Chapter 936: The Obituary

A vast magical network stretched across the entire empire, carrying information and energy in a ceaseless flow. What was once a scattered, isolated human society had never been connected so tightly and efficiently. Even events unfolding in distant, foreign lands could instantly traverse thousands of mountains and rivers to reach every corner of the realm.

Garin, the tower keeper, sat in his workshop wearing a loose shirt. The double-thick windows blocked the howling cold wind outside the tower, while the internal heating system made the room feel as warm and gentle as a late spring afternoon. The modest-sized room was quiet, save for the occasional hum or click of machinery and the faint sizzle of food warming on the nearby heating plate.

Above the small magical network terminal in front of Garin, a freckled boy’s holographic image flickered to life. The boy’s face was bright with excitement as he spoke: “…The neural networks course is really interesting. Mr. Magnum is actually a pretty fun teacher. Though he’s loud, I’ve noticed he’s not nearly as rigid as the other instructors…”

“Are you settling in okay over there?” Garin couldn’t help but smile. “Is everything in the capital expensive? Do you have enough money?”

“You ask that every time—there’s plenty, no need to worry,” Storm’s hologram showed a helpless grin. “The academy district has shops and cafeterias just for students and teachers. Things are cheaper than back home. Plus, I found a part-time job that doesn’t interfere with my studies—I help out in the school’s lab and earn three pounds a week.”

“Oh… that’s good to hear,” Garin nodded. Though he couldn’t quite imagine what life at the academy was like, nor what “helping out in the lab” entailed, he could sense from his eldest son’s cheerful expression and words a genuine contentment and happiness.

“Ah, I have to go now—class is about to start.”

“Alright, alright. Take care of yourself, and don’t get into trouble with your classmates…”

The hologram vanished, and the runes on the terminal’s base dimmed one by one. Garin blinked, shook his head with a smile, and stood up from his desk.

Sending his eldest to the Imperial Academy had clearly been the right choice. Even far from home, Storm remained diligent and motivated. As a former scribe turned tower keeper, Garin couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride and hope.

It seemed the family was about to produce a respectable and successful person—he thought to himself.

In good spirits, he headed toward the heating plate to retrieve his warmed meal. But just a few steps away, a clear chime rang out behind him. The magical network terminal on the desk lit up again.

This new chime was a recent upgrade by the technicians—replacing the old, easily overlooked hum with a sharper, more penetrating sound. Garin appreciated the change; even if he was in the next room, he wouldn’t miss important messages anymore.

Turning back, he saw the terminal had activated on its own. The holographic projection above it displayed the rotating emblem of the Empire’s Network Control Center. Instantly alert, Garin hurried to the desk. A direct broadcast from the capital’s headquarters was never trivial—it meant something major was unfolding.

After several seconds of ringing, a message from the capital arrived. The printer connected to the terminal whirred to life, gears turning and paper sliding through, spitting out a document at high speed.

Garin stepped forward, pulled the paper cutter, and separated the sheet from the continuous roll. His eyes scanned the freshly printed ink:

“From the Imperial Network Communications Bureau of the Cecil Empire—forwarded to all regional hubs—archived at all levels—official notice:

“The Imperial Mage Association, the Supernatural Affairs Bureau, the Royal Magical Advisory Council, and the Theological Administration Office hereby release the investigation results regarding the recent ‘Cessation of Feedback from the Goddess of Magic’ incident…”

Garin blinked. The “Goddess of Magic ceasing feedback”—he’d heard whispers of this. Though not a mage himself, nor a believer in the goddess, as someone who worked long-term at the Luan hub, he was likely the most informed person within a hundred miles. Many recent transcriptions mentioned this matter, and numerous mages had been discussing the mysterious “disappearance” of the goddess over the network. It was impossible to ignore.

From what he knew, this incident had even alarmed the emperor himself, along with the empire’s greatest scholars and archmages. A special emergency investigation team had been formed. Recent broadcasts and newspapers had published the team’s roster—a lineup so prestigious it was almost unbelievable. The empire’s three chief magistrates were on it, alongside several archmages famed since the Ansu era. The High Pontiff of the Holy Light Church, Lightwright, and the Living Saint Veronica Morn served as “special third-party advisors.” Even the emperor appeared on the list as a supervising member.

Garin thought to himself: aside from the empire’s founding, he’d never seen so many awe-inspiring names gathered in one place. Even the most ignorant peasant woman would feel reverence upon seeing that roster and immediately understand the credibility and gravity of this divine investigation.

Now, this illustrious team had completed their inquiry? The cause behind the goddess’s sudden silence had been uncovered?

Even Garin, a nonbeliever, couldn’t suppress his curiosity. He read on, but his eyes froze the moment he reached the next lines:

“…It is with profound sorrow that we announce to all society that our revered, great, and once guiding and protecting goddess of all mortal spellcasters, Lady Mylmina, has recently, regrettably, passed away…”

…

The news spread swiftly through the magical network—the communication web that bound everyone together—racing across the land from Luan City to Winterhold, from Tenlin to Changfeng, from one transmission tower to another, from network terminals to newspaper offices. The Imperial Network Communications Bureau’s broadcast repeated again and again.

At the Paramel Observatory, Morgan Hugo suddenly rose from his desk. The venerable old mage’s eyes widened, his beard trembling slightly. A freshly printed sheet lay quietly on his desk, the words clear and unmistakable:

“…Lady Mylmina was a respected guide and protector. Throughout the long history of human civilization, she diligently fulfilled her divine duties and responsibilities. She led us through the dark ignorance of early civilization and shielded fragile mortals through the long nights of our dawn…

“…Her life was one of brilliance, compassion, greatness, and struggle. She was both a mentor and a warrior leading mortal civilization through thorns and brambles. Her courage in battle was…”

The black ink on the paper burned into Morgan Hugo’s eyes. For a moment, the old mage lost his usual sharpness and composure. He didn’t know what expression to wear, nor what thoughts to hold. Like most mortals, he had never imagined facing the death of a god, nor that such news would come to him in this form. The sheer absurdity of it overwhelmed his mind, and he barely registered how strange it was that this “obituary” even existed.

Suddenly, the door slammed open. Morgan looked up, dazed, to see another robed senior mage standing there—the second-in-command of Paramel Observatory, a trusted friend whom he had coaxed from the Saint Suniel Astrology Association. The gray-haired mage’s eyes were wide, his face a mixture of shock and disbelief, as if waking from a nightmare.

“Morgan!” the mage called out loudly. “Have you seen today’s broadcast on the network?!”

“I have… I even have a printed copy here,” Morgan mumbled, pointing to the paper on his desk. “Benjamin, are we dreaming? The Goddess of Magic… she’s… dead?!”

“The Goddess…” Benjamin, the archmage, gasped, then hurried to Morgan’s desk. He saw the freshly printed sheet still faintly smelling of ink, his face a tangle of emotions. “A minute ago, I thought I was dreaming too, but… damn it, Morgan, we…”

He grabbed the paper, muttering for a few seconds before gathering his thoughts. “Morgan, can this be trusted? Is this news reliable?”

“This came straight from the capital, bearing the emperor’s signature and seal, along with the marks of the three chief magistrates…” Morgan finally shook off some of his daze, looking at the document with a complex expression. “At least the document itself is genuine. But the message…”

Benjamin shook his head. “I haven’t received any feedback from the goddess for days. Though I rarely prayed before, I could always tell when she responded.”

Morgan opened his mouth to speak but found no words. He glanced again at the heartfelt, moving words of mourning on the page. A strange feeling stirred deep inside him. “This is a eulogy written by mortals for a god… Benjamin, doesn’t that feel odd? Mourning a god… can you imagine?”

“But how else would you write a eulogy?” Benjamin looked up, forcing a bitter smile as he raised the paper. “What else could the emperor say? He’s already used every word of grief and praise he could find…”

Indeed, a human-written obituary for a god was profoundly strange—so strange it almost seemed it shouldn’t exist in this world. Yet, as Benjamin said, if the goddess truly had fallen, this was the only way mortals could mourn.

Morgan thought to himself that his discomfort with the eulogy was simply because, in his limited lifetime, he had never experienced the death of a god.

Now, it seemed he was about to.

In Benjamin’s hand, the printed document ended with words sharp and clear:
“…We mourn deeply the passing of the Magic Goddess Mylmina, lamenting the loss of such a diligent deity. A god so devoted deserves the remembrance of all mortals—at least all humans. To express our grief and honor the memory of the Magic Goddess Mylmina, by the joint decision of His Majesty Emperor Gawain Cecil, the Imperial High Council, and the Imperial Theological Administration, a ‘Divine Funeral’ and commemorative ceremony will be held on the 45th day of this month. On that day, sirens, bells, and horns will sound across the nation, and the Imperial Dragon Cavalry will conduct a grand farewell procession…

His Majesty the Emperor calls upon all spellcasters nationwide to observe a moment of silence on that day, to express our collective sorrow…”

Morgan Hugo closed his eyes. Though he was not a devout follower of the Magic Goddess—indeed, few truly were—he found himself deeply moved by the heartfelt sincerity in the eulogy. He could almost feel the Emperor’s sorrow as he penned those words, and the emotion conveyed through the text stirred something profound within him.

As for the odd phrasing and the strange tone of the official statement itself… at this moment, none of that seemed to matter.

How else could it be written? No one had ever faced anything like this before…

…

“This news will spread across the country soon enough,” Windsor Mapel sighed softly, her gaze drifting over the original document before her, her expression unreadable—neither sorrowful nor joyful.

Daniel sat opposite her, the old mage’s face as stern and somber as ever. “In fact, it’s already been sent nationwide via the communication tower network. The newspapers and public notices at the local level will take a bit longer, but that’s insignificant. The mages control the vast majority of communication channels—they’ll be the first to receive the news.”

“Next… we need to prepare seriously for the ‘funeral,’” Windsor nodded. “This is our first joint operation with the Cecilians, and with such little time to prepare, His Majesty expects us to give it our all. We cannot afford any mistakes in front of the Cecilians.”

“Of course. We won’t disappoint His Majesty,” Daniel said, a faint, almost imperceptible smile flickering at the corner of his mouth before vanishing. “Well, I’ll be off then—the ‘International Mourning Committee’ is waiting for me.”

Windsor rose to see him out, watching the old mage disappear down the corridor before lowering her gaze. She murmured softly, half to herself, half as if seeking reassurance: “Magic Goddess…”

But there was no response from the spiritual realm. The end of her prayer was met with emptiness.

In the end, Windsor received no answer—perhaps the Magic Goddess truly was gone.

(End of chapter)