Chapter 993: A Double Stage
Andersa lay back down on the bed, her father sitting quietly beside her.
Everything felt like a dream—so much so that even the sharp pain from the wound she’d just tugged at couldn’t convince her this was real. A wave of dizziness washed over her again, that weak, unsteady kind of vertigo that seemed to signal the moment just before waking from a dream.
She lifted her head and stared at her father’s face, scrutinizing every detail as if trying to carve each wrinkle, every strand of hair, every subtle expression into her memory. She wanted to compare this image with the one she’d held onto for over a decade, though she wasn’t sure why—perhaps just to keep her mind busy, to calm the storm inside her.
Her father looked nothing like the man she remembered. Except for his eyes, she could hardly find any familiar features in his face. Was it simply the passage of time erasing her childhood memories? Or had life’s harsh experiences truly transformed him so completely?
“You look nothing like the man I remember,” she finally said, unable to hold back. “I recall you having a high forehead… and a broader nose than this.”
Bard reached up and touched his own face.
Indeed, it had changed—far beyond what the passage of time alone could explain. Embracing darkness and corruption came at a price. He had lost count of how many forbidden, dangerous powers he’d dabbled in, or how much he’d sacrificed for them… flesh altered, divine corruption tested, mutations, poisons—his face had shifted repeatedly between human and something else, reshaped time and again. Though he’d tried to maintain his original human appearance, the face staring back at him was now almost unrecognizable.
There were probably few left in the world who could still recognize him.
“This is the price of surviving until today,” Bard said with a bitter smile. “But it’s all behind me now. I’m doing well here.”
Andersa was silent for a moment before finally asking the question she’d been holding back since earlier: “So you’ve been in Cecil… Ansu all this time? You didn’t die—you were just captured by Ansu and became one of them?”
Her tone was accusatory, but there was a hint of uncertainty beneath it—after all, she was now just a surrendered prisoner of war, hardly in a position to question her father.
Still, anger simmered beneath her words, almost bordering on resentment. It was the shock of having her long-held worldview shattered. She stared at him, not just seeking an answer, but hoping he could offer a complete explanation—something to make this “betrayal” less shameful.
Bard had expected this question and had prepared for it, but when the moment came, he fell silent for a long time before mustering the courage to speak.
“Andersa, I… I’ve been through a lot. Over the years, I’ve done things… far worse than you can imagine.”
…
Marguerite stood atop a tower on the west wall of Solin Fortress. Though the world outside was gripped by winter’s chill, the breeze here felt warm and gentle, like spring. She brushed a stray lock of hair from her forehead and gazed toward the massive tree trunk in the distance, exhaling softly.
This was the highest point in all of Solin Fortress, yet even here, the towering canopy of the Solin Great Tree loomed far above. She tilted her head back to admire the layered green “dome,” dotted with countless glowing vines and delicate, veil-like fungal threads that shimmered like stars in the night sky. If one didn’t know the dark secret beneath, it would seem a scene from a dream—but this enchanting spectacle was rooted in the blood-soaked depths of a sinister cult.
A soft rustling came from behind her. Some flowering vines that had clung to the tower’s exterior shifted and parted, revealing Beltira stepping out from the greenery.
“Good day, General Marguerite,” Beltira greeted.
Marguerite didn’t turn around. “How did the reunion between that ‘young lady’ and her father go?”
“The atmosphere was decent… though it’s gotten a bit tense now. But I think they’ll work things out in the end,” Beltira replied, pausing briefly. “Honestly, I don’t think it’s a good idea for Bard to reveal his past decade-plus with the Cult of the End of All Things to his daughter—especially while she’s still recovering. But he seems to disagree.”
“They haven’t seen each other in so long. Maybe Bard couldn’t find a better topic. And from what I’ve seen, Andersa Windell doesn’t seem like someone who’d lose control over something like this.”
“Perhaps,” Beltira said softly after a moment’s silence. “I haven’t had family or friends for so long that I barely understand these things anymore… The experiences and memories from centuries ago probably don’t apply to this generation.”
Marguerite gave the ancient druid a long, thoughtful look, then said casually, “You’ve probably heard the news—Solin will be sending a mixed support force, including combat, construction, and medical personnel, to the Winterwolf Fortress front to counter the growing Typhon counterattacks.”
“Ah, yes, of course. I’m responsible for much of the work here,” Beltira replied calmly. “It’s normal. A significant portion of Solin’s production and construction corps were conscripted from the Eastern Territories last year. They’re familiar with the Changfeng-Winterwolf standoff.”
“…Don’t you have any thoughts about this?” Marguerite asked.
Beltira returned the question. “What do you mean?”
“You were once a Typhon, though long ago,” Marguerite said seriously, meeting her gaze. “Strictly speaking… you’re even an ancestor of Rosetta Augustus, part of the Typhon royal family. Now the Typhon are facing a divine calamity, and Cecil is at war with them. I thought you’d have a special interest in this.”
“You said it yourself—it was a long time ago,” Beltira smiled, though the expression was stiff. “I left Typhon far longer ago than the time Bard and his daughter have been apart. So long ago that I’ve forgotten what the faces of the Augustus family looked like. There’s no one I know there anymore, no cities or streets I recognize. Even Orlandel, as I remember it, sank beneath the earth two centuries ago… It’s a strange place to me now. I have no feelings about it.”
Marguerite paused, then smiled faintly. “That makes sense.”
A wind blew in from the distant north, rustling the vast canopy of the Solin Great Tree. Its branches stretched for kilometers, and Beltira’s sharp gaze followed them eastward. Beyond the tree’s sensing range, all she could see was endless darkness.
…
Fog—endless, boundless fog—blanketed all of Aldern.
Every year at this time, the city standing on the plains was shrouded in thick mist. The people of Aldern had grown accustomed to this season of dense fog, living for months under a dim, chaotic sky. To the poetic eye, the drifting fog between buildings and the shadowy outlines of rooftops and towers was a mesmerizing sight. Poems about the foggy imperial capital had been written and recited for over two centuries, found everywhere, anytime.
But in the second year of Cecil (Typhon year 739), the fog brought the citizens of Aldern not beauty, but unease.
A wave of panic spread through the city, fueled by rumors: strange noises from the War God’s Cathedral, said to be possessed by evil spirits; frequent troop movements; reports from the front lines—all stoking the nerves of the Typhon people. And on the last day of the first week of the fog month, a truly significant event occurred.
Unlike the vague, anxiety-inducing rumors, this was clear and undeniable: the Emperor had temporarily dissolved the Imperial Parliament, with unanimous approval from all members.
No one knew what future awaited the city—or the nation.
But for the common folk living in the city’s underbelly, such “big issues” were beyond their concern. Factories still ran, the exchange, stations, and docks still needed workers. In fact, with this inexplicable war underway, the machines in the factories seemed to spin even faster than before, and those working the factory floors had to work harder just to keep up with the speeding gears and shafts.
Borne wrapped his worn coat tightly around himself as he hurried along the path to the mage-powered train station. He’d walked this route countless times—almost every day he left from here to the station or the nearby warehouse to load and unload cargo, only returning home after sunset to his shabby apartment in Lower Cross Street. He wasn’t alone on this path; many others heading to the station shared the same route. They moved through the fog at varying paces, silent except for the sound of their footsteps—like the unspoken gears and chains inside the factories.
The jingle of a two-wheeled cart sounded nearby. Borne glanced sideways and saw a young postman riding through the mist, a large black bag strapped to the back, already dampened by the fog.
The postman moved among the workers with a lively, even proud air, clearly believing his job was more dignified than theirs, mere laborers hauling goods.
Borne shook his head without thought and kept walking.
Suddenly, a sound shattered the fog’s quiet: a sharp resonance cut through the city from above, followed by a brief, stirring melody. The sound was so sudden and clear it seemed to ripple through the ever-present mist, flowing like sunlight in winter.
Borne froze for a moment, then recognized it—the chimes released by the magical towers scattered throughout the city, all linked directly to the Obsidian Palace. The citizens of Aldern knew well what these “wizard-controlled devices” meant when they sounded: someone important, with the authority to speak over the entire city, was about to address them.
This message would soon appear in newspapers, sent across the nation.
Borne instinctively hunched his shoulders as a deep, commanding male voice suddenly boomed out, startling him—
“…Greetings to my diligent and loyal subjects. I am your protector and the Empire’s faithful servant, Rosetta Augustus…
“…The royal family is aware of the tension spreading through the city, but I urge everyone to remain calm. The situation is under control, and in the coming days…
“…The Empire has entered a state of wartime emergency. During these difficult times, the royal family will spare no effort to safeguard the rights of every citizen. I hereby announce the following decrees:
“…Workers’ rights in factories will be protected, with minimum wages set for all positions… For those who contribute through extended hours and overtime production, special rewards will be established…
“…Regarding wartime food supplies and medical resources…”
…
The magical broadcast echoed across the city, audible clearly from every corner of Aldern.
“Madness… pure madness!!”
A short, stocky man paced angrily across the hall, its floor covered in deep crimson carpet. His expensive, finely crafted leather boots sank slightly into the thick fabric, muffling his footsteps. His luxurious formal attire was rumpled from his rough movements, and one of the buttons at his collar had popped off—torn loose in a fit of rage.
Nearby, several high-ranking battle mages clad in black robes stood silently, their cold gazes fixed on the man’s unruly display. Their faces showed neither pity nor mockery.
“He can’t do this! Listen, he can’t—no matter that he’s the Emperor!” the stout man shouted, his face flushed red as he addressed the robed mages. “He has no right to strip me of my honors and titles—those were granted to my family by his father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather! What have I done? Nothing! I was only trying to uphold our proud traditions! Go tell that man in the Obsidian Palace that he has no authority—”
“Sir Yule, you have one last minute to settle your affairs,” one of the black-robed mages interrupted calmly, cutting through the man’s outburst. “If you’re ready, please come with us. Besides formalities, you will have much to explain to Prince Hadrian.”
“Explain what? I have nothing to explain!”
“For example, the three illegal estates under your name, or the extra gold bars in your treasury—” the mage said quietly, “Or the people who have gone missing from your family’s castle?”
The stout man’s face turned even redder with fury as he glared at the wandering mages. “Listen, I don’t know where these baseless accusations come from—and even if they were true, what does that mean for a noble like me? Are you seriously going to drag me away on such charges!?”
“Unfortunately, you have only one choice—to come with us to the Obsidian Palace. At least that will prove your loyalty to the Empire and to His Majesty the Emperor himself.”
The man’s eyes widened, then suddenly he seemed to regain his composure. Taking a half step back, he tugged hard at his coat and spoke deliberately, word by word: “Have that wet-behind-the-ears Hadrian Augustus come see me in person. Or have his father come!”
The battle mages exchanged glances.
“Very well, Sir Yule. Then it will be the second option.”
One of the mages stepped forward.
“You are not loyal.”
(Recommendation time! From the author Woniu Zhenren comes Earthlings Are Just Too Fierce, a sci-fi novel. Woniu needs no introduction—many know his earlier work Forty Thousand Years of Cultivation. The quality and update speed are guaranteed. Definitely worth a read.)
(End of chapter)