remind you of one thing.”

Melita tensed immediately. “Don’t tell me they’re docking my pay?!”

“…The council leader hopes that next time you exploit a loophole, you won’t be so blatant about it. At least make your reasoning sound a bit more polished. Writing something like ‘handling freight doesn’t count as interfering in the war because we’re just collecting shipping fees’ right in the report puts everyone in a tough spot. Seriously, when you were still a rookie, did no one ever throw you to the ground?”

“That last line—was that the council leader speaking too?”

“No, that was me.”

Melita exhaled and patted her chest. “Oh, well, that’s a relief…”

From the other end of the comm, a torrent of Talrond curses erupted, but Melita Pernia had already muted all the parts that weren’t in her favor. She lifted her gaze, glancing at the troops steadily approaching Silverhold, then at the cathedral nearby, still bathed in holy light and seemingly untouched, everything appearing as usual. She couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh.

“This generation of humans… there are just too many variables…

But if you can use those variables to break free from your shackles, that wouldn’t be so bad after all.”

(End of chapter)