Chapter 937: The Funeral

It seemed the Goddess of Magic truly would never return.

Victor awoke abruptly from a deep meditation, finding himself in the familiar magic laboratory. Opened scrolls and neatly arranged rune stones lay orderly on a nearby table. A bronze cauldron emitted faint wisps of pale purple smoke, carrying a subtle incense fragrance that gently filled the air.

Faint, chaotic impressions still lingered in his mind—fragments of “revelations” brought on by his deep meditation, mixed with dreamlike and illusory shadows. He shook his head, dismissing these meaningless echoes. Among them, there was no sign of any response from the Goddess of Magic.

Victor exhaled softly, feeling his spirit fully restored. As an aging archmage, his energy was no longer what it once was. After several consecutive magical experiments or hours of intense calculations, he needed deep meditation to recover. Yet, he felt retirement was still far off. Given the lifespan of a high-level transcendent, he might still serve the Wilde family for another fifty years. The wisdom and experience he had accumulated over decades, along with his keen judgment of events and trends, were the keys to ensuring he could continue his service.

The elder mage, a senior advisor in Winterhold, left his laboratory and stepped into the corridor. Servants were polishing the crystal windows, making them gleam. Outside, the snow-capped mountains stood sharp and clear under the bright sky. Soldiers and battle mages stood at attention around the corridor’s corners, their posture disciplined and imposing.

The lady of the house was not in the castle. A few days ago, she had taken a passenger airship—modified from dragonrider technology—to the imperial capital. As a member of the investigation team, she was involved in probing the mysterious disappearance of the Goddess of Magic. Meanwhile, with the lady away, Winterhold still needed to operate smoothly. This responsibility fell mainly to Victor and a few other advisors and stewards.

In truth, such duties were not originally theirs. When Lady Maggie was still at the castle, if the lady of the house went out without her, the head maid would manage everything within the castle. Outsiders might find it strange to imagine a “maid”—even a head maid—qualified and capable of running a castle and commanding numerous mages and noble knights. Only those who truly lived in the castle understood the head maid’s abilities… and her combat prowess.

But Lady Maggie had not returned to the Northlands for a long time. She seemed busy fulfilling another task assigned by the lady of the house, serving the royal family directly.

A senior attendant in a blue-and-white surcoat hurried down the corridor. Passing Victor, the old mage called out to him, “How are preparations for the ceremony going?”

“Master Victor,” the attendant stopped and saluted the archmage, “everything in the castle is ready. The horns have been polished, the guards have donned their ceremonial uniforms, and all personnel—including painters and kitchen maids—have been notified. We are only waiting for the bell to toll.”

Victor nodded. “Good work. Keep at it.”

The attendant left, and Victor paused to think. After sensing the locations of others, he rose and flew down the corridor, heading straight to a terrace at the end of the second-floor gallery.

Several people had already gathered there, discussing and waiting. A translucent, gentle wind shield enveloped the open semicircular terrace, blocking the biting cold winds from the northern mountains and making the space feel as comfortable as indoors.

Victor controlled his flight to land smoothly. A middle-aged mage in a pale blue robe approached him immediately. “Master Victor, you’ve finished meditating?”

“Yes,” Victor nodded. “Any news from the lady of the house?”

“About half an hour ago, we received a communication,” the mage replied. “She instructed us to follow the procedures issued by the ‘International Funeral Committee.’ Maintain order and ensure the safety of all personnel. No other instructions.”

The lady’s orders remained unchanged. It seemed today’s events would proceed as planned—the Goddess of Magic was truly gone.

“Is Sheriff Badimore in charge of city security?” Victor asked, glancing at another person on the terrace.

“Yes,” said a middle-aged woman in a black conservative coat trimmed with gold. “Security teams have been assigned to all gathering areas. Medical personnel are stationed throughout the city. Most citizens attending the ceremony have gathered in several squares and two open fields outside the city. For areas beyond patrol coverage, I’m monitoring with the Mage’s Eye.”

Victor nodded, feeling somewhat reassured.

Today, a special funeral would be held. Mortals would bury a deity. But for most ordinary townsfolk, the Goddess of Magic was a distant figure. Aside from the shocking headline of a “god’s demise,” most had come simply out of curiosity. And precisely because they were spectators, maintaining order was especially crucial.

The crowd was enormous. The “fall of a god” had drawn too many eyes, making Victor, a mage, increasingly uneasy.

He looked toward the pale blue-robed mage, about to speak, but before he could, a clear, resonant bell tolled from the castle’s main tower, interrupting him.

The bell’s deep, solemn tones rang slowly and steadily, each heavy clang piercing the air and rippling outward from Winterhold. Simultaneously, several clock towers throughout the city began chiming, synchronized by mechanical devices. The solemn bells quickly enveloped the entire city.

At the same moment, magical network terminals inside and outside the castle activated. From devices scattered across Winterhold’s courtyard, council hall, and city squares, a deep, dignified voice announced: “Attention all. The moment of silence begins.”

Everyone on the terrace fell silent simultaneously, following the prescribed ritual. The city instantly grew still, the bell’s fading echoes haunting the ears like a distant chant.

Three minutes later, the moment of silence ended. Victor heard a sharp blast of horns from the city walls. He instinctively looked up. Moments later, small black shapes rose from the southwest wall. They took flight, growing closer and revealing inverted cone-like silhouettes. With a low hum, they swept over the castle, then headed toward the city. After circling above, they returned to the castle and accelerated toward the distant frozen mountains.

They were a squadron of Winterhold’s dragonriders, carrying the “sacred ashes” of the Goddess of Magic. According to protocol, they were to scatter the ashes over the northern mountains before sunset.

As the ceremony unfolded, Victor felt a genuine sadness welling up. Like most mages, he was only a casual believer in the Goddess of Magic, but even a casual believer was still a believer. Now, for the first time, he truly grasped the reality of what had happened. Though the feeling was strange, he realized with certainty… the Goddess of Magic was never coming back.

At the funeral, in the hearts of all present, the goddess had departed like any mortal—gone for good.

…

The dragonrider squadron flew low over the city, their engines humming deeply. After they sped toward the Whitewater River, broadcast devices throughout the city began transmitting a solemn eulogy for the Goddess of Magic, Mylmina.

Amber stepped forward and opened the study window, letting the sound carry more clearly inside. The voices echoed between Cecil City’s towering buildings, layered and reverberant, taking on the quality of a grand chant by the time they reached the room.

Gawain stood behind the window, his gaze calm as he looked out at the vast, clear blue sky.

Heddy, Victoria, and Bertram—the three Grand Regents—stood beside Gawain. They listened to the broadcast, exchanging glances, their expressions somewhat odd.

“The funeral seems to be proceeding smoothly,” Heddy said with a slight smile. “Reports of the dragonriders taking flight have come in from all over.”

“The ashes scattered over the mountains and earth… the symbolism is truly profound,” Bertram murmured.

“Professional,” Amber commented from nearby. “Very professional.”

Gawain found it strange too but maintained his dignified patriarchal demeanor, nodding slightly. “We established a highly professional committee precisely for the ceremonial gravitas of this moment.”

“A god ‘dies’ like a mortal at a funeral. The more solemn the ceremony, the more undeniable the ‘death,’” Heddy said. Then, in a quieter, peculiar tone, she added, “Though… in another sense, the Goddess of Magic is still ‘alive’… maybe what we’re doing isn’t entirely…”

“Not entirely appropriate?” Gawain glanced at Heddy and shook his head with a smile. “But isn’t Mylmina’s greatest wish to destroy her own divinity? We’re helping her with that. Trust me, that ‘goddess’ would have no objections—she might even thank us.”

“To be honest, I suspect she’s secretly watching her own funeral,” Amber muttered. “After all, she hid herself voluntarily. She’s not trapped in the Shadow Realm. If she slipped out unnoticed, no one would know.”

“That’s none of our concern,” Gawain said casually.

As they spoke, the citywide broadcast neared its conclusion. The announcer’s heartfelt narration summarized the life of the kind, great, and wise Goddess of Magic, Mylmina. The Cecil royal family and the highest council bestowed their official recognition, affirming her outstanding contributions to mortal civilization. The gist was—

By proposal of the council, discussion by the three regents, and approval by the emperor himself, the life of Goddess Mylmina was one of selfless dedication, loving generosity, and active struggle. The people of Cecil and all mortals blessed by the Goddess would forever remember her and wish her a peaceful journey.

Shortly after, reports came in from the dragonrider squadrons: their mission was successfully completed.

Under the watchful eyes of as many witnesses as possible, the empire’s pilots carried out the largest joint flight mission in history, scattering the “ashes” of the Goddess of Magic—her remains—across the very land she once protected and loved.

And they scattered them with remarkable precision.

“I never expected you to write something like this… a eulogy,” Victoria said, glancing at Gawain. Her face was as impassive as ever, but her tone held a subtle oddity. “Even less did I expect you to use so many words of praise for a deity. Honestly, to receive a funeral like this would be an honor for anyone.”

“Honoring the dead is the one thing you should never be stingy about,” Gawain replied with a faint, knowing smile. “I could lavish all the world’s praise on the Goddess of Magic, because she’s already ‘dead.’ Besides, the more heartfelt our ceremony, the more human her death seems. And eulogies aren’t really meant for the dead—they’re for the living.”

“I wonder how things are going over in Typhon,” Bertram suddenly said. “I hope those Typhon folks don’t cause any trouble.”

“I trust them on that,” Gawain said. “They might lack arcane network communications and dragonrider aircraft, but they have a nationwide system of signal towers and two to three times as many griffins and mage troops as we do. When it comes to ‘putting on a show,’ an old empire like theirs won’t be outdone by a young upstart like Cecil’s. They’ll have a grand funeral of their own.”

As he spoke, he glanced at the mechanical clock hanging on the wall nearby, then nodded to the three grand chancellors before him. “Time’s about right. Looks like this ‘funeral’ has gone off without a hitch. Let’s move on to other matters.”

He stepped away from the window and returned to his desk. But just as he sat down and was about to start a new topic, his gaze suddenly froze.

Above the wooden desk, arcane energy lingering in the air began to coalesce out of nowhere, quickly scorching shallow marks into the surface. The scorched lines spread rapidly, gradually forming a clear word—

“Thank you—”

Gawain: “…”

Before he could catch the source of the energy, the glowing arcane traces vanished, leaving nothing behind.

Shaking his head, Gawain brushed his hand over the desk, casually erasing the faint scorch marks, muttering, “After all that effort to keep it hidden, might as well keep it hidden.”

(End of chapter)