Chapter 962: Echoes

Do you like this eternal cradle?

Suddenly, Gawain thought of the young dragon that had just awakened from its hatching pod, remembered the joyful cries it had sent toward him; he thought of the lower city, where countless “inferior citizens” were lost in addiction to enhancers and hallucinogens, drifting aimlessly as mere sustenance for the gods; he thought of the chaotic, frenzied arena, where dragons fought fiercely on the battlefield… But those were no longer dragons—they were a dozen cold, steel machines locked in combat, their brains and neural ganglia bound to the machines, immersed in the illusions induced by enhancers.

Those dragons were still alive—but Talrond was dead.

“How terrifying,” he whispered suddenly, “when life and death lose all meaning.”

He paused, then asked, “Can the eternal cradle be broken?”

“That would come at a great cost,” the Dragon God said quietly, “and the chances of success are slim. After all, the cradle itself is the price paid for failure. The laws of nature show no mercy to those who fail. No race—even the mighty dragons—can afford to fail twice.”

At that, the deity lifted its gaze, fixing its eyes on Gawain’s face. “So, do you wish to help Talrond break this ‘eternal cradle’?”

“Me?” Gawain pointed at himself and chuckled. “I don’t have that kind of power.”

“You could destroy it with a single command,” the Dragon God smiled faintly. “Why not imagine that you have the ability to shatter the ‘cradle’ of this entire continent?”

It sounded like a joke, but Gawain couldn’t help but think seriously for a moment. After a few seconds, he shook his head. “No, at least not now.”

“Why?” The Dragon God’s curiosity was evident. “Aren’t you afraid of this cradle?”

“I’m no savior of the dragons—there’s never been a savior,” Gawain said earnestly. “And as you said, breaking the eternal cradle demands a heavy price—I can imagine what that price is, and who would have to pay it. No one has the right to sacrifice others’ lives to fulfill their own ‘rescue’ fantasy. So I have no right to decide for the dragons, no right to choose whether they should sacrifice or merely survive.

“Whether they sink into the cradle and perish, or rise up to strike for their future—that’s their choice. They must decide for themselves whether to pay that price.

“Cecil doesn’t interfere in other nations’ affairs—that’s my rule.”

When Gawain finished, the god regarded him with a strange look for several seconds, then said with a half-smile, “It’s incredible to hear such words from a man hailed as a ‘hero’ in the human world. I thought you had already cast yourself as the ‘savior’ of humanity, but apparently not.”

Gawain spread his hands. “I haven’t saved anyone. We’re all just trying to save ourselves.”

“…You seem to have fully embraced your identity as one of humanity, as a part of this world, Outsider,” the Dragon God said with curiosity. “I’m suddenly very curious—do your people face similar challenges in your homeland? For example… when you undergo great social upheavals, when your societies face massive ideological shifts, when your faith is tested, when you must abandon tradition and dogma to confront drastic environmental changes… how do you cope?

“Ah, or perhaps I should first ask—do you even have concepts like race, society, faith, and nation?”

“Of course we have society and nation,” Gawain smiled, though a complex emotion crept into his expression. “We face those ‘challenges’ you mentioned. Honestly, when my people confront changes in tradition, reality, faith, and ideology, there’s turmoil and unease. The process is often painful and dangerous. But unlike this world—there, traditions are just traditions, and ideas are just ideas. They can be restrictive, yes, but… they don’t become actual entities with real power, nor do they wield supernatural force.”

He realized that what seemed obvious to Earthlings might sound bizarre here, even to a god like Enya. So he carefully explained, “For example—if a tribe that has lived for generations deep in the mountains, worshipping the mountains as gods, decides to leave, they only have to face opposition from their elders. They don’t have to fear divine punishment from mountain gods.”

The Dragon God listened with surprise, and after a moment of contemplation, a faint, almost dazed expression crossed its face. Then it whispered, “How beautiful.”

“It’s not easy, though,” Gawain added, wanting to clarify. “Even if ideas don’t manifest as real power, and rebellion doesn’t bring divine wrath, changing a tradition is still incredibly difficult. The resistance from old forces in people’s minds can be just as strong as—”

He stopped mid-sentence, hesitating.

Across from him, the Dragon God sat wrapped in countless black chains. At the other end floated the “Chaos Dragon,” hovering over Talrond like a ticking time bomb capable of destroying the entire dragon civilization. The kingdom was locked in this deadly balance, barely clinging to life for millions of years.

“Yes, truly beautiful,” Gawain sighed. “Compared to here.”

Then he suddenly remembered something, looking back at the Dragon God. “By the way, you said there were three stories, but you only told me two. What about the third?”

The Dragon God looked at him and suddenly—Gawain wasn’t sure if he imagined it—a sly smile appeared. “The third story hasn’t happened yet.”

Gawain blinked.

“Finishing all the stories would be boring. Consider it a teaser. Let’s leave the third story as a cliffhanger,” the god said leisurely. “I’m curious how it will unfold myself. If the chance arises, I’ll tell you.”

Outside the temple, the distant rumble and howling faded, as if a fierce but brief storm was passing. Gawain glanced toward the terrace, seeing nothing but the familiar starlight and night.

“Anything else you want to ask?” the Dragon God’s voice came from across the table. “There’s still time. We can talk more.”

Gawain thought for a moment, then asked, “About the ancient ‘Reverse Tide Rebellion’ and the tall tower northwest of Talrond—can you tell me about them?”

“That depends on what you want to know,” the Dragon God nodded. “I’ll answer as best I can.”

“As far as I know, the Reverse Tide Empire went astray because they mistakenly embraced knowledge left by the Voyagers. From what we’ve found, the main problem was ‘deifying knowledge.’ Did the Reverse Tide Empire worship the Voyagers’ legacy as divine? Is that why they went to war with the dragons?”

“Broadly speaking, yes,” the Dragon God nodded. “The Voyagers’ legacy was far too advanced for the earthbound races, especially millions of years ago, when much of that ‘legacy’ still held great power. That mortal civilization suddenly gained knowledge and power beyond their understanding. Their rulers couldn’t explain the principles behind it to the people, and their scholars couldn’t replicate the logic behind the legacy. So deification was inevitable.

“People tend to attribute things beyond their understanding to miracles or divine acts. It’s a trap many mortal civilizations fall into.

“The war between the dragons and the Reverse Tide Empire happened because this deification created new, uncontrollable ideological forces. And the war itself… was disgraceful for both sides.”

“Disgraceful for both sides?” Gawain leaned forward, sensing a juicy story. “What do you mean?”

The Dragon God glanced at him and said slowly, “It’s simple. The dragons themselves nurtured the Reverse Tide Empire and guided them to the Voyagers’ legacy.”

Gawain’s eyes widened. “The dragons themselves?!”

“It was an unsuccessful attempt—a reckless and bold ‘breakthrough plan,’” the Dragon God said calmly. “It happened long ago—back then, the ‘eternal cradle’ wasn’t yet fully stable. Talrond had only recently been shackled. Many dragons still held strong free will and hope for the future. Driven by this impulse, they sought external means to break the cycle.”

Gawain frowned. “They supported an independent mortal power, letting them absorb the Voyagers’ power, grow rapidly, and then break Talrond’s… ‘cradle’?”

His gaze was strange because both he and the Dragon God understood what breaking the cradle meant. Yet the god’s expression was even more indifferent, so the strange topic continued.

“In hindsight, it wasn’t a mature plan, but they carried it out with hope,” the Dragon God said, shaking its head. “The Reverse Tide Empire was weak then—so weak that any adult dragon could easily guide its development. The dragons lost caution. They believed everything was under control, at least for a long time.

“What happened next is easy to imagine—arrogance is the greatest sin. The Reverse Tide Empire, believing they were controlled, never accepted being a tool of another race. The dragons’ interference only fueled their rebellion and defiance, accelerating the crisis beyond expectations. The Reverse Tide lost control. They secretly developed many technologies and cults, cracked the Voyagers’ secret armory, and grew stronger by leaps and bounds.

“Before Talrond could react, the Reverse Tide had transformed into an extreme, xenophobic, dragon-hating, militarily powerful empire. Most importantly, it was a ‘theocratic empire.’

“The overreliance on and deification of the Voyagers’ legacy led to uncontrollable theocratization. Even a few enlightened individuals couldn’t stop it. The Reverse Tide Empire saw themselves as followers of the Voyagers and branded Talrond’s dragons as heretics who betrayed and stole the legacy. This was the exact opposite of Talrond’s original plan.

“That’s why the Reverse Tide War broke out.”

Gawain opened his mouth, then after a few seconds gathered his thoughts. “…You condoned all this?”

“You could say that.”

“Why?” Gawain couldn’t help but ask. “Didn’t you see the risks?”

The Dragon God’s voice dropped low. “The dragons of Talrond didn’t see them, so I didn’t either. And even if I had, as long as the dragons’ nurturing of the Reverse Tide Empire didn’t violate Talrond’s ‘traditional ideology’ or trigger a ‘boundary breach,’ I couldn’t stop it.”

Gawain thought back to the two stories the Dragon God had told him. At that moment, he gained a deeper understanding of the rules hidden behind those tales.

“That war destroyed the entire Inverse Tide Empire, a civilization that had advanced enough to withstand the magical storms. It also dealt a severe blow to Talrond,” the Dragon God continued. “The losses from the war itself weren’t the worst part. What was truly devastating was the blow to their confidence and faith—the entire society of Talrond was shaken to its core. And that shock was almost immediately reflected in the dragons’ collective mindset…”

Gawain’s eyes widened as he quickly caught on. “That created a new ‘lock’ as well?!”

“In ordinary civilizations, such fleeting, unaccumulated collective emotions wouldn’t amount to much. But the dragons’ gods had merged into one, and the interaction between the divine and the mortal was stronger than ever. Any intense, collective spiritual upheaval would quickly ripple through their shared consciousness, and those ripples would solidify into new locks.

“For over a million years after that, the dragons refrained from interfering with the world beyond Talrond. They even strictly limited the number of dragons allowed to leave Talrond each year.

“They couldn’t reveal too much about the Inverse Tide War to other civilizations, nor casually disclose the secrets of the Voyagers. Whenever other civilizations came into contact with Voyager relics, the dragons had to immediately find ways to retrieve those ‘dangerous items’… All of this was a ‘reflective echo’ born from the dragons’ collective trauma after the Inverse Tide upheaval. These echoes hardened into binding ‘locks’—rules that every dragon must obey unconditionally, no matter if ten thousand, a hundred thousand, or a million years passed. Even if the Voyagers’ legacy was completely erased by time, even if no one remembered what the ‘Inverse Tide Empire’ specifically was, the dragons must abide by these rules forever.”

Gawain listened in stunned silence before blurting out, “But when Melita mentioned recalling certain dangerous items or sealing off some information, she just said it was a higher-up’s order—a kind of ‘corporate policy’…”

“Well, that at least sounds nicer,” the Dragon God said with a faint smile.

(End of chapter)