Chapter 929: Darkness

The next afternoon, High Chancellor Gawain convened a closed-door meeting with Heddy, Kamail, and other key senior officials to officially disclose the current status of the Goddess of Magic, along with the intelligence gathered from the great stag Amorn.

The double-layered, thick crystal windows shut out the howling cold wind outside, leaving only a faint, chilly sunlight slanting into the room. Inside the tightly secured conference chamber, the atmosphere was heavier than ever.

Gawain sat at the head of the long table, with Heddy to his right. Amber, as usual, blended seamlessly into the air. On the left side of the table stood a magical network terminal, above which the crystal array projected the images of the two Archchancellors, Victoria Wilde and Bertram Franklin.

“It seems the Goddess of Magic truly will not return… Although Mylmina still exists, in terms of divine office, the Goddess of Magic has ‘fallen,’” Victoria broke the silence. “After the fall of the White Star, humanity has once again witnessed the demise of a god.”

“This time is different from three thousand years ago,” Pittman chimed in from the side. “The faith in the Goddess of Magic no longer holds the same societal influence, so her ‘departure’ won’t disrupt the current mage system. I discussed this with Princess Heddy yesterday, and we believe we can navigate this upheaval relatively smoothly.”

“That depends on swift action,” Heddy took over, looking up at Gawain beside her. “Ancestor, just hours after the Goddess of Magic’s feedback vanished, mages began noticing anomalies and reported them to local government offices. Reports are now pouring in from across the country. They’re patiently awaiting a response from the capital, but word will spread quickly among the populace.”

For a long time, mages had been part of the upper echelons of human society. Their deep-rooted influence hadn’t faded despite the nation’s drastic social changes. If this group became unstable, it would spell serious trouble.

Relying solely on saturated entertainment media to distract the masses or partial censorship to control the narrative would be limited in effect—and might even backfire. After all, their god was gone. Flooding the airwaves with frivolous films at such a time would seem tone-deaf.

“First, we announce the fall of the Goddess of Magic as planned,” Gawain nodded slowly. “This can’t be hidden, and the more we try to conceal it, the more chaos it will cause. There’s no need for an official explanation of the cause, nor should we clarify it. Afterward, we will hold a nationwide, grand, and solemn public event.”

The imperial officials in the room and on the communication lines were momentarily caught off guard. Bertram Franklin, connected remotely, couldn’t help but ask, “A public event?”

“A nationwide mourning for the passing of the Goddess of Magic,” Gawain said gravely. “I will personally write a eulogy as the ruler of the empire. Then, Victoria, you will lead the most esteemed mages in commemorating the Goddess’s lifelong dedication and service to the people. Finally, we will conclude the ceremony with a ritual: sacred relics and symbolic remains will be burned to ashes, which the Imperial Dragon Cavalry will carry aloft and scatter over rivers, lakes, and seas—may she rest in peace.”

Gawain’s solemn words left the room in stunned silence. No one had quite caught his train of thought yet. Heddy’s expression was especially incredulous—she was well acquainted with the Rebellion Plan and knew that, in the long run, all gods were destined to shift from protectors of civilization to its enemies. Her ancestor had always fought against those gods gradually descending into madness. So a grand “mourning” project struck her as strange and illogical.

Bertram, still connected, hesitated before offering, “Is this to give the mages across the nation an outlet, to stabilize their emotions…?”

“Not just that,” Veronica, sitting opposite Gawain and holding a platinum scepter, suddenly spoke up. Her face showed a dawning realization. “I understand your meaning, Your Majesty. You want to make this a ‘final verdict.’”

“That’s called a ‘closing of the coffin,’” Gawain smiled faintly as he saw thoughtful expressions spread across the room. “The Goddess of Magic is ‘dead.’ Regardless of the cause, regardless of whether she was truly a god or something else, regardless of what she did or influenced—she is gone. This deity no longer exists; the source of faith has vanished. We will mourn her deeply. Mages may grieve and remember, but everyone will know clearly—there is no longer a Goddess of Magic in this world.

“This mourning must be as solemn as possible, broad in impact, large in scale, forming a global consensus and public opinion. Those unwilling to accept it will have no choice, and those inclined to question will find no target or reason.

“Of course, Duke Bertram is right—it also serves as an ‘explanation’ for the mages nationwide, giving them a chance to vent their emotions. We will channel all their feelings into mourning, leaving no room for distraction.”

As Gawain finished, the room shifted from shock to understanding. The idea itself wasn’t hard to imagine—using a funeral or similar event to draw attention and define the narrative was a conventional tactic. The key was that holding a funeral for a god was so unprecedented that no one had considered it before.

After a moment’s thought, Heddy looked up again, her expression strange. “Are you sure this is… really okay?”

“Trust me, there’s no better way,” Gawain smiled at the ever-worried “Butler Cecil.” “This will be the first funeral we hold for a god. If it succeeds in guiding, transitioning, and solidifying public sentiment as I expect, it will become a model for the future.”

The phrase “a model for the future” made Heddy and the others look even more puzzled. But having witnessed two divine calamities alongside Gawain, and even seen the “False God’s remains” firsthand, they understood the grim implication: as long as civilization advances and the harsh laws of this world persist, more gods will fall. And after each god’s demise… Emperor Gawain Cecil will give them a grand, glorious funeral.

Even Amber, who had been invisibly observing the meeting, couldn’t help but reveal herself and glance at Gawain twice, quietly admiring the aptness of the phrase “closing of the coffin.”

No wonder he was once a man who rose from the grave.

Gawain waited for the room to digest the previous topic. Heddy finished recording the meeting minutes, then cleared her throat and spoke: “Next, we should discuss the situation in Typhon.”

“There’s a war god there who may have already gone mad,” Veronica said calmly. “From an academic perspective, this is a valuable case study. We can observe firsthand the traits gods exhibit as they descend into madness, and the subsequent impact on the mortal world.”

“But this is more than an academic issue,” Gawain said. “We should write a letter to Rosetta Augustus—starting with the ‘abnormal changes’ in the Goddess of Magic Mylmina might be a good opening.”

…

A thin mist shrouded the imperial capital of Typhon. Pale sunlight filtered through clouds and fog, casting a twilight haze over the city. As autumn deepened, cold winds began to stir through the courtyards and open-air corridors of the Obsidian Palace. Only the royal gardens, protected by a greenhouse barrier, remained lush and warm.

Matilda Augustus stepped into the royal garden at the palace’s central courtyard. The warm air greeted her, quickly dispelling the chill she’d brought from outside. She followed the cobblestone path deeper into the garden, and in the dimming light near dusk, she saw her father—her brilliant and strategic father—standing beneath a dwarf pine, gazing down at a flowerbed.

The flowerbed was struggling to thrive.

“Father,” Matilda said softly, stopping a few meters behind Rosetta and lowering her head. “I’ve returned from the Grant Cathedral.”

Rosetta didn’t turn around, only giving a faint “hm” and asking casually, “Did Malm Dunit receive you in the inner sanctuary?”

“Yes,” Matilda nodded. “And the ceremony and protocol were all properly observed.”

“At least on the surface, everything seems normal, right?” Rosetta nodded, still staring at the flowerbed. “Tell me what you saw. We urgently need to know what’s happening inside the Grant Cathedral.”

“I asked the Pope directly about the recent rumors spreading through the churches—because these rumors have already circulated, and it would be strange not to ask,” Matilda replied. “His Holiness didn’t give a direct answer or explanation, only saying that someone was maliciously attacking the War God’s church, and that the Grant Cathedral had launched investigations into the parishes where the rumors originated… It was a response fitting his position and the situation.

“The Pope himself showed no signs of abnormality, and our conversation was entirely normal. But I could clearly feel a strange… atmosphere inside the Grant Cathedral.

“There was a tense, oppressive mood hanging over the entire cathedral. Although every cleric I saw seemed fine, the atmosphere was undeniably there—even in empty places. It felt as if the cathedral itself was exuding this tension.

“I discreetly spoke with some clerics. They obviously knew about the rumors, and their answers were no different from the Pope’s. But one thing struck me as odd… some clerics became visibly agitated when answering, as if offended. Yet I’m certain I behaved appropriately, and my questions about the rumors were calm, even sympathetic toward the War God’s church.”

Matilda’s last point sounded like a minor detail, but Rosetta turned around, her expression grave. “Do you think there was… something else behind their agitation?”

“Just a vague feeling,” Matilda said. “Their emotions flared up suddenly, then they apologized nervously and somewhat confusedly afterward. While talking to them, I sensed faint, shifting gazes around us, and sometimes their voices would suddenly become hoarse… I think their emotions were influenced by some external factor—something that made me very uneasy.”

“Did you notice anything else?” Rosetta frowned. “About the cathedral itself—any unusual signs?”

“…Some of the corridors inside the Great Cathedral feel a bit dim,” Mathilda said thoughtfully, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “I’m not sure if it’s just my imagination. There are countless candles and new magical crystal lamps lighting the cathedral, yet I always get this sense of darkness—not the kind that affects your eyesight, but more like a psychological shadow. I checked with the attendants, and it seems I’m the only one who feels this way. No one else has noticed anything unusual.”

Rosetta’s brow furrowed slowly as he stared at his daughter, remaining silent for a long moment.

Because of a curse dating back two centuries, members of the Augustus family… possess an unusual sensitivity in their perceptions. Especially when it comes to matters involving the divine, they often see and hear things ordinary people cannot. That was precisely why Rosetta had sent Mathilda to inspect the cathedral.

Mathilda was well aware of this herself.

But unlike her father, the young imperial jewel lacked his seasoned experience—she noticed the subtle details but didn’t dare jump to the grim conclusions Rosetta might.

“Father,” she finally spoke up, unable to hold back, “do you think…”

“The War God’s Church has a deeply entrenched influence over Typhon,” Rosetta broke the silence abruptly, his words sounding oddly cryptic to Mathilda. “It’s like an ancient tree rooted for a thousand years. Its roots have become part of this land itself, and everything that grows here is, to some extent, shaped by it.”

Mathilda opened her mouth, about to ask more, when footsteps suddenly echoed nearby—unmistakably deliberate and unhidden. The black-haired head maid had somehow entered the garden, and by the time the footsteps sounded, she was already ten meters away.

“Diana,” Rosetta looked toward her, “what have the Wanderers uncovered?”

“The priests who met unfortunate ends likely suffered deaths that were both profane and twisted, which is why their bodies were secretly and swiftly disposed of. Several witnesses have been taken under control by the local church. The Wanderers have checked on these witnesses’ conditions and confirmed that at least four priests went mad due to spiritual corruption,” the head maid Diana reported calmly and evenly. “Additionally, it’s been confirmed that in some areas, the church has reduced the scale of weekly prayer services and closed parts of the cathedral facilities under the pretext of repairs. These orders came directly from the Great Cathedral, personally authorized by Malm Dunit, bypassing the College of Cardinals. The Pope himself giving such instructions is highly irregular.”

Mathilda listened intently to Diana’s report, her eyes suddenly widening—

The War God’s Church had always operated independently and in isolation, beyond the reach of imperial power. So when… did the Wanderer agents, loyal to the royal family, manage to infiltrate the church’s inner secrets to this extent?

(End of chapter)