Chapter 683: What’s Happening Now

To be fair, at this moment, Gawain genuinely felt a bit outpaced by Amber’s train of thought—something rare for a transmigrator who usually held the intellectual high ground.

But after a brief moment of stunned silence, he realized Amber was genuinely conflicted. Her habit of spouting nonsense might be a cover-up or just a quirk, but after everything that had happened, even someone as thick-skinned as her had to be carrying some weight on her mind.

“Honestly… I don’t really care about being called a ‘synthetic human,’” Amber finally admitted after a few seconds of silence. “I’ve been a ‘mystery mixed-blood’ all my life. I’ve lived in slums, fought in dark alleys, slept in stables and even in graveyards. I always knew Pittman was probably being hunted by those cultists—he’s likely a defector like my foster father. There’s no peace to be found with them.

“People scraping by in gutters don’t have the luxury to worry about bloodlines or origins. You know what? The hardest-hit don’t even think about whether they’re human, because just thinking about where their next meal comes from drains all their energy. Some even genuinely envy the dogs raised by knights—that’s no exaggeration.

“Sure, I’ve had it better than the worst of them, but I know what that kind of survival feels like, and it’s shaped me a lot.

“So, I don’t care if I’m a synthetic human—though, yeah, it did scare me a bit. But really, I don’t mind. I come from nothing; ‘synthetic human’ is better than a blank slate. Like you said, it doesn’t stop me from living like a normal person.”

Gawain glanced down at Amber. “What you’re really worried about is how to face Veronica, isn’t it?”

“She once ordered me destroyed—though she failed,” Amber replied sideways. “And when she talks about the Shadow Project and synthetic embryos, she’s as calm as if she’s discussing stones. I know she means no harm…”

“That attitude makes you uncomfortable?”

“A little. But more than that, I’m worried. The Rebellion’s plans seem too extreme and dangerous to me, especially now that I’m part of their scheme. To preserve humanity, they don’t mind using some people as pawns on a scale. They seem to have limits, but the biggest problem is you never know if you’re the one being weighed on the scale when working with them…”

Gawain looked at Amber with some surprise. He hadn’t expected her real struggle to be such a serious, weighty matter.

After about half a minute of thought, he spoke: “Followers of the God of Commerce often say—everything in the world is balanced on the scales of the gods.

“I don’t believe in that god, but there’s some truth to it. From birth, we all stand on a scale. But the hand holding the scales isn’t always a god—it could be a stronger person, the law of the land, natural laws, or even fate itself. One thing’s certain: as a living being born into this world, your value is always being measured by something.

“As a weight on the scale, you can’t expect mercy. So either you have the power to build a new scale yourself, or you keep your value high enough to avoid falling off.

“Your doubts about the Rebellion are normal. I have them too. But under certain conditions and stages, their value is worth the risk. Remember how I told you about categorizing friends and enemies? Someone like Veronica is a friend we can gain under specific circumstances. If there’s a scale at all, that’s the result of its judgment.”

He looked Amber deeply in the eyes. “Of course, there’s a premise with Veronica: the old Shadow Project is behind her now. She won’t drag you back into that, and only then can our cooperation continue.”

The terrace fell silent for a moment. Then, after a minute, Amber suddenly exhaled deeply. “You’re not wrong, old dumpling…”

She looked up and handed Gawain the greasy chicken leg she’d been holding. “Here, have the chicken leg.”

Gawain was momentarily lost, then glared at her. “You still dare say that?—What’s so funny? Now you’re an old dumpling too!”

“…Oh man, by definition, I guess I am,” Amber said, eyes wide as realization dawned. Then her imagination ran wild. “Wait, so if I was dug up by my foster father, then I dug you up, and you dug up Kamail and Nicholas’ eggs… is this some kind of ancestral craft?”

Ancestral craft? Was that even the right term here?

But Amber’s train of thought genuinely startled Gawain. He suddenly realized this “chain of fate” was literally connected by digging up graves—our link forged by shovels unearthing the graves of predecessors. What kind of devilish inheritance was this?

He shook his head hard to clear the shocking thought, then noticed Amber still holding the chicken leg—half-eaten, no less. Who could eat with that in hand?

“You keep it,” he said awkwardly, declining her offer. Then he glanced toward the castle, where lights flickered.

“Yeah, it’s about time,” Amber said, tucking the chicken leg away and wiping her mouth as she stood. Following Gawain’s gaze, she added, “…This boring, endless banquet should finally be over.”

“The pens and papers for signing are ready,” Gawain nodded. “After tonight, the land and the old lordly order will be gone for good.”

…

The long banquet finally ended. For most nobles attending, it was neither relaxing nor enjoyable, nor was there any lavish indulgence. After the ritualistic proceedings, the stifling atmosphere, and the anxiety of various factors, they had finally reached their true purpose for the day.

Signing the Imperial Reform Declaration, fully accepting the restructuring, surrendering privileges and lands.

Gawain returned to the castle. In the Golden Oak Hall, the nobles gathered to sign the documents under the witness of him and the three Grant Magistrates.

Count Barin held the light quill, its slender shaft feeling as heavy as a thousand pounds. He glanced at the declaration’s steel-strong words and sighed inwardly.

Beside him, Count Clenwell of White Mountain had already picked up his pen. The knight lord of dwarf blood solemnly wrote his name.

“Sign it. This is the fate of the nobility,” Clenwell whispered to Barin. “The southern nobles have signed, and no apocalypse came for them.”

Barin looked up, seeing familiar faces—some already signing, others frowning in thought. Among them, many reeked of alcohol.

The haze of drink was a potent aid in making up their minds. Red-coated court attendants stood nearby, ensuring every signature was clear.

Barin, usually fond of feasts and fine wine, had not touched a drop tonight.

Those glorious yet decadent days were over.

He lifted his pen, the tip touching the paper, and wrote a neat, sharp line of words.

…

In the Obsidian Palace of the Typhon Empire, Rosetta Augustus sat behind a large desk, focused on the documents before him.

Magic network units silently hummed in hidden spaces between the roof and walls, their steady power lighting the crystal lamps throughout the study. Gentle music flowed from nearby arcane devices, a soothing melody that eased the mind.

Rosetta set the papers down and murmured to himself, “…The Cecil Empire…”

The documents were urgent intelligence from the empire’s information department. Despite the near-limitless griffon rider relays and communication towers within the empire, border isolation and chaos in the Ansu eastern region had delayed the reports by nearly half a month before reaching Typhon. The intelligence mentioned the recent news of an empire being established in Ansu, but by Rosetta’s calculations, by now “Ansu” was already a thing of the past.

Even if Gawain Cecil hadn’t been officially crowned, he should have already secured control over Saint Suniel and consolidated the old kingdom’s nobility.

The upheaval on that ancient land exceeded Rosetta’s expectations and caused him to hesitate in his judgment.

The end of Ansu’s monarchy seemed good news. A nation is at its weakest when its ruler falls. Without other variables, a civil war combined with the crystal cluster disaster would have utterly destroyed Ansu’s ruling class—a once-in-a-millennium opportunity for Typhon.

But the problem was that “variable”—Ansu’s monarchy didn’t collapse into chaos. Instead, after Saint Suniel’s relief, it ended smoothly and transitioned under Gawain Cecil’s leadership.

This meant the chaos was minimized, and both the outgoing and incoming powers were fully prepared. Gawain Cecil was no fool; he wouldn’t undertake such a massive move unprepared.

As Typhon’s ruler and the architect of nearly two decades of reforms, Rosetta knew what the word “empire” truly meant. Beyond the conditions required to claim the title, the biggest difference between an empire and a kingdom lay in greater centralization of power, higher operational and executive efficiency, more stable order, and a stronger capacity to accept and utilize new things—all of which meant that the old, decayed nation was about to break free from the mire.

So far, all intelligence from Ansu carried an unsettling tone for Rosetta Augustus: the country hadn’t suffered enough damage in the previous civil war and crystal cluster war. On the contrary, the rising power in the south had far exceeded Typhon’s estimates. This force had stabilized the situation before the disaster on the Holy Spirit Plains expanded, preserving Ansu’s vitality.

Perhaps that’s why Gawain Cecil dared to reorganize the nation after a war… but it might also be a bluff.

Leaning back in his large chair, Rosetta quickly pieced together all recent reports in his mind. Suddenly, he furrowed his brow and turned his gaze toward a nearby window.

Two identical nightingales stood outside, tapping the crystal glass with their beaks.

Noticing Rosetta’s eyes, the nightingales lifted their heads and locked eyes with the Typhon ruler in silent understanding.

After a long pause, Rosetta finally cracked a faint, cold smile and said casually, “For people who’ve been utterly defeated, you certainly have remarkable courage.”

“Accidents are inevitable in experiments,” one of the Nightingales spread her wings, her clear voice cutting through the window and into the study.

“Failures are bound to happen in any project,” the other Nightingale added.

“You have a rather novel way of looking at accidents and failures,” Rosetta said coolly. “But I’m afraid I’ve lost interest in your peculiar ideas.”

With that, he raised his hand, ready to summon the royal mages to capture these uninvited guests of the night. But before he could, both Nightingales spoke in unison: “Would you be interested in hearing a story about the history of the Gondor Empire?”

Rosetta frowned and waved his hand. The window slid open just wide enough.

One after the other, the two Nightingales flew into the room. As their wings fluttered, a pale green light shimmered into existence, coalescing into the forms of twin elves—identical in every detail.

Rosetta Augustus regarded the two coldly. “What is it you want to say?”

“Have you ever heard of the Defiance Project?”

(End of chapter)