Chapter 673: The Coronation

Gawain knew that Miss Melita Pernia had to be nearby—after all, as a dragon tasked with monitoring the continent’s political landscape, how could she abandon her post on the eve of such a historic event?

After ending his communication, Gawain didn’t leave his study. He sat quietly behind his desk, his mind expanding outward, his keen senses gathering every sound around him: the footsteps of attendants pacing in nearby rooms, likely preparing the ceremonial robes and decorations for the coronation; the heavy thuds of military boots echoing from downstairs, the guards conducting their final security checks before the ceremony; and faint murmurs drifting in from the castle gardens—probably Rebecca causing some mischief as usual.

For today’s ceremony, Hetty, Rebecca, and several officials from the Council of State had arrived yesterday from Cecil City. After all, this was the moment that symbolized the formal founding of the empire—they simply couldn’t miss it. To ensure the southern territories remained stable, Gawain had assigned trusted department heads and deputies to keep the Council running smoothly, and he had also sent Solderin back south to assist with security and defense.

As an old friend of Gawain’s from seven centuries ago, the high-ranking ranger didn’t regret missing the grand event. On the contrary, he welcomed the assignment—after all, for an elf, attending a large human ceremony was a torment. Having a legitimate reason to stay away, and even earn some credit for it, suited Solderin just fine.

Minutes later, a knock came at the door. The attendant announced that the senior agent from the Mithril Treasury had arrived.

“Looks like today will be quite the celebration,” said the agent, a young woman in a long dress with her face veiled, her curved eyes sparkling with amusement. “The entire city is already decorated, and nearly everyone is eagerly discussing the upcoming coronation—whether out of genuine excitement or not. I saw hundreds of nobles gathered in the Silver Keep’s hall, gazing up at the Cecil family crest, moved to tears.”

“Whether they’re truly moved or not makes no difference to me,” Gawain replied casually. “As long as they cooperate when it comes time to sign, that’s enough. Too many have already died on Raven’s Plateau—I’m not about to send more to decorate the lampposts.”

“Don’t be so harsh on them,” Melita smiled, stepping closer to the desk. “They’re doing their best to comply with your decrees. Now, what is it you want us to safeguard?”

Gawain picked up the freshly completed manuscript but paused before handing it over. “The Mithril Treasury can store anything and handle it strictly according to the employer’s instructions, right?”

“‘Anything’ is a bit of an exaggeration,” Melita said, her voice calm. “Even dragons can’t guard everything in the world. But considering human development, you can be confident we have the capacity to protect whatever you entrust to us—and we’re fully capable of managing it exactly as you require.”

“Can you safeguard knowledge, and then disseminate it at the time I specify?”

Melita’s expression beneath the veil froze for a moment. She noticed the particular choice of words and whispered, “Disseminate… that’s an interesting request. But I think you can rest assured—if the price is right, we don’t mind taking on new business. Theoretically, with a dragon’s long lifespan and intelligence, we could fulfill your request, even if it means spreading certain knowledge across the entire continent. It might not even take a young dragon the full duration of their coming-of-age journey.”

She paused, then added, “Given the special nature of this commission, I’ll need to review the exact contents before quoting a price. But rest assured, with your soon-to-be status and position, the cost will be fair.”

Gawain nodded, then glanced again at the manuscript in his hand, his face clouded with hesitation as if wrestling with some weighty matter. After a full minute, he took a deep breath and handed the manuscript to Melita. “This is everything.”

“All of it? That’s less than I expected… I thought you’d hand me an entire library.” Melita flipped through the first few pages casually, not yet reading in detail, then raised an eyebrow. “Seems to be about how society functions?”

“You can take your time to study it carefully. We’ll discuss the specifics and your quote after the coronation,” Gawain said.

Melita’s tone lifted playfully. “Oh? Then I’ll be sure to give it a thorough look…”

…

On the castle’s ground floor, in the great hall, the ceremonial officers were anxiously double-checking every detail. Attendants and guards rehearsed their roles repeatedly. A court advisor with graying hair pored over a long checklist, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead.

Having just completed a rehearsal, Hetty noticed the advisor’s tension and stepped forward to comfort him. “Mr. Brendon, please relax—the entire process is flawless.”

“Ah, Grand Regent, thank you for your concern, but I dare not relax,” the advisor replied solemnly after bowing. “I’ve been a court scholar for most of my life and know all the protocols inside and out. But now I’m holding a completely new set of procedures. His Majesty has not only abolished the traditional kneeling and kissing of the ground but also removed the crown itself. There are salutes, marching formations, and new military music added. I cannot afford a single mistake—any slip-up would disgrace my family’s honor.”

Hetty smiled gently and shook her head. “No one will be disgraced today. This is a day of honor.”

She turned and looked toward the far end of the hall, where a deep blue banner hung from the soaring vaulted ceiling. Golden threads embroidered the emblem of the sword and plowshare—a symbol that inevitably called to mind its meaning: protection and cultivation, carving out a home for humanity through war in dark times, and nurturing life through hard work.

It felt like only yesterday that this proud emblem hung in the dilapidated old castle of the Cecil family, their lands in decline, their fortunes at an end. She and Rebecca had struggled to keep the estate alive, and aside from leafing through those musty old books to relive past glories, she hadn’t dared imagine what it would be like to light every lamp in the old castle.

How could she have dreamed then that one day this emblem would hang on the walls of the Silver Keep?

Footsteps approached from behind. Hetty turned to see Victoria, the Duchess of the North, dressed in a white court gown, her silver hair elegantly pinned up. The northern duchess nodded to her. “Lady Hetty, you look radiant today.”

It was a rather formal greeting, but knowing Victoria’s usual stern demeanor, those familiar with her understood this was the warmest welcome she could offer. Hetty smiled back. “You as well—beautiful as winter’s snow.”

“Today is a great day,” Victoria said calmly. “Duke Bertram and I will ensure everything proceeds smoothly.”

Hetty glanced around the hall. Besides the southern contingents, many unfamiliar faces filled the room: nobles from the capital, selected church representatives, knights, and various other figures.

Maintaining order were naturally Victoria and Duke Bertram, both well acquainted with the environment.

“Let’s hope these people keep their eyes wide open today,” Hetty whispered. “Signing is better than the gallows.”

“They will,” Victoria’s cool voice replied. “Those who refuse to sign… won’t be here.”

In a corner of the hall, Duke Bertram Franklin pulled a mechanical watch from his pocket and checked the time.

“It’s almost time.”

…

It was almost time.

Outside the Silver Keep, the broad plaza’s edges were packed with countless citizens, merchants, and even ordinary folk from the outer districts. Within the viewing areas cordoned off by the castle guards and Cecil’s battle troops, the crowd pressed tightly together, nearly shoulder to shoulder.

The standing areas on the plaza had long since filled, while the open spaces near the keep were guarded by soldiers. Those who couldn’t secure a good spot gathered farther away, climbing onto rooftops, nearby towers, lampposts, and flagpoles. Patrol soldiers repeatedly approached, using amplified magic to shout warnings and coax the most precariously perched spectators down.

Residents near the plaza were having a windfall, renting out their window ledges and rooftops at steep prices. Surprisingly, many were willing to pay, and within half a day, all the prime spots were snapped up.

The sun climbed higher. Mages had already dispelled the clouds near Saint Sunil, and brilliant sunlight bathed the city. The crowd swayed and jostled, countless eyes fixed on the Silver Keep.

Suddenly, loud shouts erupted from the front of the crowd:

“Someone’s coming out!”
“There’s a figure on the second-floor balcony!”
“The gates are opening!”

With the heavy clank of iron chains, the Silver Keep’s massive doors slowly swung open halfway. A cavalry unit marched out in formation, their gleaming magical armor shining brightly, banners flying proudly. A long red carpet stretched from inside the castle all the way to the end of the drawbridge.

The crowd stirred, craning their necks toward the castle gates. According to tradition, the monarch would soon appear, receive the subjects’ kneeling homage, followed by the ceremonial officers and the regent proclaiming the sovereign’s legitimacy and the transfer of royal power. For many commoners, this was their only chance in a lifetime to see a member of the royal family—an event worth boasting about for months afterward.

But no monarch appeared. Instead, a line of knights stood blocking the main gate leading into the inner courtyard. Confusion rippled through the crowd.

Before it could spread further, a strong, commanding voice boomed from above, carried by magical amplification across the plaza:

“Attention all! First Infantry Phalanx, forward—march!”

Many were startled by the sudden command. The crowd shifted uneasily, then another strange sound reached their ears—at first, it was like the rhythmic clatter of stones being shuffled, neat and measured. Soon, the noise grew louder, pounding like a drumbeat that shook their nerves.

At last, the source became clear—

Soldiers, arranged in a phalanx, fully armored and armed, marching in perfect formation.

People craned their necks and widened their eyes, watching the scene in the square with a mix of awe and confusion. They saw row after row of soldiers marching in perfect formation, each clad in identical armor and carrying the same equipment, as if stamped out from the same mold. At the front, the commander held a gleaming sword; the first rank of soldiers raised their banners high, while the rest marched with a precision so exact it was almost eerie. The rhythmic sound they made wasn’t a drumbeat—it was the synchronized thud of their boots striking the ground.

Having grown used to the freewheeling, disorderly noble mercenaries and the kingdom’s army, with its patchwork of self-supplied gear, the sight before them was nothing short of unbelievable—almost uncanny and intimidating. Could human beings really be arranged like this?

As the infantry formation took shape, some sharp-eyed onlookers finally noticed movement at the castle gates.

The knights stepped aside in perfect unison, and the massive doors leading into the castle courtyard swung wide open. From within emerged a colossal, glowing shape—something so strange it was impossible to tell what it was at first.

Moments later, the crowd realized what it was—

A gigantic, chilling skull, slowly advancing forward.

It was mounted atop a large, magically powered vehicle, the skull nearly engulfing the entire contraption. Its translucent bone surface shimmered faintly, and deep within its hollow eye sockets seemed to dwell a powerful spirit. No one could imagine what kind of mighty creature this enormous skull had belonged to, but just gazing at its pale surface filled everyone with a profound sense of awe and reverence. Yet this formidable being was long dead—what stood here now was nothing but its skull.

High above the skull stood Gawain, perched on a steel platform that was bolted through the bone. He wore a somber black ceremonial suit, no crown upon his head, but a longsword rested in his hand. A diamond brooch pinned to his chest sparkled brilliantly in the sunlight.

On either side of the steel platform were two wing-like metal structures, from which hung banners bearing the emblems of sword and plow, draping nearly to the ground.

The massive skull rolled steadily to the front of the drawbridge and came to a firm halt. Several escort war chariots pulled up behind it, lining up evenly on both sides.

Gawain gazed down at the square beyond the drawbridge, where the infantry formation had now arrived before him.

A clear, commanding voice rang out across the square:

“Stand fast!”

The infantry halted instantly, the only sound the sharp stomp of boots on stone.

“Draw swords!”

Countless molten blades were drawn in unison, their edges gleaming as they were held upright just to the left front of each soldier.

“Light the blades—”

“Salute His Majesty!!”

(Vote for us! thunderous applause)

(End of chapter)