Chapter 1006: Chapter 1005: The Chessboard

After hearing the news brought by Aunt Heidi, Gawain showed no surprise: "A predictable refusal... Indeed, as it involves the essence of Typhon."

"It seems that the Wolf General will not cooperate," Aunt Heidi stood in front of Gawain’s desk, holding a stack of documents in her hand, her expression serious, "Moreover... I think what she said is right: this is not a decision a commander can make, only Emperor Rosetta Augustus has the authority to make such a level of interest exchange."

"Of course, a straightforward technical exchange would be better," Gawain smiled, "It’s just that such a level of technical exchange is difficult to achieve even in peacetime, let alone in the current tense situation... Forget it, I was just adopting a try-it-and-see attitude, Andresha’s refusal was an expected result."

Saying this, he couldn’t help but sigh inwardly: choosing Bard as the intermediary to contact Andresha seemed the right decision, any other person might have raised the Wolf General’s blood pressure. If done wrong, it might even lead to a fight. Entrusting Bard with this task was to prevent just that— theoretically, even if the Wolf General’s blood pressure were through the roof, she shouldn’t act against her long-lost father...

Some whimsical thoughts floated in his mind. Although Aunt Heidi didn’t know what their ancestor was thinking about, she did notice Gawain getting a bit distracted. She gently coughed to draw his attention before continuing, "The ’mass-produced Transcendent’ plan is currently on hold, and two main plans are being pursued: one is to continue optimizing and adjusting the Psychic Singer’s equipment and training methods from a technical standpoint, finding ways to reduce its neurological burden on the user. The other is to start selecting suitable personnel from mages and transform a portion of the original combat mages into Psychic Singers...

"Besides, Beltira has proposed a third plan."

"A third plan?" Gawain raised an eyebrow, "What is it specifically?"

"These are documents from Sorinburg, Beltira has already drafted the proposal," Aunt Heidi said as she placed the documents on the desk. Her expression was somewhat peculiar, "I skimmed through it... How should I say, as expected from a former dark Druid, the thing she came up with... is quite challenging to one’s acceptance."

Gawain’s curiosity was piqued, and he reached out to open the cover of the document. On the first page, a large heading caught his eye: "Prospects and Technical Key Points of Giant Wetware Nodes in Assisting Spellcasting," followed by a smaller line: To avoid moral and ethical risks, all wetware in the plan is independently cultivated and created by the Sorin Giant Tree.

Gawain’s gaze lingered on those words for several seconds, feeling a bit odd, before he turned the page to continue reading — a detailed, data-rich, thoroughly explained, concise, and seemingly ready-to-implement technical proposal spread out before him.

Before diving into the content of the proposal, he couldn’t help but admire Beltira’s professionalism as a tech specialist — the once-blamed Oblivion Association should indeed be praised for mastering the most cutting-edge biotechnology in human history. Even though they are a dark sect, no one can deny that the leaders in this sect are undeniably technical talents.

Such a technical document, few among the advanced teams at the Mage Institute could produce.

Amidst these thoughts, Gawain’s attention was irresistibly drawn to the ideas mentioned in the document. He read through it meticulously until an exceptionally lifelike concept drawing appeared before his eyes —

A gigantic brain floating in mid-air, a nerve connection plan complex enough to dazzle the eyes, a group of soldiers using artificial nerve cords connected to a giant brain... This picture does, as Aunt Heidi said, challenge the average person’s acceptance of "bizarre." The thing seemed as if it could only be summoned during some evil religious ritual, one glance at it made Gawain feel it was downright sanity-draining — yet this contraption was supposed to protect minds...

Below this picture, Beltira had added a note: An individual Psychic Singer is just an ordinary soldier, but a group forms a complete "Psychic Choir."

"There’s some truth to that... assuming it wasn’t so strange," Gawain muttered when he saw that line. "People with a dozen heads pulling nerve cords flying at low altitudes around a brain floating in mid-air on the battlefield is such a creepy scene..."

He muttered as he quickly flipped through the diagram and continued reading the rest of the document. As he reached near the end, Aunt Heidi finally spoke up, "Ancestor, what do you think of this plan..."

"Honestly, aside from being ugly, it doesn’t seem to have too many flaws... Beltira was in the dark sect for seven hundred years; I mainly wonder if her aesthetic sense is completely gone... no, that’s not important. The plan indeed has value, except for being ugly," Gawain said with a frown and a somewhat conflicted expression. "More critically, we seem to have little time to waste. Anything useful needs to be employed quickly... but it’s still too ugly."

"Then..." Aunt Heidi hesitated to ask, "What is your approval?"

"Approve it," Gawain sighed while glancing at the diagram again, "Beltira stated that most of the process in this plan can be completed within the chambers of the Sorin Giant Tree and won’t occupy existing technical teams and facilities cost. Let her give it a try if that’s the case.... but still a bit ugly."

Aunt Heidi noted Gawain’s instructions, woodenly putting away the documents. She felt their ancestor might have been unable to get over this hurdle...

Just then, the Magic Web Terminal on the desk suddenly emitted a ringing and flashing, finally interrupting the chatter spinning in Gawain’s head. He promptly pulled himself out of the impact brought by the technical document, tidied up his expression, and connected to the Magic Web Terminal.

The terminal emitted a slight humming sound, then a clear holographic projection emerged above, with Yuri’s figure appearing in the projection. He saluted Gawain, his expression serious, "Your Majesty, during the analysis of Malm Dunite’s Spiritual Body fragments, we discovered something and believe it’s necessary to report it to you."

"You’re over at Nariteer’s side?" Gawain blinked, his expression quickly turning serious, "What did you discover?"

Yuri nodded, immediately beginning to report the clues he, Magan, Nariteer, and others had recently uncovered, while Gawain listened intently from behind the desk — as Yuri’s report continued, Gawain’s expression grew increasingly grave.

...

On the northwestern border of Typhon, in the Winterwolf Fortress frontline area, the air was still filled with a pungent smell. Waste energy produced after large-scale spell releases was lingering between the plains and valleys.

Not long ago, a heavy snowfall briefly covered this scorched battlefield, burying the land damaged and burned by artillery and magic power outbursts. Yet, in the face of the war’s flames, nature’s comfort ultimately was torn to pieces — the steel-forged machinery of war and frenzied soldiers paid no heed to this winter snow scene, following another intense battle, another piece of land was burned to ashes.

The Cecil Clan temporarily retreated, and the follow-up troops entering from Typhon began to clear this scorched land.

A Typhon officer in black light armor, draped with a heavy coat, walked across the still smoldering battlefield, where the ground beneath his feet was muddy and cold. The Cecil Clan’s explosives had overturned nearly all the layers of earth atop this hill, leaving a landscape of ugly black soil and shattered stones, interspersed with black-red blood that had yet to congeal, or mingled with mutilated human remains. Across the entire hill, only a few corners still showed any patches of undissolved snow — those white patches stood out conspicuously amidst the black and red backdrop, to an almost glaring extent.

The air was filled with an odor so acrid it was nauseating — the officer was battle-hardened, yet the stench of this battlefield was unlike anything he had encountered elsewhere; it was not just the smell of blood but something even more pungent.

Soldiers bustled around him, some tidying up and recovering materials that could still be put to use, some preparing the corpses that could still be prepared, and others took out prayer books they carried with them, offering blessings and prayers to their respective gods. The officer furrowed his brows, stepping over these soldiers cleaning the battlefield and continued walking forward.

Eventually, he stopped beside a large boulder blackened by artillery fire — or perhaps it was debris from a destroyed fortification. There lay a dying man, resembling a coiled mass of sludge, sprawled between snow and blood.

The officer crouched down, looking at the Typhon soldier struggling to breathe. Judging from the insignia on his tattered clothing, he seemed to be a member of the National Knights Order 11th Corps, a low-ranking knight — the soldier lay in the dirt, his wounds so numerous they were indistinguishable, but the blood smeared everywhere glued him to the earth. His fatal wound, a massive gaping tear in his chest and abdomen, might have been caused by shrapnel or sharp flying stones. Regardless of the cause, it had clearly sealed the soldier’s fate.

In fact, were he a "normal" human being, he would have expired by now.

The officer lowered his head, his gaze sweeping over the wounds. Amidst the filthy blood, he saw some creeping tendrils and flesh sprouts — these nauseating growths stretched in vain, as if trying to close the wounds, to aggregate the spilled blood back together. But these efforts were bound to fail, as their increasingly feeble twitching showed that such "divine power" was at its end.

Perhaps sensing someone nearby, or perhaps at the brink of death, the soldier suddenly opened his eyes, preparing to exhale his last breath. His cloudy, frenzied eyes flickered a terrifying blood-red, yet he could still barely discern the silhouette before him. A frail voice issued from his lips: "Sir... Sir..."

The officer looked at him, softly saying what he had often been saying during these days: "Hold on, the medics are on their way."

"No... there’s no need..." the soldier mumbled as his head moved with imperceptible motions. "The Lord is calling me, already calling me..."

The officer looked expressionlessly at the soldier, listening to his dazed whispers at this final moment, offering no comfort or encouragement.

The soldier’s murmurs grew fainter and quieter, but suddenly, a glimmer appeared in his blood-red eyes, gathering what seemed to be his last strength. He fixed his gaze on his officer, frantically asking over and over: "Did you witness? Did you witness... Did you witness..."

The officer looked at him, slowly replying, "Yes, I witnessed."

With a sudden release, the soldier seemed relieved, his final wish fulfilled. The brilliance within his eyes swiftly dimmed — whether it was the light of twisted madness or human radiance, it faded rapidly. His sunken chest expelled its last breath with a sigh: "I feel... a bit cold..."

After a moment’s silence, the officer stood up, an assisting Mage approached, performed a brief check, and reported back to him: "The soul has dissipated, heart and brain activity have ceased."

"Burn him," the officer nodded, "Remember to recover his identification badge."

Raising his head, he looked across the battlefield and saw more assisting Mages entering the battlefield, while nearby, a large Array for mass cremation was already in operation.

...

Winter Fortress stood amidst the mountains, just as its name suggested; it was a fortress as pristine as ice.

On clear days, from the highest tower of Winter Fortress, one could gaze far to Winterwolf Fortress.

The fortress’s master was the formidable combat Mage, Count Palin Winterhold — he and his family had been rooted in these northern mountains for centuries, serving as pivotal support and reinforcement for the Winterwolf Fort Defense Line. And now, after Winterwolf Fortress fell, the battlefield advanced into Typhon borders, putting Winter Fortress, originally on the secondary defense line... now at the core of the frontline.

In a room on the third floor of the white castle, Count Winterhold stood before a pristine wall, embedded with precious Magic Crystals around it. The wall was coated with a magic layer that continuously flowed like mercury. As the surrounding crystals gradually lit up, the mercury-like flowing layer began to reveal a scene from afar.

It was the image delivered by the Eye of the Mage from various nodes along the Winter Fortress Defense Line through the communication Tower. Although slightly distorted, features like mountains, rivers, and woodland could clearly be discerned. Count Palin Winterhold waved his arm, switching the scenes presented on the wall, confirming the conditions at various nodes of the defense line.

Suddenly, the Count stopped in his inspection, tilting his head slightly to listen as a lower-ranking Mage reported through a communication spell. He then looked at the enchanted wall before him, performed a simple sigil gesture, and new scenes instantly appeared on the wall.

It was an image from somewhere within Winter Fortress — beside a brand-new platform, a black Magic-guided Train bearing the Typhon emblem was slowly decelerating and coming to a stop.

— Despite the absence of many Cecil Clan technicians, with the efforts of the Empire’s own mechanic teams and scholars, several key industrial and military railway lines were still operational, and the train running from the hinterlands to Winter Fortress was one among them.

Count Palin Winterhold stood there, silently watching the scene on the wall, observing as the train stabilized and soldiers and officers stepped from the train onto the platform.

He quietly sighed.

Yet another batch of zealous and excellent corpses disembarked from the troop transporter.

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