Chapter 845: A Grant-Scale Plan
The Narrator Neural Network—this was the name Gawain had given to the future Cecil Mind Network. It was destined to be an immense project with far-reaching impact, extending well beyond mere scientific research assistance.
According to Gawain’s design, the Narrator Neural Network would span multiple domains: research, communication, education, and public entertainment. It could provide computational power to countless scientific projects, become an indispensable part of everyday life for the populace, and, one day, through tens of thousands of interconnected human brain nodes, evolve into a colossal wetware mainframe enveloping the entire Cecil Empire.
Each distributed device linked to the Narrator Neural Network would serve as an interactive terminal for this wetware mainframe. The surplus computing power of countless human brains would ignite an unprecedented technological leap. Ordinary citizens, safely connected, could contribute their mental resources to the empire’s benefit, enriching their own spiritual lives in the process. And all of this would begin at the empire’s central computing hub.
This was Gawain’s solution for unlocking the next tier of the technological tree in a world governed by physical laws vastly different from Earth’s. It was also a crucial step in the harmless transformation of the Sleeper’s technology.
Wendy spoke with a hint of excitement, describing what she had seen within the “Illusory Realm.” The archbishops standing nearby listened with evident interest. To be fair, the current state of Cecil’s Narrator Neural Network was still quite primitive. Its “entertainment offerings” were hardly impressive compared to what the Sleepers had once created. They had built dream cities indistinguishable from reality, perfect sanctuaries like utopias. In Gawain’s eyes, those were at least as captivating as a few magical film clips or some “entertainment scenes,” if not more so.
But the Narrator Neural Network differed greatly from those dream cities: it had a development ceiling far beyond what the latter could ever reach. It was flexible and could be adjusted at any time, capable of generating countless “new contents.” Once the neural thorn technology was realized, even ordinary people could customize these experiences. The dream cities, on the other hand…
The Sleepers had created those dream cities primarily as “mind containers” to house computational nodes and facilitate power collection. The extremely high magical thresholds meant only archbishops or higher-ranking clerics could modify their contents—and in truth, these clerics rarely bothered to do so.
Thus, no matter how perfect, the dream cities were essentially rigid bonsai—final forms from the moment of their creation. Traditional divine magic’s limitations meant that even if reshaped, they would remain mere new bonsai, controlled by a select few powerful clerics.
The archbishops present were no fools; they immediately grasped the difference and understood the profound impact this technology would have once it entered the lives of ordinary people.
To bring the extraordinary to the common folk… Since setting foot on Cecil’s soil, this was the first time they truly felt the meaning behind that slogan in their familiar domain.
“This technology is basically harmless to ordinary people—of course, prolonged connection causes fatigue, and excessive immersion might lead to some psychological issues, but these risks are negligible compared to old neural modifications or ‘brain servant’ technologies,” Gawain said with a smile, patting the immersion pod beside him. “The main constraints right now are the difficulty in producing the immersion pods and the stringent craftsmanship required to build the mind hubs. Currently, only a handful of factories in the empire can produce qualified components, and training skilled workers takes time.”
There was no doubt that the immersion pods and the Narrator Neural Network were revolutionary. Their advantages over traditional communication, entertainment, and media were obvious. But that didn’t mean Cecil would enter the information age overnight, nor that newspapers and magical broadcasts would soon be replaced by this new technology—it would take time.
Experts from the Mechanical Manufacturing Institute and the Arcane Technology Research Institute had labored long to barely solve the mass production problem of the immersion pods, enabling factory production instead of handcrafting each unit in the lab. Now, they faced the challenge of mass-producing the mind hubs. Skilled technical workers capable of assembly and personnel to maintain the computing centers were scarce, and it was unclear how long it would take to train enough of them. So, for the foreseeable future, the Narrator Neural Network would remain in development, coexisting with traditional communication, entertainment, and media.
Gawain shared some knowledge about industrial production and social promotion with Yuri and the others. He kept it simple, explaining just a few concepts, but it was enough to send them into deep thought for a long time.
These were things they had never considered in all their years.
“…We really have buried ourselves underground for too long,” Magnum said with a self-deprecating smile, shaking his head. “Our eyes and ears were clogged with dirt.”
A tall, slender archbishop with a youthful face glanced at Magnum. “But fortunately, we still have a chance to make amends…”
“That’s right. Fortunately, you still have a chance,” Gawain said, looking deeply at the gathered archbishops. “I’m glad to see all of you, as well as a significant number of bishop-level clerics, have chosen Cecil. Even more heartening is the report from the White Sand Hills’ leader: you brought a large number of brain servants with you. Throughout this long escape, you ensured their survival, which shows your awareness.
“Those brain servants will be properly cared for. The Druid Research Association will do everything possible to find cures and awaken them. And you will become members of the empire’s technical department, doing what you do best.
“I’ve already prepared projects for you.”
“Projects?” Yuri repeated the word instinctively.
“Don’t be scared off by the name,” Gawain smiled. “This computing center you’re in is part of it. The project is called the ‘Narrator Neural Network.’ Yes, the very same ‘Upper Narrator’ you’re familiar with…”
The moment Gawain finished speaking, the archbishops visibly paled. Wendy, standing at the front, instinctively took a half-step back, nervously touching her neck as if expecting a needle to be jabbed into her at any moment.
“Pardon me, Your Majesty,” Semler hesitated before finally speaking, “That name… it’s just a name, right?”
“Unfortunately, it does have a certain connection to the ‘Upper Narrator,’” Gawain’s smile faded as he adopted a serious tone. “Prepare yourselves. Our dealings with ‘gods’ are far from over.”
Yuri and Magnum exchanged glances. Wendy and Semler wore thoughtful expressions. Gawain took a deep breath and slowly spread his arms—
“So, once again, welcome to Cecil. Welcome… to the Rebellion Project.”
…
The blazing sun gradually sank toward the western horizon, its radiant crown casting the day’s last light and warmth beneath the clouds. Orange-red rays stretched across rolling hills and plains, finally halting at the jagged, golden-edged ridges lining the throat of Orlandell.
Hardyren Augustus, tall and broad-shouldered with short, wavy black hair, stood atop a hill near Orlandell’s throat. Expressionless, he gazed down at the vast collapsed chasm below, where faint wisps of smoke still rose from cracked fissures. The wind sweeping across the plains billowed his cloak, the royal crest gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight.
Behind Hardyren stood the loyal Obsidian Guard. Several senior knights watched their prince with concern—after all, as a scion of the Augustus family, Hardyren had lingered too long in this cursed place.
This was where the old imperial capital had crumbled, marking the beginning of the Augustus family’s curse. Some incomprehensible force might still linger beneath this land. Past experience had proven that lingering too close to Orlandell’s throat was harmful to the Augustus family, often worsening their already unstable mental states or triggering the curse prematurely. For this reason, the royal family of Typhon avoided this place whenever possible, even shunning information coming from Orlandell’s throat.
Yet Hardyren Augustus had remained here for half a day.
“Your Highness,” a senior knight finally stepped forward, “The wild winds are unhealthy. You should return and rest…”
“It’s not the wild winds that are unhealthy,” Hardyren turned, smiling at the knight. “Don’t worry—I’m watching my mental state. I’m someone who values life.”
The knight opened his mouth but could only sigh and step back. Hardyren turned again, his gaze fixed on Orlandell’s throat.
He faintly heard whispers drifting from that direction, sensing that deep within the heavy, cold, dark earth and stone, some ancient and indescribable power still flowed slowly. It was already very faint—too faint for ordinary people to detect—but as an Augustus, he could vaguely perceive its presence.
That power seemed to beckon him forward, but years of willpower training allowed Hardyren to easily resist the impulse, keeping a safe distance from that force and its whispers.
He was curious about what it truly was, but he knew that when dealing with the unknowable, curiosity was often the deadliest and most harmful thing.
After a while, a fully armed knight squad bearing precious talismans finally emerged from the chasm of Orlandell’s throat.
“The exploration team has returned!” an officer on the hill exclaimed happily.
Those who had gone to investigate quickly reunited with Hardyren’s knights. The exploration leader, a graying knight, approached Hardyren, removed his helmet, and saluted.
“Your Highness, we found some passages and city ruins below, but the routes leading deeper have completely collapsed—seems like they were just blasted shut. The central area of the chasm remains structurally unstable, with ongoing small-scale collapses. We suspect there was once a supported space beneath, but it’s likely fallen in now.”
“The local security chief said that on the 45th day of last month, people heard multiple thunderous booms from the chasm—louder than thunder—and they seemed to come from underground,” a knight behind Hardyren added. “We also found some hidden outposts nearby, all completely destroyed.”
“Regrettable,” Hardyren slowly shook his head. “Those ‘Sleepers’… it seems their evacuation was decisive and purposeful. Even if we dig through the collapsed tunnels, there’s probably nothing valuable left inside.”
“Fortunately, word came from Aldern that some of the Eversleepers have started reaching out to the royal family for sanctuary—one after another. Among them are even a few bishops and specialized technicians, bringing with them a considerable amount of technical data,” the knight officer reassured him. “In the end, they couldn’t take everything with them.”
“What falls into the hands of the Cecilians will only increase… but there’s nothing we can do about that,” Hadiren said regretfully. He cast one last glance toward the rift and sighed softly. “It’s time to go. Get ready—we’re leaving. Don’t forget to pay the local guides who helped us, and be sure to thank the sheriff.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The knights immediately began packing up, preparing to leave this cursed place. The commander beside Hadiren spoke up, “Princess Matilda has already returned to Aldern. Her trip to Cecil should have yielded quite a few gains.”
“I’m already looking forward to seeing what gifts she brings me,” Hadiren chuckled. “Hopefully it won’t be another one of those weird-smelling local delicacies or some startling magical trinket. As the empire’s ‘pearl,’ she’s certainly not very clever when it comes to dealing with her own brother.”
The knights didn’t quite know how to respond to that and simply pretended not to hear, continuing their work. Hadiren, left without a reply, pouted in mild boredom. Shaking his head, he strode toward the mage carriage parked a short distance away. But before climbing in, he glanced back once more toward the Throat of Orlandel.
The sun was nearly gone, dipping below the far horizon. Only a faint red glow lingered in the sky, and in that fading twilight, the jagged hills of the Throat of Orlandel took on a ghostly, indistinct haze.
“A curse…” Hadiren murmured.
(End of chapter)