Chapter 150: Growing Pains

(This chapter concludes the sequence dedicated to explaining the foreshadowing; from here on, we return to the daily life and the main plot, haha.)

The study, piled high with scrolls, was quiet and warm, yet entirely empty. Outside the window, the accumulated snow showed no signs of melting. Although winter was drawing to a close, the season in Sewintan—which sat closer to the Saint-Anna snowfields than any kingdom save for the northern barbarian realms—was always longer and more grueling than elsewhere.

Even the beast tides that plagued Sewintan arrived later than those in Alastair. A garrison stationed beyond the atrium, composed primarily of soldiers who had sustained permanent injuries in previous wars but were still capable of combat, existed solely to repel the vicious, predatory monsters awakening on the snowfields.

These beasts, native to the harsh, frozen wastes, were far more difficult to handle than the scrawny winter wolves of Alastair.

This bitter winter, even in the capital of Sewintan—the most prosperous and powerful city in the realm—had claimed the lives of countless elderly and newborns who could not survive a season that had turned colder than years past.

These losses were not merely due to the harsh, protracted cold, but also to the scarcity of resources within the capital, as supplies had been diverted to the armies on the front lines.

The commoners and the poor, who had little in the way of savings, found it nearly impossible to survive in a winter where income had vanished and prices had soared.

Compared to the well-rounded capabilities of Alastair, Sewintan’s economic strength and its ability to sustain a long war of attrition were weak, hampered by its geography and limited resources.

In this lukewarm war, where both sides had chosen to cease hostilities during the winter—a time when Sewintan’s combat prowess was theoretically superior—Sewintan had actually gained no advantage.

Vast resources were poured into the battlefield without yielding the desired results. Alastair, well aware of Sewintan’s shortcomings, constantly utilized flexible groups of mages and positional magic to wear down the Sewintan forces.

The Sewintan army, famed for its formidable heavy cavalry, found no room to maneuver against such vexing tactics. Whenever they attempted a forced breakthrough, the enemy would sacrifice a squad of infantry to pin down the cavalry, only for legion-level magic to descend from the sky, inflicting unacceptable losses on the precious heavy horsemen.

After a year of tug-of-war, while the two sides appeared evenly matched and continued to engage in skirmishes, it was clear that the spirit of Sewintan was fraying. Trapped in a quagmire where their superior melee strength could not be translated into victory, the army’s facade of iron-blooded courage masked a spirit that was steadily crumbling.

Worse still, the brief winter truce allowed the soldiers to witness the misery within the capital. The massive drain of resources to the front and the resulting emptiness of the city turned what should have been a festive season into a bleak, desolate affair, further deepening the soldiers' despondency.

This war, ignited suddenly at the behest of the royal family and the nobility, had brought Sewintan no benefits—only hidden dangers and catastrophe.

The populace began a silent protest against their worsening lives. Faced with the iron-fisted policies of the state, the residents of the capital dared not openly rebel; instead, they cut back on all consumption, hoarding whatever currency they had to trade for valuable goods and long-lasting food.

Reduced production and the hoarding of supplies, coupled with the shipments to the front, led to severe shortages. Currency piled up in the market, yet there were no goods to be had. The entire capital was in a state of decay.

A few farsighted merchants and nobles attempted to release some of their stored resources to revive the stagnant market, but to little effect.

Most others clung to their supplies with a death grip, refusing to part with a single scrap—in this regard, the greed of the nobility in Sewintan was no different from that in Alastair.

The royal family offered no response to the situation. No one could discern what the young king was truly plotting.

Was this the kingdom he wanted—a realm in decline, standing for a hundred years in this frozen wasteland only to fall into a state of decrepitude?

...

"Clack, clack, clack." The carriage, draped in a thick layer of snow, rolled over the cracked, frozen masonry of the street, shattering the long-neglected paving stones of the capital’s main thoroughfare. The carriage jolted, and an axle of the wooden wheel snapped, causing the vehicle to tilt precariously.

"Freeze..." With a weary chant, Alyosha poked his head out of the carriage window and cast an instant second-tier spell at the wobbling wheel.

Rapidly condensing ice elements formed a sturdy pillar, replacing the broken axle and allowing the carriage to continue its journey.

Compared to his appearance half a year ago, the young man now possessed an indescribable sense of age. Though he could not yet be called middle-aged, the faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and his wretched, brittle hair and skin made him look incredibly frail.

The pallor that had once marked his face had shifted into a sickly, bruised cyan-black, and the intelligent gleam in his emerald eyes had been replaced by numbness and gloom. The timid, cowering demeanor was gone, replaced by a despairing exhaustion and helplessness.

The only things keeping this body, shattered in both spirit and flesh, moving forward were perhaps the primal instinct for survival and a lingering, indestructible sense of responsibility forged in his youth.

His listless eyes swept over the desolate street, devoid of shops or pedestrians. In years past, this main road would have been bustling, with people and merchants seizing the transition from winter to spring to buy or sell seasonal goods at a discount.

Now, there was nothing but pale snow and cracked stone. No—there was a thief trying to pry open a shuttered shop.

The hooded thief, noticing the approaching carriage, scurried into an alleyway, leaving behind a trail of uneven footprints.

The carriage came to a halt. Alyosha’s stagnant eyes flickered, and the fear hidden beneath his numbness was dragged to the surface. No matter how many times he faced his "grandfather," the source of his endless pain, Alyosha still felt a fresh wave of terror rise from the numbness.

He stepped out of the carriage and walked down the corridor he had traversed countless times, his footsteps faltering despite himself. He reached the familiar study door. Remembering his "grandfather’s" instructions, he did not knock or offer a greeting; he simply opened the door and stepped inside.

It was empty. The room, piled high with scrolls, did not contain the old man. Alyosha felt a subconscious sigh of relief, but he quickly realized the more likely scenario, and a heavier pressure descended upon him.

Resigned, he walked to the bookshelf behind the wooden desk and thrust his hand into the gap between two books. Something bit down fiercely on his fingertips; when he pulled his hand back, it was a mangled mess of blood and flesh. The bookshelf split down the middle and slid apart, revealing a dark space within.

Freezing the wound on his fingers with magic to stop the bleeding, Alyosha stepped into the place that always filled him with dread. The bookshelf closed behind him, and a wave of vertigo washed over him as he plunged into total darkness.

Magic and void fluctuations surged simultaneously. When the dizziness faded, he was no longer in darkness, but in a cramped, prison-like space.

"Don't tell me what happened yet... let me finish processing this key." The old man’s powerful voice echoed from the space ahead. Despite being much older than Alyosha, his vitality was far superior.

Alyosha did not respond with words; he simply walked forward and bowed his head in silence.

In this prison-like environment, the man known as Mr. Roland, Alyosha’s "grandfather," placed the body of a young boy onto a magic circle and sorcery array etched into the center of the floor.

The boy, limbs bound and eyes blindfolded, could offer no resistance, forced to endure as Mr. Roland activated the arrays.

"I found that keeping them alive with healing magic like before is too troublesome. It’s better to use necromancy to turn them into undead and seal them with a time-lock."

The old man muttered to himself, as if speaking to Alyosha, though he expected no reply.

The forbidden ritual—converting the living directly into undead—began. The process of transforming the bound boy into a low-level undead skeleton soldier was beyond cruel.

The soul, decomposed by magic, was stuffed into the bones, granting them the ability to move. The soul struggled to escape the flesh, but the body was not yet dead, and the process inflicted agonizing pain.

Even with his mouth gagged, the desperate, muffled screams of the boy reached Alyosha’s ears. His numb soul trembled with fear and discomfort once more, before sinking back into dead silence.

The skeleton forcibly burst through the flesh, and a blood-stained, gore-slicked skeleton stood atop the pile of rotting meat that had once been its body.

It was a grotesque, maddening sight that even the twisted entities of the void would struggle to create.

Once the magic circle finished its work, the sorcery array activated. Before the undead—still possessing the soul it had in life—could move its new body, it was enveloped in a layer of pure void energy.

The sorcery array channeled this vast energy to complete Mr. Roland’s spell.

Invisible chains pierced the skeleton layer by layer, and the skeleton’s time was locked by the array. Sorcery: Time Lock. All concepts of motion were brought to a standstill; the skeleton’s state was frozen in the moment before the sorcery took effect.

"Clack." Mr. Roland placed the time-locked skull onto a nearby table, which was already crowded with other skulls, each slightly different in size and shape, all stained with blood and gore.

Alyosha knew these were the remains of those who had been called "keys," once kept alive by his "grandfather’s" spells.

Now, they didn't even need the concept of life. All that remained for his "grandfather" were their shattered souls and the "keys" hidden within.

"Now, tell me what happened."

"Grandfather" turned his gaze toward the bowed Alyosha, his tone carrying a hint of pleasure.

"The final key, confirmed by intelligence to be within the Stevenson School of Magic in the Kingdom of Alastair, was not successfully retrieved..." Alyosha spoke without pleasantries or honorifics.

"Not in the academy?" Upon hearing that his target had not been secured, Mr. Roland interrupted Alyosha’s flat report.

"Uncertain. The Source of Life, having received sufficient sustenance, successfully brought the 'Silent Forest' into the academy, nullifying all internal defenses and activating the Inner Annihilation Barrier and the sorcery array pointing to 'Him.' But the result was that the Stevenson School of Magic did not fall into the void you specified. The process was halted."

"Halted... was it the Blade of Night? And besides this wretched news, what else have you come to tell me?" Mr. Roland asked, his expression darkening. His suppressed tone suggested that his murderous intent might erupt at any moment due to this failure.

"It is uncertain if it was the Blade of Night, but according to the limited intelligence from our scouts, someone entered the Inner Annihilation Barrier and forcibly stopped the event."

"And I am here to inform you that the Royal Research Institute requires you to pay for the failure of this mission. They expected the destruction of the Stevenson School of Magic—a vital component of Alastair’s power—in exchange for the 'Silent Forest.' With the loss of this strategic-grade artifact, they demand sufficient compensation."

Without hesitation or honorifics, Alyosha delivered the news that might trigger Mr. Roland’s fury, then waited silently for his "grandfather’s" reaction.

"To stop the collapse into the void... this person must have something special about them. Have the scouts pay closer attention."

"You are doing well, casting aside those meaningless, sycophantic rituals. But do not become numb; numbness leads to the abandonment of life. You must know that even in death, you, whom I favor, will continue to serve me."

There was no expected outburst of rage. Mr. Roland appeared calm, walking over to pat Alyosha on the shoulder, as if the failure of his plan had caused no emotional shift. The previous gloom seemed merely a performance.

Alyosha nodded rhythmically to show he understood, his face expressionless. However, when Mr. Roland mentioned that death was not the end, the fear hidden beneath his numbness was dragged out for a fleeting second. His trembling body and vibrating pupils were the only reactions Alyosha displayed.

"Their demand for compensation is merely the young king growing anxious. Tell him I will provide them with the final data regarding 'Him.' If the Royal Research Institute wants to study it, let them. As long as it puts his mind at ease."

"Tell the king that everything the kingdom is suffering now is merely the birth pangs of escaping this barren, frozen land. When the things I have given him are completed and 'He' descends, Alastair’s temporary 'advantage' will cease to exist. If he endures these pains, he will get what he wants."

"As for the key, never mind. I will do it myself. It is the last one, and the opportunity is near. Since the key is confirmed to be inside the Stevenson School of Magic, a perfect chance will soon arise. I will go myself to retrieve that key and open the door to the secret vault he left behind."

Mr. Roland gazed at the blood-stained skull resting upon the pedestal, his eyes flickering with a feverish, obsessive hunger. That name, the secrets it guarded, those thirteen steps—they would surely lead him to that fated place, and every failure or obstacle he encountered now was merely the agonizing labor pains preceding his ultimate triumph.