The Looming Storm and the Duke’s Resolve

The Consecration Festival, as it did every year, concluded under a sky ablaze with shimmering fireworks, and this year proved no exception.

In this era, the very notion of public holidays was nonexistent. Once the festivities subsided, the golden petals blanketing the streets were swept away, workers returned to their labors, students to their lessons, and Lanburg County swiftly resumed its accustomed rhythm.

Within the ducal estate, however, daily affairs would only resume their usual course once the servants, having returned home for their familial visits, gradually made their way back over the next two days.

Yet, not all was as tranquil as it appeared on the surface.

Duke Hassan, who had foregone all festivities on Consecration Night and remained awake throughout, now scrutinized the sand table on his desk. It was, unmistakably, a miniature depiction of the Ancient Zhi Forest—

Towering trees, encircling one another in dense rings; a sky-piercing black tower, stark against the northern expanse; dark streams winding through its depths…

And, at the very heart of the forest, an area distinctly demarcated by a crimson cordon—

The Mausoleum of King Duran.

“They chose not to make their move on the night of the Consecration Festival, a regrettable decision indeed.”

Marin, standing on the opposite side of the sand table, shook his head with a hint of irony.

“Their machinations within the Ancient Zhi Forest have become rather overt, yet their aim is transparent: to approach the mausoleum of that lingering Witch King. We are fully cognizant of what those Eastern Continent sorcerers so fervently covet.”

“We, too, must remain vigilant. With Ferren and the entirety of the knight order journeying south to hunt dragons, our available resources are perilously thin.” Hassan’s gaze flickered towards Lanburg County’s formidable walls, towering over ten meters high.

“Are you concerned they might have struck a bargain with that entity?” Marin inquired.

“It is not a concern, but an established reality. The mausoleum serves merely as a means to contain it, for its power continues to erode the very soil of the forest. The sorcerers of the Eastern Continent will undoubtedly seize upon this opportunity.”

“Scum remains scum, in the end,” Marin remarked dismissively. “Had that entity not forsaken its human form and the path of an immortal soul a century ago, it would have long since perished beneath Cavendish’s blade. Now, it is but a wisp of a remnant soul, even less capable of stirring any significant turmoil. Those sorcerers of the Eastern Continent have lived far too long, forgetting the keen edge of the empire’s might.”

“While I concede the veracity of your assessment, the true menace of malevolent power does not solely reside in its inherent strength—rather, it manifests through erosion, temptation, and manipulation. A visible spear is easily parried, yet an unseen arrow proves far more insidious. Their paramount reliance within the forest is not their own capabilities, but the very essence of the forest itself.”

“—The mutated magical beasts.”

Indeed, a beast tide.

Lanburg County lies a mere ten li from the Ancient Zhi Forest. While a beast tide was repelled earlier this year, who can truly guarantee that a second will not follow?

“Marin, you and I are both acutely aware that with Auetland’s current garrison strength, a second large-scale beast tide would be insurmountable. This is precisely the vulnerability upon which they capitalize!”

“Even beasts possess the innate instinct for survival; they will not foolishly rush headlong into certain death.”

“Then they shall be driven, herded. Have you so quickly forgotten who was once entombed within that mausoleum?”

—The Sovereign of the Southeast, Lord of a Hundred Beasts, the Earth’s Scourge: King Duran.

At last, a chilling solemnity settled upon Marin’s features.

Though Cavendish himself anchored Auetland’s sealing array, preventing King Duran’s remnant soul from escaping its confines, it was not beyond the realm of possibility for those Eastern Continent sorcerers to strike a bargain with the lingering spirit of King Duran, paying a hefty price to orchestrate another large-scale beast tide.

From the very outset, a significant portion of their resolve to confront the nameless Tower Sorcerer stemmed from the apprehension that the sorcerer might be swayed by King Duran, entering into some clandestine pact.

After all, the Ancient Zhi Forest was widely known as ‘cursed’ land.

Much of this apprehension, however, proved largely superfluous. The individual who had initially taken a liking to this secluded locale arrived with an entire engineering blueprint, single-mindedly intent on exploiting other people’s labor for grand construction projects, utterly disregarding King Duran, who lay suppressed beneath the mausoleum.

Their sole interaction over the years had likely been thus—

King Duran: ‘Hear me, mortal. Do you desire true power?’

Rhine: ‘I’m ascending to the heavens; call rejected.’

End of conversation.

One simply cannot tempt a soul more utterly obsessed than oneself.

Subsequently, the tower grew so impossibly tall, and its occupant resided perpetually at its apex, rendering signal reception not merely intermittent, but virtually nonexistent. Moreover, this individual proved to be the quintessential recluse, capable of remaining indoors for a decade without once venturing forth to explore.

King Duran: (Exasperated, his ancient spirit seethed in silence.)

Thus, Rhine resided within the Ancient Zhi Forest for a full decade, utterly oblivious to the presence of such a formidable landlord. He was, in essence, a man who had perfected the art of isolation, embodying a policy of extreme seclusion and self-sufficiency.

The domain city of Auetland stood silently upon the sand table, yet both men in the room understood that this was but a fleeting calm before the inevitable storm.

“Kindle the beacon fires; summon aid from the Central Continent earls,” Marin declared with decisive finality.

“They are situated hundreds of li distant, while the beast tide looms at our very doorstep. They would never willingly commit their already meager forces to be devoured by beasts. I discern their craven nature with absolute clarity; the utmost they would offer in response is to bid us abandon the city and flee, perhaps extending a modicum of mercy to shelter a handful of refugees.”

—A confrontation of humans against beasts, an utterly unviable endeavor both psychologically and pragmatically.

Furthermore, war itself is an unfathomable and unpredictable gamble, its ultimate outcome shrouded in impenetrable uncertainty.

“In years past, the spring beast tides were always considered small-scale. We relied upon the Divine Retribution Knights to lead our formations, intimidating them, blunting their charge, and holding them at bay three li from our walls, thereby minimizing casualties. But this year is markedly different; the beast tide has escalated to a medium scale. The tides that failed to erupt in previous years have now accumulated within the forest, transforming the Ancient Zhi Forest into a veritable powder keg, awaiting only the slightest spark…”

Hassan gazed out at the sprawling, dense forest, which, by comparison, rendered Auetland as diminutive as a solitary sail upon an endless sea.

“Considering the gravest possibility, we are poised to confront a beast tide of immense, even historically unprecedented, scale—one, moreover, that will be led by intelligent human minds!”

“…” Marin, for once, offered no rebuttal to his words.

“You and Douglas must make all necessary preparations, including, if circumstances demand it, the abandonment of the city.”

“Covertly,” Marin affirmed.

“Covertly,” Hassan echoed, a shared understanding passing between them.

All must be done in secret, for to sow panic and engender disarray would merely provide leverage for our adversaries.

“What do you intend to do?” Marin questioned, glancing up at his elder brother, whose hair was now streaked with prominent silver.

“I shall endeavor to avert the direst outcome. At the break of dawn, I will personally lead a sortie, to eradicate these forest ‘fleas’.”

As he spoke, Hassan moved deliberately away from the sand table, drawing a long, somber gray sword from its scabbard.

The sword, at first glance, appeared utterly unremarkable, indistinguishable from any common blade. In truth, it had simply been too long since it last tasted blood, having endured the passage of more than a century. Time had indeed bestowed upon it a dull, somber luster, yet it had failed to blunt the piercing keenness of its point.

Its elven-crafted scabbard shimmered, while the dwarven-forged blade retained its formidable edge.

Upon its surface, a line of archaic inscription was etched in Norman script:

Norman Blade, Invincible.

The sword, named Cavendish, was a gift from the First Emperor. From that moment forth, the title of Cavendish became synonymous with its bearer; whoever wielded it was, by right, the Duke of Cavendish.

“There was no need for you to display it to me,” Marin stated, his eyes narrowed, voice laced with a chilling edge as he regarded the blade. “Indeed, you are the Duke; thus, the most perilous and glorious of duties must invariably fall upon your shoulders.”

“…No one’s duty is inherently nobler than another’s,” he responded, sheathing the formidable blade. “All for the honor of Cavendish, as it was a century ago, so it remains today.”