Chapter 95: Veronica

All the camp’s administrators had been summoned to Gawain’s tent to discuss the path forward.

Amber sat restlessly beside Rebecca, twisting and turning as if looking for any chance to slip away. When she realized Gawain had no intention of letting her leave, she muttered, “If you’re going to have a meeting, just have it—why drag me along? I don’t understand any of this.”

Gawain glanced at her casually. “I’m keeping you in sight mainly to stop you from causing trouble out there.” Ignoring Amber’s next grimace, he got straight to the point. “I called everyone here to make one thing clear—the crisis isn’t over yet.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened in surprise. “What? Didn’t we already drive those monsters back?”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Gawain shook his head. “We only pushed them back once. That doesn’t mean they won’t come again.”

Everyone exchanged uneasy looks. Norris, a farmer attending such a meeting for the first time, instinctively shrank back. It wasn’t that Gawain’s words scared him—he hadn’t even fully registered what was said. The simple truth was, he felt out of place. Everyone else here was someone he’d normally look up to, but now they were all sitting together as equals, and it made him nervous.

Hammer, the blacksmith sitting next to him, seemed more composed. Though also a commoner, years of forging steel for the lord had given him plenty of experience dealing with nobles, and he carried himself with calm confidence.

Heddy noticed Norris’s unease but said nothing, instead picking up where Gawain left off. “Lord, haven’t you already confirmed the Great Wall’s integrity? Its self-repairing ability…”

“It has repaired itself, yes,” Gawain replied, “but I can’t be sure it won’t break again. Listen carefully—while we just dealt with one crisis, this isn’t a complete or reassuring victory. The Great Wall isn’t a divine creation. Even if it’s a miracle, it’s a seven-hundred-year-old one. The monsters that emerged from the ruins of Gondor prove the wall isn’t invincible. It’s aging, and we must prepare for the possibility of further failures.”

Amber pinched her chin, muttering, “Then why don’t we just run away…”

“Run where?” Gawain shot her a look. “If the Great Wall falls, the contamination will spread across the entire continent. Besides, not everyone can just pick up and sprint hundreds of miles at the slightest sign of trouble, then find some remote corner to survive in.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “I’m warning you not to let your guard down—not saying the seven-century-old Great Wall is about to collapse. I’ve already checked; it’s still functioning overall. The breach is a ‘minor issue.’ According to the original blueprints and the durability of elven craftsmanship, it shouldn’t fully fail for decades. So no need to panic.”

Relieved, the group relaxed slightly. Sir Philip, however, spoke up seriously. “Even so, our victory was lucky. If the enemy had been larger in number, if the traps had been less effective, or if the monsters had been a bit luckier triggering them, the outcome could have been the opposite. These aberrations are far superior to humans individually, and as their numbers grow, their mere presence can kill all living things in a wide area. Each additional monster doubles the pressure on our warriors. Our victory… isn’t something to be complacent about.”

The honest young knight voiced what Gawain had been thinking. “Exactly. We can’t be fooled by this win. Our camp is still fragile in every way. We’ve only survived here so far, not established a firm foothold. That’s why I gathered you all—to share my plan moving forward.”

Curious, Heddy asked, “The plan?”

“Build walls, stockpile food, increase population, boost steel production,” Gawain said, tapping the table lightly. He first looked at Rebecca. “How’s the progress on making ‘cement’?”

Rebecca sighed, a bit discouraged. “Not successful yet. We’ve made something similar using porous rock and clay from near the iron mine, but finding the right mix, temperature, and firing time requires a lot of testing. The kiln crew has been focusing almost entirely on crystal production lately, so cement progress is slow.”

So, there was a glimmer of hope?

Gawain felt a quiet surge of optimism. He looked at the somewhat uncertain Rebecca. “Good. Finding a direction is the biggest step. Your top priority now is to develop a usable cement formula as soon as possible. Also, crystal production can’t stop. Keep at least a third of the kilns dedicated to crystals, and assign a team for sorting. The new warehouse in the southwest of the camp is yours—store the crystals there.”

Then he turned to Norris. “What about land clearing?”

The old farmer stood up instinctively, then awkwardly sat back down. After a moment, he gathered himself. “We’ve cleared a hundred liters of farmland each to the east and west of the camp, planted sweetwood roots and fireleaf vegetables. The druid’s magic and potions have been incredibly effective—the crops are growing fast, maybe ready to harvest before the Frost Moon. There should be enough to feed everyone with some surplus…”

Gawain cut him off. “You’re in charge of agriculture. You don’t need to call your peers ‘lord,’ and you don’t have to call me that either. ‘Lord’ or my title will do.”

Norris glanced nervously at Gawain, nodding repeatedly. “Y-yes, Duke… sir.”

Nearby, Pittman scowled. “It’s rare someone calls me that—can’t I enjoy it for a couple more days…”

“Duke,” Norris added, “there’s one more thing I’d like to ask permission for.”

“Go ahead.”

“The land north of the Whitewater River—I’d like to clear that too. I took a look; the soil’s good and there aren’t many rocks. We didn’t plan to clear it initially because it requires crossing the river, but I think it would be valuable. After the monster attack, many are worried—especially the farmers—about the land south of the river. If we could open up the other side…”

He trailed off, unsure how to continue, his dark, weathered face showing a mix of anxiety and hope. Gawain quickly responded, “Agreed. Clearing the north bank will be part of phase two. But first, we need to build a bridge over the Whitewater River. Rafts won’t cut it. Heddy, make a note.”

“Next is population,” Gawain said, turning to Heddy. “Any thoughts?”

Heddy put down her quill and considered carefully. “Well… the simplest way is to buy serfs. They’re generally loyal and of known background, but that costs money and we might not get enough. Another option is to accept refugees. The southern lands have had poor harvests in recent years, and several minor nobles have clashed repeatedly. Many displaced people are homeless. For most nobles, extra people are a burden; refugees from other lands are treated like cattle. They live hard lives in the cracks, even cheaper than serfs—given a meal, they’ll leave.”

She shook her head. “But the problem is obvious: their backgrounds are hard to verify, and their wandering lifestyle has brought bad habits like theft. Letting too many in could cause serious law and order issues.”

Amber’s voice suddenly drifted in, calm but sharp. “If following the law guaranteed a peaceful life, half the scoundrels and ruffians would try to find jobs. They don’t choose to be rats in the gutter because they like it. Who’d willingly steal and starve and get whipped every day?”

Heddy stared at Amber, surprised she didn’t snap back this time. After a few seconds, Gawain said dryly, “You tried to steal my seal the other day and I threw you out of the tent—so while you make a good point, are you really comfortable saying it out loud?”

Amber pouted. “I was just joking!”

“Enough!” Gawain waved his hand to cut her off, thinking how careful he had to be with this ‘elf of shame.’ One wrong word and he’d end up playing the straight man in her jokes. “We need a plan for population growth. Hammer, what’s the update on steel production?”

Meanwhile, upstream on the Whitewater River, a sleek white ship bearing the royal Ansu crest sailed steadily along the water, flanked by several smaller escort vessels.

On the side of the ship was a pale gold emblem—a glowing ring crossed by two beams of light.

It was the mark of the Church of the Holy Light.

In all of Ansu, it was rare to see a vessel flying both the royal and church banners, so the sight naturally drew the attention of the townsfolk in Tansang on the riverbank.

The ship had departed from the Ansu capital, drifting down the Dorgon River for a month before turning into the Whitewater River via a canal tributary, traveling another week to finally reach this barren borderland of the kingdom.

It had been a grueling journey, but no one aboard complained—not even the one person who, by rank and status, had no reason to endure such hardship and had never uttered a single complaint.

In a private prayer chamber on the upper deck of the royal vessel White Oak, the saintly princess Veronica—known as the “Daughter Blessed by the Light”—slowly opened her eyes.

Her long hair was a pale gold, her features bore a faint resemblance to her brother Edmund Morn but were softer and more captivating. Years immersed in the path of the Holy Light had given her an almost otherworldly aura of sanctity and calm. Even dressed simply in a plain white nun’s habit, she radiated an unassailable presence, as if a divine envoy had descended.

Only after several minutes of prayer did this transcendent aura gradually fade.

Sensing the change, a knock came at the door, followed by a woman’s voice, flat and emotionless. “Your Highness, we’ve arrived at Tansang. Shall we dock and meet with Viscount Andrew?”

A faint glimmer in Veronica’s eyes slowly faded away. She answered gently, “No need. Just send a messenger. The Lord has given me a revelation—I must not linger here. I need to hurry to Cecil’s territory. There… the Lord has shown me something.”

The presence outside the door withdrew. Veronica narrowed her eyes slightly, and the holy light seemed to surge uncontrollably from them once more.

She closed her eyes completely and slipped back into meditation.

(End of chapter)