Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 598 - 597: Gloom

Within the Eastern Fortress Sorinburg, built of piled stones, Edmund Moen, draped in a black coat, sat silently in his high-backed chair. A letter, already opened, lay on the table before him, illuminated by the light of the Magic crystal lamps. A corner of the letter bore the emblem of crossed sword and plough, the seal of the Cecil Clan.

The Oblivion Association believers invaded and damaged the critical functions of the sentinel towers... The earliest erosion may have occurred hundreds of years ago...

If it weren’t for the clues discovered in the shadow realm by the chance intervention of Gawain Cecil and his team, the actions of those cultists might never have been discovered—until the great walls collapsed, until human civilization was destroyed.

A palpable pressure enveloped the castle’s long hall, the foul mood of the powerful Order Supernatural causing the attendants and guards to tremble like cicadas in the cold. Until a steady, powerful footstep echoed from the hall entrance, and Duke of the East Silas Loland, clad in full armor, walked in, the atmosphere gradually softened, returning to normalcy.

Silas Loland walked straight toward the main seat of the hall, bowed before Edmund Moen: ”Your Highness—what has happened?”

”A letter from the south,” Edmund spoke briefly, pushing the letter forward, ”Take a look, Duke Loland.”

Silas Loland took the letter bearing the Cecil Clan emblem curiously, scanned it quickly, and furrowed his brow: ”Your Highness, when was this delivered?”

Edmund’s tone was low: ”Arrived at Sorinburg this morning.”

After winter set in, the Anzu Kingdom’s military and the Duke of the East further reduced their troops due to the severe cold. Edmund temporarily returned from the Gigantic Tree Path Entrance frontline to Sorinburg, serving as a temporary base camp. Thus, letters from the southern borders arrived later than usual.

Silas Loland swiftly calculated the travel of the letter, reminiscing over the series of messages from the south, and said thoughtfully: ”It seems Cecil Duke just arrived at the wasteland border and discovered these situations...”

Edmund took a gentle breath and looked at Silas: ”Lord Loland, the focus isn’t here.”

”The focus is on those Dark Cultists,” Silas Loland calmly said, his vision firmly on Edmund, ”Your Highness, we’ve known this from the beginning.”

”Yes, I know. They were never trustworthy...” Edmund closed his eyes slightly, and upon reopening, there was a hint of chill in his gaze, ”Lord Loland, we should heed the warning from Cecil Duke, shouldn’t we?”

”Of course,” Silas Loland nodded, expressionless, ”Eradicate evil and maintain peace, it’s the duty of the aristocracy.”

”Good... Belk should return to Sorinburg shortly. Once he returns, let’s entrust this matter to him—I believe that principled young man will handle it well.”

Silas Loland lowered his head slightly: ”Certainly, as you wish.”

Accompanied by steady, powerful footsteps, Duke of the East departed from the long hall.

Edmund Moen sat quietly in the high-backed chair, his gaze once again passing over the warning letter from the south.

His sight lingered for a moment before looking towards the many documents and maps on the other side.

The Anzu Kingdom’s military adjusted its deployment after winter began, a Mountain Corps was stationed north of the Gigantic Tree Path Entrance, the winter chill in that area surpassing even the plains, Duke of the North, Victoria Wilder, had clearly personally arrived at the frontline. It’s said her Mountain Corps was fearless of the cold...

Several towns in the eastern parts of Sorinburg still hadn’t achieved better security, the influence of previous leaders hadn’t fully dissipated.

The political reform within the Duke of the East’s territories faced unexpected backlash, with a large number of farmers resisting the land exchange bill—clearly, this wasn’t a spontaneous act but one spurred by the conservative leaders, though he couldn’t find evidence.

Progress in education plans was slow, people lacked enthusiasm for literacy, and among the executors—the lower-level scribes and minor aristocracy—almost none took their roles seriously. In many areas, they viewed such tasks as ”penalties” or ”degradations,” thinking ”teaching commoners to read is an undignified job”...

The Anzu Kingdom’s military was gaining ground, the conservative faction was resurging, the reformists were dividing, those executing decrees were exasperatingly slow, and the populace... the people he labored to help, to improve their plight, didn’t comprehend his legislation.

Initially, everything went smoothly, the military’s successive victories and spoils boosted morale for everyone, pushing for decrees faced no hindrance, but once the war came to a standstill, once the reforms involved ”land” and ”population,” countless obstacles and difficulties arose.

The sense of frustration crept in—a burden unavoidable—Edmund Moen suddenly felt irritable, reaching to take the cup from the table, wanting a sip of water to ease his restlessness.

—To maintain clarity of mind, he hadn’t imbibed in ages.

At that moment, his peripheral vision caught the fireplace on one side of the hall flaring with unusually bright flames, the leaping fire seemed shadowy, potentially conjuring something out of the hearth. Even the nearby ornamental candle brackets experienced an inexplicable surge, the flames growing.

It wasn’t a secluded secret room or the top of a sentinel towers, the hall had attendants and guards all around, worsening Edmund Moen’s already sour mood. He frowned and waved towards the fireplace: ”Audacious!”

The flames in the fireplace instantly returned to normal. Whatever had attempted to project was clearly interrupted.

Edmund Moen snorted derisively, emptied his cup in one gulp.

...

In the western part of Gigantic Tree Path Entrance, within the kingdom-controlled town of White Pine Town, Viscount Horn, dressed in a dark red coat, sat inside the carriage, listening to the soldier’s report outside with great displeasure.

Damn it, this is the cold winter! A Viscount having to run to the streets where commoners live in this terrible weather, overseeing some ”evil eradication,” listening to those foolish soldiers ramble on—what law is this?!

Viscount Horn cursed inwardly, but dared not utter his thoughts, as these matters were orders from Regent Duke Victoria, and that Duchess of the North who wields the power of winter was stationed not far north. He felt every indiscreet word spoken here would immediately reach the ears of the Duchess—no good would come of it.

The cold wind seemingly blew through the gaps of the carriage, prompting Viscount Horn to tighten his already thick and warm coat—despite being a low-level Spellcaster, years of indulgence had already hollowed out his body. Even with the protection of the Wind Shield, he found the weather unbearably cold, while the soldier outside continued to relay:

”... Three people found dead in the cellar, clearly engaged in desecrating activities, with a bloodstained altar and containers of suspicious liquid found at the scene...

”The original owner of the house is missing, and people on the street say they haven’t been seen since winter set in, which matches the informant’s description...

”... The three evil cult followers might have committed suicide, or it might have been internal conflict, that’s for you to judge, sir...”

A hint of impatience flashed in Viscount Horn’s eyes, but when he spoke, he maintained a slow and steady tone—a manner of speaking with specific rhythm and intonation that a qualified aristocrat must possess: ”I understand—so, in short, someone reported to the Knight about the evil cult followers’ traces, and you indeed found the desecrated altar and three dead cult followers here, correct, unmistakable.”

The soldier’s voice came from outside: ”Yes, sir—and also a missing resident...”

”I know, I know,” Viscount Horn interrupted the soldier, ”I’ve known about this, follow the proper disposition, burn the cultists’ corpses, purify the altar with Holy Water, the house returns to the leader, that’s it.”

Having said that, he was about to order his departure from this place, but the inflexible soldier continued to speak: ”But... but sir, wouldn’t you... would you like to see... It’s still the pro...”

What a blockhead, unknown who arranged such a fool into the city guard.

Viscount Horn cursed inwardly, quickly pushed open the cover at the carriage window, and glanced outside.

Outside was a tattered street, semi-melted snow rotting the walls of roadside houses and rubbish piles, a few soldiers guarding a house entrance, three corpses starting to emit a stench thrown on grass mats, with ”heterodoxies evidence” like ritual daggers, pots, stone pieces on the mats, and some cringing poor people watching from a distance—some standing by the roadside, some hiding behind windows or doors.

Those fearful yet foolish gazes were very uncomfortable.

Viscount Horn just glanced and quickly lowered the cover on the window: ”Alright, I’ve witnessed it in person, go ahead as I said—Mr. Pierre, pay them for their services.”

Outside the carriage, the Viscount’s butler took out three silver coins—payment for dealing with the cultists’ corpses and purifying the evil altar—and handed them to the waiting soldier captain.

Subsequently, the Viscount and his attendants, butlers left the street.

The remaining soldiers glanced at each other, either shook their heads or muttered a few words, before waving their swords to drive away the onlooking peasants who had come too close, with the captain calling a soldier over, casually handing the silver coin: ”Alright, as the leader said, find two people to handle this place.”

The soldier holding the silver coin watched his captain turn away, shrugged.

Then he noticed that quite a few of the commoners were still standing there—those ragged, emaciated people, some chased away by the swords earlier hadn’t gone far, they simply stood dumbly by the roadside, using a strange, numb, empty gaze to look at the three corpses, the house without an owner, soon to be claimed by the leader.

The soldier left behind appeared bewildered, inexplicably shivering.

Damn cold weather, these commoners’ minds must have been frozen into bewilderment.

In inexplicable unease, the soldier abandoned the idea of scavenging that unowned house—for houses on this street likely had nothing of value anyway.

He lifted his head, looking past those numb and vacant peasants, saw two corpse pullers already waiting outside the crowd—the dirty grey-black robes and the Reaper amulets hanging around the necks are the most noticeable features of the corpse pullers, these fellows who deal with corpses are always keen-smelling, they’d likely been waiting nearby within half an hour of rumors of corpses being here.

”Today’s bad luck...”

The soldier mumbled, called the corpse pullers over, casually handed them a few copper coins, instructing: ”Drag the bodies outside the town and burn them—remember, they must be burned, orders from above.”

After those words, he disregarded how the corpse pullers responded, stepped away from the place.

The primary reason for leaving quickly was knowing the corpse pullers would surely haggle—burning corpses requires extra money for wood and fat, those few copper coins were insufficient.

But after leaving, the matter would be none of his concern.

The leader departed, the butler left, as did the soldiers.

On the street remained only several dozen commoners standing scattered in the cold wind, three evil cultists’ corpses lying on grass mats, a ground full of messy footprints, and two corpse pullers.