Chapter 669: Gawain’s Speculation

The clue Amber uncovered caught Gawain off guard. He had once guessed that this Saril Randolf might be a fallen noble, or perhaps someone stripped of his title for a crime and forced to live under an assumed name. But he never expected that Saril Randolf was actually a royal shadowguard who had defected—moreover, that he had done so in the middle of a mission to locate the lost heritage of Gondor. That raised all sorts of implications.

It seemed the Ansu royal family wasn’t entirely ignorant of the secrets buried within the Dark Mountains. Although much of the knowledge had been lost during the Mistmoon civil war, they must still have held onto some clues. At the very least, they knew something was hidden there.

Of course, this assumption hinged on Saril Randolf’s true target being the Rebellious Fortress, not some other Gondorian relic.

“We haven’t found any other entrances to the Rebellious Fortress so far,” Gawain said thoughtfully. “And the one entrance we did find shows no signs of having been opened. Even if he did get inside, it doesn’t explain his defection. It’s just an ancient research base—what could possibly make a royal shadowguard betray his king over something like that?”

“I can’t figure it out either,” Amber shook her head, her voice low. “Looking back, he was someone who never talked about his past, and his life was a mess. He was always dragging me around, constantly changing addresses, forging identities, sneaking around under the noses of local nobles just to get by. We spent most of our energy on that, and for a long time, I resented him for it… But now I realize there was a reason behind all of it.”

“The royal family wouldn’t let a defecting shadowguard go so easily. They must have been hunting him in the southern territories for a long time. So he had to keep moving, hiding. And he couldn’t use his supernatural status to get a decent job—because all such positions were monitored by the nobles. So he had to live as a thief, or sometimes take mercenary jobs as a wanderer. But even then, he couldn’t stay with other mercenaries too long, in case they were secretly agents of some noble.”

Amber pursed her lips. “Yeah, that’s probably how it was…”

Gawain began asking about details from back then. “Was Pittman already with you at that time?”

Amber scratched her head. “Pittman had been friends with my foster father since I was very young, but I don’t know exactly when they met. Half-elves don’t have the best childhood memories compared to humans, and I’m even worse. My memories from that time are all fuzzy.”

“A fugitive royal shadowguard hiding out who somehow befriends someone like Pittman—that’s strange in itself, don’t you think?” Gawain raised an eyebrow. “Normally, someone on the run from the crown wouldn’t make friends with strangers unless there was a good reason. Did your foster father ever tell you why?”

Amber frowned. “No, he never said. I only heard them bragging about wanting to become the strongest outlaw duo in the southern lands—but that’s obviously nonsense.”

“You don’t know, but Pittman must,” Gawain said. “If there’s a chance, maybe he’d be willing to tell you.”

Pittman—the druid who was both a Sleeper and a priest of the God of All Endings—hid many secrets behind his scruffy old man facade. Gawain was certain he still held many answers, possibly including those about Saril Randolf.

In the past, Pittman hadn’t shared these secrets with anyone, perhaps as a protective measure. But now that Amber had found a lead on her foster father—and more importantly, with the Ansu royal line ended and Amber having absorbed all the royal shadowguards—those unspoken truths might finally come to light.

“I’ll ask him,” Amber nodded. “It’s been so many years; he should tell me what happened back then.”

“Good,” Gawain pondered for a moment, then added, “One more thing—can you roughly tell when Saril Randolf took you in? Was it long after he arrived in the southern lands? Had he been in hiding for years? Or did he already have a foster daughter when he decided to defect?”

“I really don’t know,” Amber scratched her head again, her ears twitching. “Why do you ask? Do you have a theory?”

“I have a hypothesis that seems plausible,” Gawain said, his imagination running wild. “Have you ever considered that Saril Randolf’s defection might be connected to you?”

“Me?” Amber’s eyes widened as she pointed at herself, looking incredulous. “What are you talking about? I was just a kid back then!”

“What if the mission recorded there is false? What if he wasn’t searching for Gondorian relics in the Dark Mountains, but for you?” Gawain gestured toward the scroll on the table. “Let’s speculate: maybe his real task was to find a half-blood elf with a special lineage and deliver you to the Ansu royal family. Or, more drastically… maybe he was ordered to kill you, but at the last moment, he couldn’t go through with it. That would explain everything.”

Amber stared at Gawain, stunned by the wildness of his imagination. After a long pause, she said, “Speculation isn’t guessing, and association isn’t wild fantasy… You’re practically making up a story. Where’s the evidence? Why would the mighty Ansu royal family waste resources hunting a half-blood elf, risking a royal shadowguard’s life?”

“That’s why I said maybe it’s because your bloodline is special,” Gawain replied. “Don’t forget—you only know half your blood is elven. The other half is a mystery. You know your biological father was an elf, but do you know who your mother was?” He tapped the table lightly. “And don’t forget one very important detail: that Shadow Signet Ring.”

Amber’s expression stiffened instantly, clearly recalling the ring’s origin and properties.

Gawain looked at her and said slowly, “You can use Francis II’s Shadow Signet Ring, and you also have an identical ring that’s lost its magic. That clue… doesn’t bother you?”

Amber thought for a moment, then suddenly pressed her hand to her chest, gasping, “Oh my god… Could I really be a remnant of the old dynasty?!”

Gawain almost lost his serious expression. “That’s not how you use the term ‘remnant of the old dynasty’!”

“Don’t correct my wording now,” Amber waved her hand emphatically. “What you’re suggesting really makes me question myself. It’s just a baseless guess… Well, now there’s some evidence, but is it even possible?”

“I’m just sharing my thoughts,” Gawain shook his head. “The truth of what happened back then, probably only Saril Randolf himself knows. But no matter what the truth was, even if it’s what I suspect, it doesn’t matter anymore. The Ansu royal line is over. Whatever the king wanted your foster father to do in the south has vanished with the dynasty. You’re free now; you don’t have to worry about it.”

After a moment of silence, Amber finally exhaled and smiled again. “You’re right… The old royal family is gone. Why should I still worry?”

It was as if she had dropped a heavy burden, quickly returning to her usual carefree self. Once the topic was closed, she asked Gawain about the next steps.

“The order in Saint Suniel has mostly stabilized. The transfer of power and the formation of new management structures are complete. Shouldn’t you be thinking about what comes next?”

“Yeah…” Gawain leaned back, tapping the armrest of his chair. “We’ve stayed in this city long enough.”

After a few taps, he turned to Amber. “How’s the situation in the eastern territories?”

“Grant Duchess Victoria’s forces have linked up with General Mariland’s troops. The local nobles in the east are mostly cooperating with the integration. They even cobbled together a reserve army, which, along with the Cecil Legion, is reinforcing the Changfeng Fortress defenses.”

“Expected,” Gawain nodded. “The eastern nobles are probably the most salvageable among the old Ansu kingdom’s decayed aristocracy. They have all the usual noble flaws, but facing the constant threat from Typhon and under the effective governance of the Loren family, they remain clear-headed in wartime. Still, that reserve army won’t be much use… The eastern elite forces were wiped out on the Holy Spirit Plains. The only reliable troops left are the garrison at Changfeng Fortress. The other reserves and noble-led militias won’t be much stronger than ordinary noble private armies. What else?”

Amber organized the intelligence she had. “There’s been no activity on the Typhon border, but Mariland worries they might be secretly building up forces. He’s working on gathering intel and staying alert for any invasion.”

“The White Sand Mining Company has retaken the mines and started repairing the railway damaged by that giant stag. Following your orders, the engineering teams are extending the previous eastern railway line, aiming to have the Iron Throne reach near Changfeng Fortress by autumn. With an armored train, we won’t have to worry so much about Typhon.”

“As for repairs on the Iron Throne… it’ll take about another two weeks. It lost two armory carriages, and the power spine and shield array suffered overload damage. It’s pretty bad. The two heavy factories in Grant City and Cecil City are working overtime, trying to speed up the process.”

“No matter what, the Iron Throne must be battle-ready as soon as possible, even if only half the train reaches the border,” Gawain said gravely. “We’re short on troops after the war. Even with advanced weapons, the Changfeng garrison alone might not hold off Typhon’s fully organized supernatural corps.”

Amber frowned. “Do you really think Typhon will strike during this window?”

“They’ve been waiting for this chance for a long time,” Gawain said. “But intelligence delays and errors might cause them to miss it. Rosetta Augustus is definitely watching the Holy Spirit Plains battle closely, but it’s hard for him to know exactly how badly we were hit—whether it was a narrow victory or a decisive one. That will determine if he orders an attack.”

The Typhon emperor was waiting for Ansu to bleed itself dry. Gawain had seen this clearly from early on. In fact, Rosetta’s plan had largely succeeded—despite the unexpected rise of Cecil. Overall, except for the southern territories, the rest of Ansu had been devastated by the war. Vast farmlands lay scorched, reserves were destroyed or contaminated, and much of the youth had been lost. In this situation, even the elite southern forces would be stretched thin across such a huge land.

The Typhon emperor had indeed waited until Ansu was at its weakest. If he struck now, it could be the final blow. But given the era’s slow and error-prone intelligence transmission, he might not yet realize just how dire the situation truly was.

Gawain knew full well that Rosetta Augustus was a ruler both iron-fisted and shrewdly cautious. His iron will ensured that the moment the emperor’s command was issued, the entire war machine of the Typhon Empire would spring into action, launching a full-scale assault on Changfeng Fortress. But his caution… if leveraged correctly, it might just buy Cecil a crucial breathing space to survive.

He turned to Amber and said, “We need to find a way to keep the Typhons in the dark about Cecil’s true situation. Make Rosetta Augustus overestimate the defenses of Changfeng Fortress, and overestimate the strength we’ve managed to preserve after the war.”

Amber thought for a moment. “I’ll help General Mariland draft a plan to project the image of a ‘great victory for Cecil.’ We’ll make sure Changfeng Fortress appears fully manned and well-supplied…”

“That’s not enough,” Gawain said gravely. “Rosetta Augustus is a formidable opponent. He won’t focus solely on Changfeng Fortress. Our domestic propaganda must quickly unify the narrative: this war on the Holy Spirit Plains must be portrayed as a decisive victory with minimal losses. Our grain reserves are ample, and the youth are inspired by victory to enlist eagerly. The fall of the Ansu royal family must be spun with dignity—under no circumstances should we publicize that the Royal Knights were nearly wiped out or that the Northern Legions suffered catastrophic losses.

“So far, our propaganda teams have done well in these areas, but the Eastern regions lag far behind the South in messaging… that gap must be closed immediately.

“Also, trade with Typhon must not only continue but expand. Cecil now controls this vast territory; our demands and production can only grow, not shrink—and they must grow significantly. Only then can we prevent Rosetta Augustus from guessing how many people we’ve lost.

“Don’t worry about Cecil handling such a large trade volume. The throughput capacity of our magitech industry is staggering. I’ve already arranged for Duke Bertram Franklin to negotiate with the Ogure tribes. The Grey Elves and Dwarves there are very interested in our alchemical potions and textiles. Through trade with them, we can offload a large portion of the pressure…”

Gawain laid out his plan point by point, his goal crystal clear: to mislead the Typhon ruler.

As long as they understood the era’s information flow, identified its backwardness and loopholes, this goal was achievable.

Of course, Rosetta Augustus was no fool, and Typhon had its own intelligence apparatus. Even if the deception succeeded, it wouldn’t last long. But Gawain only needed a short window—a breathing space after the war. Once the Iron Throne’s forces recovered and reached the border, once this year’s harvest was secured, and the next batch of recruits trained and equipped, he would have the confidence to hold back Typhon’s offensive. If the deception could last longer—through the winter, so that Emperor Rosetta only realized the truth in spring—then all the better.

Amber carefully noted everything Gawain instructed, already beginning to select trusted subordinates in her mind. As head of intelligence and a key player in many secret operations, especially this one which would require numerous military intelligence agents, she had to prepare now.

After jotting down the last point, she looked up, her ears twitching slightly. “Besides all that, there’s something else we should put on the agenda, right?”

Gawain raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“A grand coronation,” Amber said, drawing a large circle with her hand to emphasize “grand.” “The situation is stable, power has been transferred, the administration is in place. Shouldn’t the ruler of the Cecil Empire announce the dawn of a new era? Besides, it’s a perfect opportunity to send a message to Typhon…”

Having followed Gawain for so long, the half-elf had picked up many useful new terms. Hearing her say something so sensible with such earnestness even made Gawain nod. “You’re right. That should be on the agenda.”

He hadn’t cared much about a “coronation” before—stabilizing the situation and restoring production were priorities. But now the coronation had a special role. As a man who valued symbolism, he had to take it seriously.

“When do you plan to hold the coronation?” Amber blinked, clearly eager.

Gawain wondered what she was so excited about.

“When a certain special ‘cargo’ arrives from the White Sand Hills to Saint Suniel,” he said. “But preparations can begin before then.”

“Special cargo?” Amber’s eyes flickered as she caught on to his meaning. “Ah, that would make a fitting adornment for the new emperor’s coronation… But you originally planned to hold it in Saint Suniel?”

“Actually, I first considered Cecil City,” Gawain said, a faint smile tugging at his lips as his gaze settled on the study’s wall—where the Ansu sword-and-shield emblem once hung, now replaced by a banner bearing a sword and plowshare. “The Ansu monarchy ends here. The new empire begins here.”

A coronation, after all, was a spectacle meant to be seen. If that was the case, it had to be as impressive as possible—

Gawain wanted the old nobility of Saint Suniel to see it clearly, the church, the military, the former royal retainers—to witness the passing of an old era and the birth of a new one, and to be deeply impressed by the process. Only then could the subsequent reforms proceed smoothly.

This ancient yet young nation could no longer afford even the slightest chaos or hesitation.

(End of chapter)