Chapter 791: Matilda

Seated inside the smoothly gliding magi-carriage, Matilda’s gaze drifted out the window.

The broad, even road stretched ahead, wide enough to accommodate eight or nine large carriages side by side. It was clearly designed to handle the demands of modern traffic. On either side, orderly yet grand architectural complexes rose—buildings that bore a style distinct from Typhon’s, yet different from old Ansu as well. They retained the classical elegance typical of the Northern Kingdoms, but incorporated pleasingly neat lines and symmetrical shapes that were visually refreshing.

Between these buildings and the road stood rows of evenly spaced street lamps, magical projections at intersections and open spaces, designated stops for magi-carriages, and, despite the lingering chill of early winter, crowds of warmly dressed citizens in bright, thick winter clothes gathered along the streets to welcome the visitors.

On the magical projections and large colorful murals at the stops, various welcome messages and images were displayed—some even showed real-time footage of the approaching convoy.

This was the modern magi-capital, Cecil City.

Matilda withdrew her gaze but kept her heightened senses alert to the activity outside. She glanced at Philip, her fellow passenger and the young army commander. Pride was almost unmasked on his face.

It was natural—any noble of his rank would naturally show such pride before a foreign ambassador.

But along the roadside, the so-called “ordinary citizens” of Cecil also wore expressions of curiosity and excitement, tinged with a similar pride. That was less common.

“I hope you find our welcome arrangements satisfactory,” Philip said with a smile, meeting the Typhon princess’s eyes. “Cecil and Typhon differ in many customs, but we share common roots. That shared heritage can be the bond that brings our nations closer.”

“I sincerely hope for a lasting peace,” Matilda replied with a smile of her own. “It benefits us all.”

The Typhon delegation’s magi-carriage convoy rolled down Cecil City’s straight “Pioneer Avenue,” escorted by the city’s security forces and the Iron Rangers, amid the cheers of citizens. They gradually left the outskirts behind and entered the city center. As a large plaza appeared outside the window, all the Typhon envoys, including Matilda, suddenly heard a loud series of explosions—

Like thunder cracking nearby, not just one but over thirty consecutive blasts.

Some envoys exchanged uncertain glances. Even Matilda couldn’t help but look at Philip, who simply smiled back.

“No need to worry,” he said. “Those are salutes.

“Firing salutes to welcome distant guests is a Cecil tradition.”

Matilda blinked, surprised, recalling some intelligence she had gathered earlier. A strange thought flickered through her mind—

The Cecilians did seem to enjoy welcoming guests with loud cannon fire, though sometimes the shots went skyward, and sometimes, apparently, right over the guests’ heads…

“An interesting custom,” she smiled. “The new era does bring new traditions.”

As noon approached and the great sun rose overhead, Matilda’s Typhon delegation arrived before Gawain.

The welcome ceremony was neither extravagant nor ostentatious, but sufficiently grand and solemn, and refreshingly different from what Typhon was used to. Gawain stood on the steps of the “Autumn Palace,” smiling as he regarded the “distant, unattainable beauty” before him.

Beside him stood Hetty and Rebecca, several senior officials from the Council of State, and Veronica, holding a platinum scepter.

Amber was nowhere to be seen, but those familiar knew the head of military intelligence was certainly present—just not yet manifested from the air.

Matilda wore a complex, classical black court gown. Her long black hair was threaded with delicate gold chains that fell to her waist. With impeccable poise, she stepped forward and bowed slightly.

“I pay my respects to you, the great Gawain Cecil, Your Majesty.

“On behalf of the Augustus family, I bring friendly greetings from Typhon.

“May you enjoy health and longevity, and may your achievements be remembered for generations.”

“In a way, your last sentence isn’t a blessing so much as a statement of fact,” Gawain joked lightly as he stepped forward. “Welcome to Cecil.”

What followed was the tedious but unavoidable exchange of official pleasantries. Both sides smiled and recited their prepared compliments, all maintaining a solemn demeanor to make the empty flattery seem sincere.

Rebecca quickly grew bored and discreetly yawned. Watching Matilda chatting amiably with her “old ancestor,” she muttered to herself. Glancing around, she saw Aunt Hetty on one side and Veronica on the other. Chatting with Hetty might get her scolded, so she turned to Veronica.

“Hey, she’s a princess, and I’m a princess. How come I can’t break a single compliment into three parts like she does?”

That was a tough question. After all, when the Ansu dynasty still stood, Veronica could stretch a single compliment into four parts.

The “Saintess,” surrounded by a faint holy light, remained silent and simply shook her head. Then her gaze settled on Matilda, lingering for a long moment.

Sensing it, Matilda lifted her head and met those gentle, serene eyes—eyes that lacked the warmth of the living, as if carved from crystal.

There was a profound, almost inscrutable scrutiny in those eyes that stirred something within Matilda. But when she looked again, the strange feeling had vanished, as if the gaze had merely swept over her.

After the reception ceremony came the grand luncheon.

Formal talks on embassy establishment, ambassador exchanges, and student programs were scheduled for the next day. But before official negotiations, the leaders could use banquets and similar events for preliminary “attitude exchanges.” Surrounded by fine food and music, these exchanges could proceed more smoothly, especially when both sides hoped for a successful outcome. Such early talks often yielded excellent results.

Matilda sampled the refined dishes, quite different from Typhon’s cuisine. She cut into the spiced roast meat with her knife, maintaining a dignified and elegant demeanor, showing no overt preference for any dish. Her eyes scanned the servers moving through the hall, the magical projections around the room, and the “Cecil princess” nearby, who seemed less adept at dining etiquette. Finally, her gaze settled on Gawain.

“I’ve heard that the Ansu people excel at roasting meat, so much so that Typhon’s court chefs eagerly study their use of spices. But now that I’ve tasted the real thing, I realize their imitation is just that—an imitation. The genuine article is something else entirely.”

“You might be unfair to your court chefs,” Gawain smiled. “What you’re eating isn’t traditional ‘Ansu cuisine’ at all. These are dishes I came up with out of boredom over the past two years. Looks like they suit your taste?”

“You invented them?” Matilda’s eyes widened in surprise as she looked at the desserts and the roast on her plate. After a moment of shock, she sincerely praised, “Incredible. I thought you were just a mighty knight and a wise ruler. I never expected you to be a gourmet creator as well. The flavors are truly excellent. It’s an honor to taste them.”

Gawain smiled but said no more.

A few years ago, when he had just risen from the grave, he had entertained the idea of improving the local cuisine with recipes from his own memories of another world. He had even seriously experimented with dishes unknown here. But in the end, there was no dramatic moment where the locals bowed down in awe at his cooking. After all, the world’s gourmets weren’t born eating dirt, and he himself had only ever been an ordinary diner. No matter how many dishes the Celestial Empire had, he could eat them but not cook them.

The few dishes he invented now earned at best a “pretty good” rating, soon overshadowed by local chefs’ variety. Today, a few roasted meats and Jiangnan-style desserts remained as his modest legacy in this world’s culinary scene, featured as garnishes at state banquets.

Lost in thought, Gawain watched as Matilda swallowed a bite and curiously eyed a small plate of thinly sliced fruit.

“This fruit tastes unusual. I’ve never had it before… Is it a Cecil specialty?”

Gawain glanced at the plate, almost betraying a strange expression, but managed to keep his composure.

“That’s the fruit of the Sorin tree. It is indeed a specialty of the Cecil Empire.”

He controlled his face but not his thoughts.

That fruit was grown by Beltira Augustus, the family’s ancient matriarch. Most of it was used to alleviate the food crisis in the Holy Spirit Plains, with only a small portion sent to Cecil City as samples.

Now, he was serving the fruit of the Augustus family’s ancestor to her descendant.

And she had to thank him for it.

Thinking it through, the whole process was rather diabolical…

Meanwhile, Matilda had no idea what she was eating (though it didn’t matter—thousands of Cecilians ate the same fruit). After politely complimenting the food, she brought up a more formal topic.

“My visit is not only a diplomatic mission and preparation for student exchanges, but also to bring my father’s personal greetings,” she set down her knife and fork, smiling lightly. “He admires the new order you have established and the magi-technology you have introduced. He believes these are great forces capable of changing the world.”

“Neither the order nor the magi-technology is solely my doing,” Gawain replied. “But I do admit one thing—they can indeed change the world.”

Matilda looked at him seriously.

“My father… anticipated you would say something like that.”

“Oh?” Gawain raised an eyebrow. “What else did he say?”

“He said you and he are alike. What you care about goes beyond a single city, nation, or generation,” Matilda said earnestly. “He also asked me to convey this message: In matters of national interest, we are Cecil and Typhon. But before this world, we are all human. This world is not safe. At least, you understand that.”

Gawain paused.

After a moment, he smiled faintly.

“We once built a grand wall together, on the borders of the Gondor Wastelands. I spoke briefly with your father then.

“So I can tell—his vision is far beyond most in this era.

“I’m glad he sent you with this message. You can tell him that our fates are all tied to this continent. On that premise, Cecil is eager to join Typhon in creating a peaceful and prosperous new era.”

As his words fell, Gawain raised the wine glass in his hand.

Matilda smiled and lifted her own glass in response.

“Then let’s toast in advance to this era of peace and prosperity,” she said.

…

After the grand luncheon, the envoy delegation was escorted to their designated quarters within the Autumn Palace to rest, while Gawain returned to his residence.

He didn’t go to rest, however, but headed straight to his study.

Veronica was already waiting there.

“Light told me you wanted to see me,” Gawain said as he took a seat behind his desk, his eyes fixed on the “Saintess” before him—the former leader of the Gondor rebels—who held a platinum scepter in her hand. “And I noticed you glanced several times at Princess Matilda during the reception and the banquet. Is this about her?”

“Yes,” Veronica nodded, cutting straight to the point. “I sensed a faint divine presence around her. It’s very subtle, but it’s definitely there.”

(End of chapter)