Chapter 698: The Unshakable “Resident”
Wearing brand-new boots and a crisp uniform, adorned with an impressive and handsome badge and sleeve insignia, Warden Maxilin strode down the prison corridor with his head held high. This man, around thirty years old, kept his hair neatly groomed and his beard perfectly trimmed. A reserved smile played on his lips as the keys and baton hanging from his belt clinked with every step.
This was a newly built prison, as fresh as the city’s “Administrative Hall.” Inside, wide, bright corridors led to sturdy, well-crafted cells. One of Maxilin’s daily duties was to patrol every hallway and room with two guards, ensuring no inmates attempted escape, self-harm, damage to the facilities, or secret brawls. It was a tedious task, but for Maxilin—who thrived on order and routine—it suited him perfectly.
The regular detention area was running smoothly. The inmates here were mostly petty thieves and drunken troublemakers—some barely deserving imprisonment, only held temporarily due to limited space in the city’s security bureau. They neither dared to challenge the guards nor instigate fights to prolong their stay. Patrolling this section was always the easiest and most pleasant part of the day.
After passing through the regular zone, Maxilin and his two guards headed toward the extraordinary containment area. Before descending the stairs to the underground level, the warden glanced at the heat exchanger and ventilation system embedded in the wall, both humming along normally.
Satisfied all was in order, Maxilin muttered under his breath, “What a time to be alive… even prison is this comfortable now.”
A few steps down, past a barred gate, stood a heavy alloy door. Maxilin adjusted his belt and uniform, his expression growing serious.
Behind this door lay the prison’s core: cells designed specifically for supernaturals.
From here on, the corridors were lined with runes detecting magical fluctuations and alarm devices. The cells were far more secure than those above, equipped with traps and mechanisms to counter spellcasters. Though no supernatural prisoner uprising had occurred since the area’s construction, Maxilin—having faced supernaturals on the battlefield—instinctively heightened his vigilance.
He instinctively touched the scar low on his chest—a wound once seared by a blazing supernatural blade. Recalling the burning pain, he activated the shield generator on his belt and clicked the mechanism on his baton’s end, ensuring the “magic countermeasure” was ready to deploy.
The two guards checked their gear as well. Then, flanking Maxilin, they simultaneously pressed two keys against the sides of the heavy door.
With a series of creaks and groans from the machinery, the massive gate slowly swung open.
Maxilin glanced back and instructed his subordinates, “Check the defenses.”
The two guards moved off to inspect the protective runes, while Maxilin stepped inside to survey the area.
The supernatural containment section had far fewer cells than the regular area—only four individual rooms. At present, only two prisoners were held here.
The first cell on the left housed a reckless arcanist who had been brought in just yesterday. Severely drunk, he had cast an arcane missile that killed his neighbor’s dog—mistaking the animal for a challenger in a divine duel. After paying compensation, he was sentenced to a week here, though Maxilin suspected half that time would be spent sobering up.
This was a volatile character, especially since he was still intoxicated—there was a real risk he might mistake the guards for duelists and fire off another arcane missile.
The second cell on the right held a long-term resident: a druid of unknown origin, imprisoned for unauthorized magic use and illegal border crossing. In Maxilin’s eyes, this silent, brooding druid was a safer bet, though his demeanor was somewhat grim.
After confirming the drunken arcanist was still babbling nonsense, Maxilin approached the druid’s cell, labeled “Bardwindel,” and tapped the alloy bars embedded with magic-conductive material with his baton.
“Hey, time for your checkup.”
Inside the small cell, the middle-aged man in gray-white prison garb sat on his bed with his back to the door. Hearing the noise, he moved his arm and without turning said, “Hold on, I’m just about to solve this problem.”
“Ha, you really treat this place like your own home,” Maxilin said, half amused, half exasperated. “I shouldn’t have given you that math textbook to pass the time—look at what you’ve scribbled all over the walls!”
The tiny cell was covered from floor to ceiling with dizzying numbers and symbols, alongside impromptu poems and short verses—a lively scene. Writing on the walls was a common pastime among prisoners, usually tolerated by the guards. But Maxilin had never seen anyone fill two walls with systems of equations and verses before. This was by far the most unusual inmate he’d encountered.
Maxilin, who had once been a knight’s apprentice and was literate, couldn’t fully grasp what Bardwindel had written. He could only instinctively tell this prisoner was no ordinary man—but then again, how many supernaturals were?
Inside the cell, Bardwindel finally finished his equation. The scruffy, bearded man stood up, setting down his draft paper and pen.
“Don’t worry, sir, I’ll erase it myself later.”
“You’d better—because you’ll just write new equations!” Maxilin shot him a warning glance. “I’m here to tell you your detention time is up. You’ll be released tomorrow. Once out, make sure to go to the Administrative Hall and apply for your population transfer…”
Before Maxilin could finish, Bardwindel casually pulled a small, hard piece of dried bread from under his pillow and flung it toward the wall just outside the bars. With surprising strength, the bread struck the wall like a stone, triggering a shimmering protective light barrier—and immediately, alarms blared.
Maxilin and the two guards who had just entered were caught off guard, unable to stop it.
“Damn it! You can’t keep using this trick to extend your stay!” Maxilin shouted in frustration. “This is a prison, not a hotel for you to keep renewing your room! Are you even listening…? You two, what are you standing there for? Go turn off that blasted alarm!”
The two guards scrambled to silence the alarm, while the drunken arcanist in the nearby cell shouted incoherently. Bardwindel shrugged at Maxilin.
“It’s pretty nice here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Next time, I’m searching your cell thoroughly. Your pens and your bread—I’m taking them all,” Maxilin warned angrily. “Let’s see how you cause trouble then.”
Bardwindel thought for a moment, then said seriously, “I’m no weak mage—I could trigger the alarm with my nose boogers.”
Maxilin was speechless.
The warden had no clever comeback to that airtight response. He could only watch as the infuriating druid slowly returned to his bed, curling up like an animal preparing for hibernation, pulling the blanket over himself with complete disregard.
“You’re wasting the Empire’s money!” Maxilin finally shouted. “Listen, I’m reporting this to the Security Bureau and the Administrative Hall. This loophole will be fixed soon. You can’t just freeload here forever!”
From the bed came Bardwindel’s voice: “I trust in your diligence, sir—but until then, I just want a good night’s sleep.”
Maxilin left, still annoyed, just as he had the previous two times.
The heavy alloy door creaked shut behind him, the containment area falling silent once more. The drunken muttering from the neighboring cell faded, and Bardwindel, lying on his bed, opened his eyes briefly before closing them again.
For all these years, this was the only place where he could sleep peacefully.
Maxilin finished his patrol and returned to his office, a third of his patience worn thin.
Having started as a knight’s apprentice, fought with the first generation of the Cecil Combat Corps, and endured every territorial defense and southern unification war, Maxilin was used to a world where “every ordinary person strives.” He couldn’t understand why a supernatural would willingly sink into such a state.
Minutes later, the warden picked up pen and paper and began drafting a report.
At the very least, he had to find a way to get Bardwindel out of that cell—because if the druid kept clinging on like this, he’d probably outstay Maxilin himself in this prison!
…
“This is the latest report from Norris on the Holy Spirit Plains, my lord. Please review.”
In Cecil City, inside Gawain’s study, Hetty placed a thick report on the desk and briefly summarized its contents.
“Investigators from the Agriculture Department and the ‘Holy Spirit Plains Reconstruction Temporary Office’ have entered the southern Fertile Woods, conducting rough surveys and assessments of towns and farmland along the way. The team believes the most severely polluted areas lie further north, around Giantstone City and Solin Fort. Among the areas surveyed, over fifty percent of the farmland can be replanted within a year. Norris emphasized that these lands are only lightly contaminated and, having undergone controlled burning and fallow periods, may even be more fertile next year.”
“That’s rare good news,” Gawain relaxed his brow. “The crystal cluster contamination was halted just in time. The crystal dust and associated plagues haven’t deeply penetrated the soil. If the land can be farmed again directly, next year’s food shortage crisis will be largely averted.”
“The current challenge is the abandonment of towns, roads, and water infrastructure,” Hetty nodded. “All original settlements were the hardest hit by the crystal giants’ rampage, suffering concentrated bombardment and complete burning. The infrastructure is utterly destroyed. Relying solely on the Administrative Hall to organize reconstruction and then repopulation will be slow and costly—there’s even a risk that the still salvageable farmland won’t be cultivated in time.”
Gawain stroked his chin thoughtfully. “…That is a problem. The Holy Spirit Plains are vast. Even just the eastern part of the plains is nearly half the size of the Southern Territory…”
“Norris has proposed a suggestion regarding this.”
“Oh?” Gawain raised an eyebrow. “What’s the suggestion?”
Heddy gathered her thoughts and began, “Norris has encountered many returning refugees in areas with lighter contamination—people who had fled the polluted zones and lived beyond our control, but upon hearing that the war was over, they wanted to come back home. After questioning them and combining that with rough counts from the southern and western plains as well as the eastern border checkpoints, it seems these returnees might make up about one-tenth of the original population of the eastern plains—that’s far more than we expected.”
Gawain blinked.
After the disaster, a large number of displaced refugees wandered across the Holy Spirit Plains. This was something Gawain had anticipated from the start—the “Cecil Order” was indeed efficient and strict, capable of managing populations and aiding refugees effectively, but only if a costly and well-established administrative system was in place. The Holy Spirit Plains, however, were not the southern territories. With only limited resettlement teams and a provisional government office, thorough management was impossible, inevitably leading to a flood of displaced people.
One-tenth…
That number was staggering. The once-thriving eastern Holy Spirit Plains were now almost deserted—nine out of ten homes empty.
But at least one remained occupied.
“These wandering refugees need to be resettled,” Heddy continued. “And it’s extremely dangerous for them to roam the contaminated zones without any organization. Norris suggests forming a ‘Joint Reconstruction Corps,’ led by the High Government Office, centered around the New Recruit Construction Corps and the official Pioneers. Several reconstruction teams would be established, and through various channels, we’d attract, gather, and recruit these refugees. We’d also encourage those who intend to return home but have temporarily settled elsewhere to join the effort and help rebuild their homeland…
“The refugees only need basic survival support, but we can offer them more than that—we can provide construction tools and guidance. Motivated by the chance to reclaim their homes and receive land, many should respond. Drawing on the experience from building New Cecil, we can also organize a group of young clerks and government trainees for practical experience. With the Construction Corps at its core, the Reconstruction Corps would be large enough to reclaim more land before it falls completely to wild grass and wolves.”
“Reclaiming land from wild grass and wolves… that’s a powerful slogan for propaganda,” Gawain nodded, pleased not only with the proposal but also proud of how government officials like Norris had grown over the years. “Is that all Norris has for the plan?”
Heddy nodded. “Yes.”
“Then I’ll add this—once the Reconstruction Corps rebuilds towns and social order, they should establish local government offices on site, while simultaneously developing transportation, communication, and commerce networks.”
The eastern Holy Spirit Plains were a blank slate. Gawain intended to overlay the full Cecil Order there. When that wasteland was rebuilt, this fertile land would become a “new soil” just like the southern territories. From the Rock Fortress in the south, it would connect directly north to the old royal capital, Saint Suniel, and extend to the northern and eastern borders…
The scorched wasteland, once burned to ashes, would eventually sprout new life. Stripped of its decay, the reborn flesh and blood would be healthier and stronger than ever before.
(End of chapter)