Chapter 980: Night at Winterwolf Keep

Spider silk?

A fleeting look of surprise flashed across Malm Dunit’s face, but in the very next moment, that surprise twisted into sheer terror.

The spider silk instantly merged with his spiritual form. Then, as if sprouting from within him, endless strands of silk emerged from his skin, wrapping and binding him tightly. The former pontiff, now a spectral being, let out a roar filled with both rage and fear. He tried desperately to summon divine power to break free, but no matter how hard he strained, there was no response—some force was severing his connection to the gods!

This was what terrified Malm Dunit the most, far more than the strange runes Philip had shown or the eerie spider silk now enveloping him. How could anything block his link to the divine? How could anything stand against the might of the supreme war god? At this very moment, his bond with the deity was stronger than ever—how could it be cut so easily?!

In a hoarse, chaotic voice, he bellowed, “What have you done?! My connection to the Lord is the closest of all—how is this possible…”

His shout was abruptly cut off as the spider silk invading his spirit fully took control of his movements. Through his gradually freezing vision, the figure of a white-haired girl appeared.

She stepped before Malm Dunit, her expression serious. “Because now you’re closer to me.”

Unfortunately, Malm Dunit no longer heard the answer.

Only then did Philip finally exhale in relief. He patted his pounding chest, took a long breath, and glanced around at the soldiers and clerks anxiously watching the situation, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice. Everyone had drawn their “mental protection devices,” and the nearest senior staff officer’s hand hovered over the alarm button. Seeing this, the young imperial general nodded slightly with satisfaction. “Crisis averted. Everyone, return to your posts.”

He then turned to Narithiel, standing nearby, and to Malm Dunit, now sealed in a bizarre cocoon of spider silk. “So this is the ‘messenger’ the gods send out to spread corruption when they’re on the brink of madness? I didn’t expect it to be caught so easily…”

Narithiel immediately shook her head. “Because it’s just an avatar, it’s simple.”

“Just an avatar?” Philip’s eyes widened.

“Yes,” Narithiel nodded. “The soul is hollow, the personality and thoughts are fake. Most of its actions are probably remotely controlled by some hidden original… or maybe it takes many such avatars combined to form a true entity. In any case, the link between this avatar and the ‘original’ has been severed. I can’t track it—it’s outside my network. The spider silk can’t spread too far beyond the neural web.”

Philip’s expression betrayed his disappointment. “…So is this empty shell of an avatar useful to us at all?”

“It still has some value,” Narithiel considered carefully. “When we get back, I’ll have Duvalet and Megor help dismantle it. Maybe some memories remain inside.”

“Thanks for your trouble.”

Philip nodded, then his gaze involuntarily returned to Malm Dunit. As his eyes scanned the familiar holy symbols embroidered on the man’s robes, his expression grew complicated. The young imperial general opened his mouth, as if to say something, but in the end, all that came out was a silent sigh.

He had once believed in the war god. Even now, he wasn’t sure if he had truly abandoned that faith.

When he first learned of the divine disaster brewing in Typhon, Philip had gone through a difficult period of reflection. He even visited a church of the Holy Light to discuss faith with priests who had embraced new doctrines. That helped somewhat. Later, he studied Emperor Gawain Cecil’s writings on social order and religious belief, which also influenced him.

At least, his resolve had been restored, and he no longer wavered in his words and actions.

Yet now, seeing the war god’s symbols again, and witnessing a high-ranking cleric from Typhon who had become the mad god’s mouthpiece, he couldn’t help but sigh, feeling a deep sense of loss and emptiness.

He suddenly recalled something Emperor Gawain Cecil once said to him in casual conversation… Perhaps this was the “growing pain” many in the world were destined to face.

Narithiel circled Malm Dunit’s avatar twice, pulling more spider silk from the air as if carefully wrapping a package, binding the unresponsive spirit even tighter. Then she tugged at the webbing around his waist—a robust adult, much larger than her, felt as light as a feather in her grasp. After finishing, she glanced up at Philip and casually said, “You should be cautious. You’ve been baptized and once held sincere faith. According to research by human heretics, once that ‘connection’ is established, even if your conscious faith wanes, the bond doesn’t easily disappear.”

Before Philip could reply, she stepped forward. The “former god” seemed to cross an invisible barrier, and both she and her “cargo” vanished from everyone’s sight.

Philip didn’t have time to thank Narithiel, which annoyed the young general, who valued etiquette. But there was no time to dwell on personal feelings.

“General,” an aide approached, still tense from the recent upheaval. “That was the ‘messenger’ spreading corruption, right? It looks like the divine disaster in Typhon has completely spiraled out of control…”

For most nations, the concept of a divine disaster was either unheard of or a top-secret taboo. But the people of Cecil, having faced two such disasters before, were familiar with the term—it was in their textbooks, newspapers, broadcasts, and frontline military manuals.

Everyone here knew what they might face and spoke openly about it.

“We could have doubted before…” Philip’s face grew grave. “But now it’s clear. The war god’s corruption has infiltrated Typhon’s military. The divine disaster has erupted there. From now on, we’re fighting a war against a god gone mad.”

He seemed to summon all his strength to say this, then slowly lifted his gaze—not toward his aide, but beyond his shoulder, past the bustling hall, past the thick, sturdy walls of Treaty Keep—toward Winterwolf Keep.

…

The sun had set two hours ago, and the dense night shrouded the barren plains.

But the silence of night was shattered by relentless cannon fire. Flashes from exploding magic crystal shells and scorching beams lit up the cold darkness repeatedly. Amid the chilling howls, explosions, and thunderous roars, Winterwolf Keep seemed besieged by countless ferocious beasts in the night, shaking violently under the continuous bombardment.

Yet this “shaking” was an illusion. Andsa knew Winterwolf Keep well. The fortress remained solid; all shield nodes still had ample reserves. The enchanted walls had yet to suffer real damage. The mages guarding the keep and the soldiers manning the ballistae still had shifts to rest. The garrison’s stamina was intact.

This stalemate was the most reassuring thing so far, and much credit went to the timely arrival of the Black Banner Mage Legion.

Above the southwestern walls, a hazy magical aura shimmered, layered with floating runic light patterns. Amplified by powerful resonance, a legion-level spell took shape. Moments later, a lightning storm erupted kilometers away in the sky, thick bolts crisscrossing and sweeping the battlefield. In the bright flashes from thunderclaps, Andsa’s supernatural vision strained to see the Cecil artillery positions at the edge of the storm’s reach.

They appeared to have pulled back again—further weakening their own long-range firepower.

Not all “heavenly fire” spells could strike targets several or even a dozen kilometers away. Cecil’s magical devices had range limits. With the distance growing, many medium and small “heavenly fire” attacks could no longer threaten Winterwolf’s walls.

But this was hardly cause for celebration.

The Black Banner Mage Legion’s pride—their devastating legion-level spells—were reduced here to passive defense. Their precious mana was spent on futile “deterrent bombardments,” occasionally destroying a reckless enemy squad, but yielding no real gains.

Since nightfall, Count Parin Winterwolf’s expression had not improved.

Andsa knew there was no easy solution. The root of this predicament boiled down to one fact: the Cecilians were willing to scatter their troops across the plains, charging recklessly. Even if a few units were wiped out, more reinforcements followed. But Winterwolf Keep would never allow the Black Banner Mages to step beyond its walls.

Yet none of this should have happened…

Standing on the castle’s high terrace, Andsa frowned, watching the chaotic, turbulent night. The scene felt almost absurd.

She knew the war god’s church had caused the problem, tricking Typhon into starting this “war.” But why were the Cecilians reacting so strangely?

They seemed determined to fight, but this didn’t match the assessments of her grandfather and many military advisors back home.

“General,” the aide’s voice called from behind, pulling Andsa from her thoughts. “Count Winterwolf requests your presence to discuss tonight’s defense plan—he’s in the east hall.”

Andsa glanced once more toward the walls, then turned to the aide and nodded. “Understood.”

She stepped forward to leave the terrace, but just before passing the aide, she stopped.

“General?”

“Any word from the capital? Matilda, His Majesty, or my grandfather,” she asked quietly. “Any response?”

“No,” the adjutant shook his head. “The message to Aldernon has been sent three times already, but there’s been no reply. The communication tower network from the border to the capital was recently upgraded, so it’s hard to say if some nodes might be causing delays. If you’re worried the message got stuck somewhere along the way, we can send it again.”

Delays in transmission… at a time like this?

Andersa looked at her adjutant. “Clodion, if things are already in chaos here, then at Aldernon—the headquarters of the War God’s Church—what could be happening…?”

“That’s a terrifying possibility,” he admitted, “but for now, all we can do is trust His Majesty and the Parliament’s judgment and capabilities. Everyone has their role to play.”

“…You’re right,” Andersa hesitated for a moment, then sighed in resignation.

No matter what, obedience had been drilled into her since childhood. As the border commander, she knew her authority had limits.

“General, should we try contacting Aldernon once more?” the adjutant asked.

“No need. I’m going to the East Hall to see Count Winterfort,” Andersa said, shaking her head as she stepped forward. Without looking back, she added, “You stay in the main hall. Come find me immediately if anything happens.”

“Yes, General.”

Andersa left the terrace, descending the spiral staircase. She crossed the connecting corridor between the tower and the city walls, quickening her pace toward the East Hall.

The cold night wind, carrying distant sounds of cannon fire, tousled the fine strands of hair at her temples.

At a fork in the path, she suddenly stopped.

She looked up at a nearby tower—a structure resembling a mage’s tower, but at its peak floated a strange ring glowing faintly in the darkness. The ring slowly rotated, held aloft by a force field, emitting a low, subtle hum that echoed through the night.

That was the Winterwolf Fortress communication tower.

Andersa rarely ventured into this facility. Without any magical talent herself, she neither understood how the tower operated nor could she use its arcane devices. Such matters were always handled by the mages under her command.

Now, with war erupting suddenly and Winterwolf Fortress overwhelmed by chaos, she barely had a moment to breathe, let alone check on the tower’s status—something that wasn’t really her responsibility as the supreme commander.

Yet here she was, standing before the communication tower.

Something… felt off. She sensed she might have missed a crucial detail or been blinded by something unseen.

Her expression hardened. Hand resting on the hilt of her sword, she strode purposefully toward the tower.

Two battle golems stood silently at the tower’s entrance, seemingly functioning normally.

Andersa passed between them and pushed open the tower’s heavy door.

A faint scent of blood drifted into her nostrils.

(End of chapter)