Chapter 662: The Times Have Changed

Several days had passed since the news of victory on the Eastern Front arrived. In the Southern Territories, where communication channels were relatively well-developed, more and more reports were spreading between cities and villages.

On street corners and in taverns and gaming halls, nearly everyone was eagerly discussing the astonishing and thrilling news—talking about the past of the Ansu royal family and the future of the Cecil Empire. Even the most ordinary citizens on this land would offer their opinions on such topics, no matter how laughable or shallow those views might be.

In Pan Shi City, inside a tavern in the merchant district, bright magical crystal lamps dispelled the dusk’s gloom. Rows of bottles on the bar shelves gleamed after being polished, their contents shimmering enticingly in the light. A small rectangular device, resembling a cabinet, sat on the bar counter, quietly playing a simple, cheerful countryside tune beloved by the Southerners.

A beam of light illuminated a brass nameplate on top of the device, where the words “Kord Family Communications Company” gleamed.

A man in work clothes sat at the bar. He accepted a beer glass from the bartender and raised it slightly. “Here’s to clocking out.”

“Joe, have you seen the latest papers?” a tall, thin man sitting beside him asked casually. “Looks like the royal family’s done for— even the king stepped down voluntarily.”

“Of course,” Joe replied. “Didn’t Mr. Gawain say it? The monarchy’s finished. After this war, the kingdom’s on the brink everywhere. If it weren’t for our Southern troops coming to the rescue, the north would’ve been wiped out. The royal family’s lost control. If they don’t reorganize, what else can they do…”

“That’s true. The papers say the eastern Holy Spirit Plains are completely ruined. If the Cecil legions hadn’t sealed off the river, the west would’ve fallen too.”

“Long live Gawain Cecil—we’ll be calling him ‘Your Majesty’ soon enough,” the man in work clothes chuckled, swirling his glass. “Not bad at all. He’s way better than the king… Speaking of which, who was the king again?”

“The one who just abdicated was Wales, but I guess you mean Francey… doesn’t really matter. None of us know them anyway.”

The two men laughed, showing no regret over the end of the Ansu monarchy.

For a long time, the Southerners hadn’t cared much about their king. This forsaken land had been left to fend for itself for over a century. To many, the distant Saint Sunier and Silver Keep were just parts of old stories.

The common folk were practical like that.

But not everyone thought the same. Suddenly, a loud clatter of a glass hitting the table came from nearby, drawing several glances toward the bar.

“I just don’t get it…” slurred a scruffy, bearded man reeking of alcohol, loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. “He was a duke, right? A duke… so how did he just become king all of a sudden? Dukes can’t be kings…”

“Hey, Potter, you’re drunk again,” someone familiar called from behind. “You’ve been here since morning, haven’t you?”

Another voice near the drunkard corrected, “Not king anymore. It’s Emperor now—the title of king’s gone.”

“Emperor’s the same… Emperor… and the Council of Affairs and the Constitution, all a bunch of confusing nonsense,” the drunk man staggered to his feet, shaking off several hands trying to steady him. He wobbled past the bar. “They say there are new opportunities everywhere… damn new opportunities…”

The swaying man stopped beside the small device playing the folk tune. His bleary eyes scanned it, then suddenly flashed with anger.

“You noisy thing… you ruined… ruined my livelihood…”

He cursed and suddenly raised his foot to kick the machine—before he could, the bartender behind the bar raised a hand. A faint glow from the magical device on his wrist, and a chunk of ice, crackling with cold, flew into the drunk’s face, knocking him flat on his back.

Two security guards stepped forward, grabbing the still-yelling drunkard and preparing to drag him outside. But the bartender stopped them, reaching into the man’s pocket and pulling out a copper coin.

“Instant ice block, one copper,” the bartender said, waving the magical terminal he used to make ice and start fires in front of the drunk’s eyes. After the man nodded, the bartender stepped back.

The drunk was hauled away. The brief disturbance was nothing more than a minor blip. People resumed drinking and chatting. When some unfamiliar patrons asked about the drunk’s identity, someone explained, “That’s Potter, a bard—well, really just a lousy accordion player. Hardly anyone listened to his noise before, now even fewer do.”

“He tried working in a factory for a few days, got fired for stealing, and refuses to do honest work. I think he’s probably sold his instrument by now.”

“A bard… no wonder he blames the Kord player for ruining his livelihood.”

“Not just the player. He’s blamed the newspapers, the magic net broadcasts, even chess and the football team—says all those things steal people’s attention, so no one wants to hear his stories or music in the square anymore…”

The little incident sparked some idle chatter. The man in work clothes at the bar turned to his tall, thin companion. “By the way, I remember you’re a bard too, right? You don’t perform on the streets anymore. Do you blame this machine for putting you out of work?”

The tall man glanced at the device, then at his friend, and suddenly smiled proudly.

“Recognize the tune?” he said with a grin. Seeing his friend’s surprised look, his smile grew wider. “That’s me recording it… well, just two of the songs, though.”

Several nearby patrons overheard and showed surprised expressions. Seeing a living person’s voice come from a magical device was always novel and interesting. The tall man smiled modestly and added, “But honestly, I still prefer telling stories over playing music. I’m thinking of trying out at the Carol City Magic Net Broadcasting Station—they’re recruiting storytellers for new programs.”

More and more people gathered around the bar, a new topic taking shape. But in a distant corner of the tavern, a gaunt, pale man with messy brown hair sat quietly, seemingly uninterested in the commotion or the conversations.

In front of him lay an open newspaper. His eyes slowly scanned a particular page:

“Preliminary investigations reveal that the disaster caused by the ‘End of All Things’ sect originated from their theft of the ‘Divine Power.’ The ‘Evil Creation’ destroyed by the combined forces of the Cecil Legion and their sea monster allies appears to be a godly replica created by the cultists through unknown means…

“This replica’s power derives from a fallen nature deity…

“The nature deity, once worshiped by druids, is believed to have fallen three thousand years ago…”

The pale middle-aged man finished reading and sighed softly. “Such information… printed openly in the papers, freely discussed by common folk who only recently learned to read… Is this where we went wrong?”

No one heard his low lament. After a moment, he quietly stood, rubbing his fingers together. A small flame suddenly flickered into existence, instantly burning the newspaper to ash.

Staring at the ashes for a moment, he then turned and headed straight for the tavern’s door.

“Pan Shi City… I never thought this place could become so prosperous.”

Walking the streets of this gateway city in the Southern Territories, surrounded by tall, new buildings and wide, clean streets, the man muttered to himself.

Suddenly, pedestrians scattered as a large group of black-uniformed security officers, armed with weapons and shield devices, appeared at nearby intersections, swiftly converging on him.

The pale man’s first instinct was to reach for the short sword at his waist—a self-defense weapon—but seeing the number of officers and their gear, he wisely stopped.

A tall security captain stepped forward, a shimmering magical shield flickering around him. “Sir, put down your weapons and raise your hands above your head! You are under arrest for violating the Supernatural Regulation Act!”

As he announced this loudly, the captain instinctively sized up the man before him:

Wearing an outdated traditional short robe, a cloth belt tied around his waist, hand-stitched boots, and wide-legged trousers beneath the robe—an obvious outsider, and likely a recent arrival to the Southern Territories.

Here, changes in labor tools and methods had brought widespread shifts. Due to safety requirements for machinery and factory dress codes, new styles of clothing—fitted, lightweight, practical, and aesthetically pleasing workwear—had become mainstream. Long robes, wide sleeves, and belt-tied coats were gradually replaced by tailored uniforms and casual variants. Though some scholars lamented this “machine-driven” change as a loss of tradition, over ninety percent of Southern laborers had accepted it. Those still wearing old-fashioned clothes were either conservatives or outsiders.

In this fortress city at the Southern gateway, outsiders were more common.

Surrounded by security, the middle-aged man was clearly stunned but understood the captain’s meaning. He removed his short sword and staff, placing them on the ground, and raised his hands.

The captain nodded. “Good. Cooperation is a good start. Your name?”

The man eyed the officers warily, hesitated for two seconds, then answered, “Bard… Bard Wendell.”

“Bard Bard, sir?”

The man’s face twitched slightly. “No, it’s Bard Wendell. Just one Bard.”

The captain maintained a stern expression. “Very well, Mr. Wendell. You’ll need to come with us. Whether you’re released depends on your cooperation.”

“Why are you arresting me?” the man finally asked. “I haven’t harmed anyone…”

“We detected unauthorized spellcasting,” the captain said, staring at Bard. “Times have changed, Mr. Wendell. Where is your spellcasting permit?”

Bard froze. “…A magic license? What’s that supposed to be?”

The sheriff shrugged. “Well, looks like you snuck in without one. This time, you’re probably going to be locked up for real.”

A twitch flickered at the corner of Bard’s eye, but after a brief moment of hesitation, he let out a sigh.

“At this point… it doesn’t matter anymore,” he said with a weary breath. “Do whatever you want. I won’t resist.”

(End of chapter)