Chapter 715: The Rebellious Ghosts

Gawain knew that behind the inevitable demise of all things, there had to be the shadow of rebels—because the so-called “Great Evolution” they carried out was clearly an extension of the ancient Rebellion Plan.

But he hadn’t expected that shadow to be cast by two elves.

He had assumed the Rebellion Plan’s members were only human.

“They were elves once employed by the Kingdom of Gondor, starting a thousand years ago,” Beltira continued, “and at the same time, they were members of the Holy Spirit Druid sect… at least officially. When the shockwave at the Ancestor’s Peak happened, they vanished from the eyes of the sect’s members. I even thought they had rushed into the ruins of Gondor like the other fanatics. But years later, they reappeared and revealed their true identities.

“And with them came the Rebellion Plan.”

Gawain looked at Beltira. “No doubt, given your situation back then and the mindset after the ‘Divine Shock,’ the Rebellion Plan must have struck a deep chord with you.”

“It was more than just a deep chord…” Beltira slowly shook her head. “We were inspired by this grand, almost tragic plan, humbled by the wisdom and courage of those who came before us. We were pitiful victims crushed by divine malice, yet in our darkest despair, we suddenly saw a faint light kindled by other resistors. The technology and ideas they brought—we simply couldn’t refuse.”

“…The Rebellion Plan was indeed humanity’s greatest act of self-preservation. But mortals always err. As you said, time and obsession twisted everything off course,” Gawain said with a hint of melancholy. “Not all rebels held fast, and you were unfortunately caught up with those who strayed from the original purpose.”

Beltira said nothing—perhaps she didn’t know how to respond.

Any defense would be hollow in the face of facts. The scorched earth in the eastern Holy Spirit Plains and this massive “Thornroot Tree” were the final answers to all the efforts and persistence of the Cult of the End of All Things over centuries—a brutal conclusion that could not be argued.

Yet a question stirred in Gawain’s mind:

Those elven twins, once part of the Rebellion Plan, had set aside racial divides to stand shoulder to shoulder with humans against the gods, had faced the cataclysm that destroyed Gondor, endured centuries of trials, and ultimately passed on the key technologies and ideals of the Rebellion Plan to the Cult of the End of All Things… Could their goal really have been just to unleash such a disaster in Ansu?

The artificial god was terrifying, yes, but Gawain knew well it wasn’t yet beyond mortal resistance. Even without the Cecil Legion, even if it could destroy all of Ansu, it couldn’t topple Typhon or the Silver Empire.

For a conspiracy planned over a thousand years, this ending felt anticlimactic.

He simply couldn’t fathom what those elven twins, named Philna and Relna, truly wanted.

Maybe Veronica would know? After all, as fellow ancient rebels, perhaps they were acquainted…

Gawain shook his head, filing away the new mystery, then asked, “What else do you know about those elven twins? Where are they now? Are they here?”

As he spoke, his gaze involuntarily flicked behind Beltira.

In that chamber overgrown with vines and roots, the countless humanoid corpses piled up were beginning to crumble.

Deprived of continuous life energy, these long-dead cult priests of the End of All Things were finally returning to dust. Beltira had kept them imprisoned in a daze for far too long, but now that she had awakened, it was time to end it all.

Those corpses would soon become nourishment for the giant tree… then cycle through nature’s power, eventually turning into fertile soil for the Holy Spirit Plains.

“They’re not here. When the ‘False God’s Vessel’ was awakened, they were elsewhere on a mission,” Beltira shook her head. “I’ve been in a haze all this time, so I don’t know their whereabouts, but I suppose they’re still alive.”

Ghosts are always hard to kill—especially the ghosts of rebels.

Gawain wasn’t surprised, only a little regretful and restless. When rebels are on your side, they can be a great help; but as enemies or wild cards, they can cause immense harm. He had come to understand this well.

“I spent centuries with them, but I still don’t know them well,” Beltira went on. “They always appeared together, spoke and acted as one, as if a single soul controlled two bodies. They had kind, gentle appearances but were actually more cunning and dangerous than anyone else. They mainly handled matters related to the Rebellion Plan, but also worked on technology connected to the Grant Wall—after all, they came from the Silver Empire and understood some of its tech.”

Gawain silently nodded and took note. When he heard “Grant Wall,” he couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Speaking of the Grant Wall… what’s your connection to the wasteland?”

Beltira hesitated, then twisted her lips into a strange smile. “Inside the Grant Wall… is the other half of the Cult of the End of All Things.”

Gawain’s eyes widened. “The other half of the Cult?!”

“Didn’t we just say that when the Ancestor’s Peak ritual went awry and the divine shock descended, many followers from the Druid, Dream, and Storm sects rushed into the Gondor wasteland seeking self-destruction…” Beltira’s smile turned cold, as if revealing this secret brought her no burden but rather satisfaction. “But not all who entered the wasteland died—the Druids have always been the most adept at adapting to environmental changes and surviving extreme conditions.”

Gawain’s expression turned grave. “So the Druids who entered the Gondor wasteland survived, evolved, and mutated to adapt to the wasteland environment, becoming the Cult’s ‘support’ and branch within the wasteland?”

“Yes, at least that’s what we’ve believed all along,” Beltira said icily. “They operate in the wasteland, gathering intelligence for us, especially on aberrations and the magical tides. We always thought all sect members, inside or outside the wasteland, were working toward the Rebellion Plan—but clearly, that’s not the case.

“The runaway ‘False God’s Vessel’ owes half the blame to those freaks.”

Only now did Gawain finally piece together the full story behind the Cult of the End of All Things—from beginning to end—and understand what the cult priests in this underground palace faced during the final stages of creating that “artificial god.”

Those Druids who survived the wasteland had likely been utterly twisted by the chaotic, hostile magical energies, abandoning their human identities and principles. Yet, shielded by the Grant Wall, the Cult’s main body outside the wasteland remained completely unaware of this.

Honestly, the Cult’s demise was rather tragic.

But considering the damage they caused, Gawain could only say—dead cultists are good cultists.

He dared not imagine what would have happened if the Cult hadn’t self-destructed, if they had succeeded in creating a complete, lucid “Great Stag Amon.” The disaster would have been unimaginable—and by then, the Cecil Legion might truly have been powerless.

Whether those deep-sea slackers could come to the rescue if humanity’s defenses collapsed was a complete unknown.

With a mix of awe and relief, he exhaled, then frowned. “So that means the ‘half’ of the Cult in the wasteland is probably still alive… and no one knows what they’ll do next. That’s definitely a threat.”

“Yes, no one knows what they’ll do next,” Beltira said softly. “So if you want to storm in and wipe them all out, I’ll fully support you—if you can manage it.”

“You know that’s impossible,” Gawain glanced at her. “Retaking the Gondor wasteland is a noble goal, but the current Cecil Empire just can’t do it.”

“The Cecil Empire…” Beltira paused at the name, then her tone suddenly grew a bit whimsical. “I saw those camps flying the gold-trimmed Cecil banners, after all…”

A few seconds of silence followed. Then Gawain heard her whisper, “Crossing the sword and the plow—that was my idea.”

“I remember. You wanted future generations to remember the hardships of pioneering, and for the sword-bearing nobles not to forget their duty to protect the plow-wielding commoners.”

Beltira smiled. “But honestly, it was because the original design of placing the sword and plow side by side was just too ugly.”

“…You never told me that.”

“Seven hundred years, and I’m finally saying it,” Beltira sighed, half-mocking herself. “You really did inherit his memories—I almost thought you were him.”

“Now can you tell me why you say Gawain Cecil’s soul has completely withered? How do you know all this?”

Beltira gazed quietly at Gawain.

He was an otherworldly wanderer, a mysterious soul, an “indescribable entity” descended from the stars, capable of inhabiting others’ bodies.

He and his kind were an enigma—roaming the stars, sowing destruction, offering sanctuary, observing, seemingly acting at will yet bound by some unknown rules.

The Sleeper feared the power of these wanderers, as they perfectly countered mental magic. She herself had once been wary of this entity, since it occupied Gawain Cecil’s body.

But today, after such a long conversation, it seemed… these wanderers could communicate, even negotiate.

Maybe it was just an imitation after taking a human form, or just one of many faces of its kind. But for now, it appeared kind, rational, and claimed no ill will toward this world.

Life sometimes calls for a little risk—even if it means becoming a tree.

Gawain had no idea what Beltira was imagining as she looked at him quietly. He forced himself to maintain his calm, composed, and friendly demeanor.

Then she spoke: “Gawain Cecil once undertook a secret voyage. Since you inherited his memories, you must know about it.”

Gawain’s breath caught for a moment.

Beltira noticed the pause.

“I know there was such a voyage,” Gawain said, steadying himself, “but the specific memories are blank, as if someone deliberately erased them. I suspect it’s the only memory I failed to inherit from Gawain Cecil’s mind.”

He fixed his gaze on Beltira. “Do you know what really happened on that voyage?”

Beltira shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I wasn’t there, and I’m curious about what he encountered and saw on that mysterious journey. But one thing… it seems I know a little more than you do.”

Gawain’s eyes burned with intensity. “What is it?”

“After returning to the mainland, Gawain Cecil once said something to those around him,” Beltira repeated slowly and clearly. “He said he had made a deal in the Everdark Sea, using his soul as the bargaining chip.”

Gawain: “…”

Beltira went on, “No one really understood what he meant by that. Afterward, he never spoke of that voyage again. It’s said that even some mages examined his soul specifically because of those words, but they found no trace of anything unusual. So that strange remark was soon forgotten—except by those old and unyielding enough to remember.

“After Gawain Cecil died, I managed to sneak into his funeral and finally confirm the truth of his words.

“For normal humans—even ordinary people—the soul lingers for days after death. Under the right conditions, a soul with strong attachments can remain for years. Powerful supernatural beings can even maintain some self-awareness after death, sometimes transforming themselves into undead creatures to continue ‘living’…

“But inside Gawain Cecil’s body, barely cold from death, there wasn’t the faintest trace of a soul.

“It was an empty shell.”

(End of chapter)