Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 994: Chapter 993: Dual Stages

Andresha returned to the bed, her father sitting by her side.

Everything felt like a dream—even the pain from just now pulling at her wound couldn’t assure Andresha of the reality of it all. She felt lightheaded again, a dizzy sensation washed over her in waves, leaving her weak and unsteady—was this a sign of imminent awakening from a dream?

She raised her head, looking at her father’s face, scrutinizing every detail, as if to engrave every wrinkle, each strand of hair, and every subtle change in expression completely into her mind, then comparing them earnestly with images from over a decade ago...

Her father was almost entirely different from her memory, other than those familiar eyes, Andresha found few details in his face that matched those from her past... Was this simply because time had blurred her memory of childhood details, or had the experiences of these years truly changed a person so significantly?

"You’re completely different from how I remember," she couldn’t help but say, "I remember you having a high forehead... and a nose bridge wider than now..."

Bard touched his own face.

Indeed, this face has indeed changed a lot, changes hardly explainable even by the passage of time—embracing darkness and downfall requires a price, he couldn’t remember how many dangerous forbidden powers he had touched, nor could he remember how much he had paid for those powers... Morphing flesh, divine evils Factor tests, mutations, toxins, this face had shifted between human and non-human countless times, reshaped again and again, even though he tried hard to maintain a human appearance, eventually, this face had become unrecognizable.

There were likely few people left in the world who could still recognize him.

"This is the cost of surviving to this day," Bard said with a slight self-deprecating smile, "Fortunately, it’s all over now, I’m doing well here."

Andresha was silent for a moment, finally unable to hold back the question that had been in her mind since the start: "So have you been in Cecil... Anzu all this time? You weren’t dead at all, you were captured by Anzu and became one of them?"

Her words carried a tone of accusation, though somewhat lacking in confidence—because she, too, now was just a prisoner of war who chose to surrender, seemingly no more qualified to question her father.

But she was evidently somewhat angry, almost enraged—it was the emotion arising from the shock to the life values she had held onto for so long. She stared at her father, seeking not just answers, but hoping he could provide a convincing explanation, to make this "betrayal" less disgraceful.

Bard had long predicted this question would come, he had prepared for it over a long time, yet when the moment truly arrived, he remained silent for a long time before mustering the courage to speak: "Andresha, I... experienced many things. Over the years, I’ve done some... far worse things than you imagine."

...

Margarita arrived at a tower on the western wall of Sorinburg, despite the cold winter outside, the wind blowing through the tower was warm and pleasant like spring. She brushed aside a stray strand of hair ruffling in the wind, raised her head, and looked in the direction of the giant tree trunk, exhaling gently.

This was the highest point in all of Sorinburg, yet even here, Margarita was still far from the magnificent crown of the Sorin Giant Tree. She looked up at the layered green "canopy," with countless glowing vines and gently hanging mycelium between them, shimmering like the night sky—a captivating view, and if not for knowing the secrets behind it, who would think this dream-like landscape was rooted above the flesh abyss of a Dark Cult?

A soft rustling sound came from nearby, some flowering vines that clung outside the tower writhed over behind Margarita, Beltira emerged slowly from among the vines: "Good day, General Margarita."

Margarita didn’t turn around: "Was the reunion between the ’young lady’ and her father smooth?"

"The atmosphere was decent... although it’s gotten a bit tense, I think it will work out in the end," Beltira said, pausing slightly, "Truthfully, I don’t think Bard revealing his decade-plus experiences with the Oblivion Association to his daughter now is a wise choice—especially not when she hasn’t fully recovered, but he seems to think otherwise."

"...They haven’t seen each other for such a long time, maybe Mr. Bard couldn’t find a better topic, and I don’t see Miss Andresha Wendell as someone who would lose control over such matters either."

"Perhaps," Beltira remained silent for a moment, then spoke softly, "I haven’t had family or friends for so long, I no longer understand these matters... The experiences and memories from centuries ago probably don’t apply to this generation either."

Margarita looked deeply at the ancient Druid who could no longer be considered human, and seemingly casually said: "I assume you’ve received the news—A combined support unit from Sorin, including combat, construction, and medical personnel, is being dispatched to the Winterwolf Fortress front, to respond to the increasingly fierce counterattacks by the Typhon Empire there."

"Ah, of course, I received it, after all, I handle much of the work here," Beltira responded calmly, "That’s normal, a considerable part of the Sorin Region’s production construction army members were summoned from the Duke of the East last year, they understand the Longwind-Winterwolf standoff area."

"...Don’t you have any personal thoughts?" Margarita couldn’t help but ask.

Beltira countered with a question: "What do you want to say?"

"You were once a Typhon, though that was a long time ago," Margarita looked at her seriously, "Strictly speaking... you’re even an ancestor of Rosetta Augustus, part of the Typhon Royal Family. Now Typhon faces a divine disaster, while Cecil is at war with them, I thought you’d have extra attention towards this."

"You also said, that was a long time ago," Beltira suddenly smiled, though the smile was stiff and rigid, "I’ve been away from Typhon far longer than Bard and his daughter have been apart, so long I’ve forgotten what the faces of the Augustus Clan look like. There’s no one I know there now, no cities or streets I recognize, even Orlandeau from my memory sunk into the earth two hundred years ago... It’s a stranger to me now, I find nothing to be emotional about."

Margarita blinked for a moment, then slowly showed a hint of a smile: "I suppose so."

A breeze blew from the distant north, the crown of the Sorin Giant Tree rustled in large, long-lasting waves, the branches stretching kilometers in length, and Beltira’s gaze extended through the branches, looking toward the distant east—yet beyond the giant tree’s sensory range, all she could perceive as a plant was endless darkness.

...

Fog, an endless fog, cloaked all of Aldernon.

This time of year, lasting fog always shrouded this city standing on the plains, the people of Aldernon had grown accustomed to this fog-laden season, and accustomed to living under the prolonged, murky, dim skies that persisted for months. To those with a poetic perception, the drifting fog between buildings and the vague outlines of rooftops and sentinel towers in the mist even held a type of intoxicating beauty—the verses about the imperial capital in the fog have pervaded and been readily found or composed throughout two centuries’ worth of time.

Yet in the Fog Month of the 2nd year of Cecil (739th year of Typhon), what Aldernon’s citizens sensed the most from this familiar fog was tension and unease.

An atmosphere of fear spread through the city with all sorts of rumors, those War God Churches that continually emitted strange noises, said to be occupied by malevolent spirits, those frequently mobilized troops and the news arriving from the front lines, all strained the nerves of the Typhon, and on the last day of the first week of the Fog Month, another major event occurred.

Compared to those unclear, anxiety-inducing rumors, at least this matter is unmistakably clear: with the unanimous votes of all councilors in the Empire’s parliament, His Majesty the King has temporarily closed the parliament.

No one knows what future this city—or this country—will face.

But for the civilians living at the bottom of this city, they have not yet reached a level to worry about such "big matters." Factories are still operating, exchanges, stations, and docks still require a large number of employees, and even due to the inexplicable outbreak of war, machines in factories are spinning more merrily than usual, and those working in the factories... they have to work harder to keep pace with the ever-faster bearings and gears.

Boone wrapped his already quite worn-out coat tightly around himself and hurriedly walked on the road to the Magic-guided Train station. He had walked this path many times; almost every day he had to set off from here, to carry things in the station or warehouse beside the station, load and unload the carriage, and only when the sun set could he step onto the road home, returning to the shabby apartment block on Lower Cross Street. And he was not the only one walking this path; many others heading to work at the station walked the same route with him—they walked in silence, more or less quickly, within the fog, and only the sound of footsteps could be heard, akin to those voiceless gears and chains within the factories.

The sound of a bell from a twin-wheeled vehicle came from nearby. Boone glanced aside and saw a young postman riding his bike through the fog, with a large black bag mounted on the rear seat, having been largely dampened by the mist.

The postman appeared spirited and even somewhat proud as he passed among these workers, evidently considering his work more dignified than the manual labor carried out by these mere porters.

Boone shook his head, thinking of nothing, just kept on hurrying along his path.

But then another sound emerged, breaking the peace within the fog: it came from overhead, as if some sharp resonant tone suddenly swept across the whole city, followed immediately by a short, uplifting tune echoing from above, so sudden and loud that even the unfading mist of Aldernon seemed shaken by this sound, streaming under the winter sun.

Boone paused for a moment, quickly realizing what it was—this was the sound emitted from Mage spires set throughout the city, and these Mage spires were all directly connected to the Obsidian Palace. Citizens of Aldernon were very aware that the sound from these "Mage-controlled formidable devices" signaled an announcement from a person of authority speaking over the entire city.

The upcoming voice would even appear in recent newspapers, and be sent to various parts of the nation.

Instinctively, Boone shrank his neck, listening as a dignified, low male voice suddenly sounded, startling him—

"...Greetings to my diligent and loyal subjects, I am your protector and the Empire’s faithful servant, Emperor Rosetta Augustus...

"...The royal family has noticed the tension permeating the city, but please relax, the situation has been effectively controlled, soon...

"...The Empire has entered into an emergency wartime state, and the royal family will spare no effort in protecting every citizen’s rights during this difficult period. I hereby personally announce the following legislation:

"...Labor rights within factories will be assured, income for all positions shall not be less than... Specific rewards will be devised for workers who extend hours for additional production, contributing positively to the Empire...

"Concerning wartime food supply and medical materials..."

...

The magic broadcast echoed above the city, audible in every corner of Aldernon.

"Madness... madness... madness!!"

A short, stout man paced angrily in a hall lined with dark red carpet, his expensive and exquisite leather boots sunk into the thick carpet, making barely a sound. His luxurious attire was creased from his violent movement, with even a button missing from the collar—pulled off during a furious display.

Several high-ranked Battle Mages in black robes stood nearby, watching this man of misplaced manners with indifferent eyes, showing neither compassion nor ridicule.

"He cannot do this! Listen, he cannot do this—even if he is the emperor!" The stout man shouted to the black-robed Mages with a flushed face, "He has no right to strip me of any honor or title; these titles are bestowed upon my clan by his father, his grandfather, his great-grandfather! What have I done? I’ve done nothing! I’m only trying to maintain our glorious tradition! You go reply to the one living in the Obsidian Palace, he has absolutely no right..."

"Sir Yule, you have one last minute to arrange your household affairs," a black-robed Mage suddenly spoke in a calm tone, interrupting the man’s angry shouting, "If you confirm you’ve finished, please come with us—apart from completing procedures, you also 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 excessive gold in your treasury—" the black-robed Mage stated quietly, "Or perhaps those who went missing from your clan’s castle?"

The stout man’s face grew even more flushed, glaring angrily at the wandering Mage before him: "Listen, I don’t know where these groundless accusations originated—and even if they exist, what do they mean to a nobleman like me? Are you going to take me with you based solely on these accusations!?"

"Regrettably, you indeed have only one option—to come with us to the Obsidian Palace, at least it proves your loyalty to the Empire and His Majesty the King."

The stout man stared with widened eyes, suddenly seeming to calm down; he stepped back half a step, forcefully adjusted his coat, and stated word by word: "Let that inexperienced Hadrian Augustus come to see me himself, or have his father come!"

The Battle Mages exchanged glances.

"Alright, Sir Yule, then it shall be the second option."

A Mage took a step forward as he spoke.

"You are not loyal."

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