Chapter 705: Long Time No See

Bald Windel had no idea where he was being taken—not because he was blindfolded or unconscious during the transfer. In fact, the soldiers and officers escorting him never forbade him from looking around. He simply couldn’t make sense of his surroundings or destination because everything he saw along the way far exceeded his understanding and imagination.

A city so prosperous and orderly, with a style so unique and vibrant—he had once thought that Rockstone City, near the Holy Spirit Plains, was already a breathtaking metropolis. But now he finally understood why the warden had kept saying that Rockstone was just a rapidly developing frontier market, and that the true splendor of the southern region lay even further south—

Cecil City, the miraculous capital at the foot of the Dark Mountains. No wonder the arcane mage he had roomed with had urged him, once sober, to come see this place if he ever got the chance.

Bald found it hard to imagine how this once barren frontier, just four years ago, had grown into such a city. Judging by the historical depth and the number of complex classical buildings—structures that usually take longer to build and are more numerous in older cities—this city still seemed relatively young. Yet its prosperity and vitality were unlike anything the former General of Typhon had ever witnessed.

He recalled the southern region when he had hastily retreated after a failed mission—back then, it was nothing like this.

Magically powered vehicles glided smoothly along wide, clean streets. Crystals floated intermittently overhead, supplying energy to the city’s infrastructure. At intersections and plazas, holographic projections flickered, constantly changing—news and scenes from distant lands appearing as if right before one’s eyes. Energetic pedestrians greeted each other warmly, showing no sign of weariness despite the steadily cooling weather.

The fully armed escort soldiers sat nearby, watching Bald Windel’s every move but never stopping this unusual “supernatural criminal” from gazing around. It wasn’t until they neared the city center that the prisoner suddenly broke the silence.

“…I heard that during the Holy Spirit Plains war, this city produced in one month as much steel for weapons as the entire kingdom used in a year, all sent to the front lines…”

One soldier glanced at Bald Windel. Though he didn’t understand why the prisoner suddenly brought this up, he nodded proudly. “That’s true, but that’s only part of it. The battlefield at the Holy Spirit Plains lasted far longer than a month, and the factories converted more than just steel.”

“…So there really was a path forward…”

The prisoner sighed vaguely, then fell silent again, staring out the window without another word.

The soldier shook his head—this was indeed a strange man.

The vehicle passed through the grand avenue, crossed Pioneer Square, and finally, under the escort of another squad, was guided to a large building.

Bald Windel silently and obediently stepped down.

After being suddenly thrown into a prison, placed in an armored, magically powered vehicle under guard, he vaguely realized who wanted to see him. And he no longer resisted the fate arranged for him.

The soldiers were meticulous and responsible. Even though Bald Windel cooperated fully, they executed the handover and escort procedures with absolute precision, leading him inside the building. As a former General of Typhon and a cult member, Bald Windel mentally calculated the entire process and concluded that even if he wanted to escape, he wouldn’t make it a hundred meters alive—

Every soldier here carried magical signatures. The magical devices that had once blown him to near death were their basic equipment. Not to mention the countless magical traps and surveillance devices likely hidden throughout this important facility—just like when he’d burned a newspaper in a tavern and immediately attracted a whole squad of security officers. Here, such monitoring would only be more pervasive.

And yet, these soldiers were just ordinary people.

Bald Windel lowered his head and followed the escorting soldier forward.

But over ninety percent of people in this world… were ordinary.

The soldier stopped before a door, nodded to the attendant guarding it, then pressed a hand on Bald Windel’s shoulder and gave a slight push. “Inside, show respect—good luck.”

Inside the room, Gawain saw a long-unseen face before him. Though they had only met briefly a few years ago, the reinforced memory made the image of that face still vivid.

Compared to years ago, the face was clearly more haggard—beard and hair unkempt, eyes lacking their former pride and confidence. The ruthless aura of a cultist and the sharp edge of the former Wolf General seemed completely gone.

But when Bald Windel reached the center of the room and met Gawain’s gaze head-on, those weary eyes flickered with a subtle change.

Some spark returned. He straightened up with effort, adjusted his gray-white prison garb, and bowed slightly. “I salute you, Your Majesty Gawain Cecil.”

His demeanor was that of a captured general facing the monarch of another nation.

It was somewhat ironic—he thought—years ago, he had resolutely abandoned his honor to devote himself to a grand yet dark cause. Yet now, at his lowest point, he was the one standing tall.

“We meet again, Mr. Bald Windel,” Gawain said calmly, neither immediately condemning nor mocking him. “Priest of the All-Things End, the Wolf General who faked his death and defected from the Typhon Empire… I truly didn’t expect you’ve been right under my nose all this time.”

Wolf General… Hearing the title he had once abandoned, Bald Windel’s eyes remained calm. He glanced at Gawain. “Looks like you’ve done your homework.”

“I just happen to have some channels,” Gawain smiled. “When I first heard about a strange prisoner loafing around the Rockstone City jail, refusing to be moved, I never imagined it was you… It wasn’t until I saw your name in the report that I had to marvel at fate’s strange design.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again under these circumstances,” Bald Windel frowned slightly. “Since you’ve found me… I suppose my comfortable days are over.”

“You’ve committed countless crimes as a priest of the All-Things End,” Gawain said, locking eyes with Bald Windel. “But honestly, I’m not here to judge you today. Cecil values law and justice. When you last appeared on this land, Cecil hadn’t yet ruled the southern region. I cannot try you under today’s laws for crimes of the previous regime. But for what you did in the Leslie territory, there are others qualified to pass judgment.”

Bald Windel was momentarily stunned. While he was still processing, a side door opened.

A tall, thin man with a pale complexion, carrying a decorative cane and dressed in a deep blue coat, stepped out.

Viscount Andrew Leslie, former lord of the Leslie territory, now governor of Tansan City.

Bald Windel stared steadily at the man approaching him. Compared to his memory, Andrew looked not weakened by age but rather more spirited. The pallor had faded, replaced by a healthier complexion—seemingly, his new life had greatly improved the noble lord’s health.

Andrew Leslie had not taken any harmful potions for nearly two years.

Building and managing a thriving modern city, watching his domain transform under his governance—this was far more fulfilling than he had ever imagined.

“Viscount Andrew,” Bald Windel finally broke the silence after a few seconds of eye contact, “you seem to be doing well.”

A fire seemed to flicker in Andrew’s deep-set eyes. He fixed his gaze on Bald Windel, slowly raising his cane to press against Bald Windel’s chest. “Do you remember what you did in Tansan Town?”

“Vividly.”

“My daughter still struggles to communicate normally to this day. Of those who survived your evil rituals, a third have yet to return to normal life,” Andrew’s grip tightened on the cane, as if trying to drive it like a sword into Bald Windel’s body. “Not to mention those who didn’t survive… Do you have anything to say?”

Bald Windel stood his ground without flinching. “Hanging or beheading is fine. You can even sentence me to the fire, as cultists deserve. My only request is that my name not be made public afterward. If that’s too much, then pour lead into my skull—if any remains after the fire.”

In the customs of the northern and eastern Typhon tribes, filling a skull with lead held special meaning: all sins of the deceased remained with them, no redemption or forgiveness granted, and no stain passed on to family or friends.

In Ansu (Cecil), there was a similar practice—driving a nail through the skull—but in all cases, it only worked if the deceased had requested it before death. This reflected the human belief in “soul inheritance” in matters of life and death.

Viscount Andrew stared into Bald Windel’s eyes. “I thought you’d try to defend yourself—claim you held back, or that you were brainwashed by cult ideology.”

“If criminals could be absolved by a few excuses or seemingly justifiable reasons, all the gallows in the world could be dismantled,” Bald Windel said calmly. “You may sentence me to death or show mercy—that’s your right. But I have nothing to say.”

The room fell silent. Andrew stared at Bald Windel for a long moment, then suddenly twisted the corner of his mouth and slowly lowered his cane. “I never thought you’d still have any humanity left. What is this? Enlightenment?”

“Humanity… I’ve always had it,” Bald Windel slowly closed his eyes. “I just once thought that great cause was worth sacrificing my humanity and principles…”

“Any cause that demands you abandon your humanity and principles isn’t ‘great’—it’s just a collective madness born of self-satisfaction and delusion,” Andrew interrupted, quoting a line recently written by Gawain in a newspaper editorial about cultists. Then, pausing as Bald Windel’s expression turned stunned and surprised, he continued slowly, “But none of that matters now. Your farce ended in self-destruction. And you… I won’t kill you.”

“You won’t kill me?” Bald Windel looked at Andrew in shock. “Why not?”

“Don’t misunderstand. As you said, criminals aren’t easily cleansed by death. I’m not killing you because, compared to death, you can serve a greater purpose.”

As he spoke, Viscount Andrew turned his head toward Gawain, who sat not far off, calmly watching everything unfold. “Your Majesty, let him go. If he comes back alive, maybe it means he’s not meant to die yet.”

Gawain frowned. “Are you sure? We still have other options to explore. You don’t have to let this affect you…”

“He’s a priest of the Cult of the End of All Things—a man who deserves judgment. With such a fitting candidate, why send brave soldiers on a suicide mission?” Viscount Andrew’s expression was resolute and serious. “Given the current situation, it won’t be easy to find a second living priest of the Cult anytime soon.”

“If this is your wish,” Gawain said after a brief pause, nodding. “I grant permission.”

Though Bard was still confused by what had happened, he understood that they were assigning him a task—one that might be life-threatening but could buy him a chance to live.

He had already prepared himself for death, but if there was a way to survive, he wouldn’t refuse.

“What do you want me to do?”

Gawain glanced at Bard. “Go to your nest—that place that’s already out of control.”

(End of chapter)