Chapter 150: Transient Pains

The study, filled with stacks of books, was quiet and warm but empty. Outside the window, the snow showed no signs of melting. Selwyn was closer to the snowy St. Anna plains than Aleisterre, and its winters were longer and harsher than most other kingdoms save the barbarian kingdoms of the north.

Even beast tides arrived later in Selwyn than in Aleisterre. A garrison stationed outside the central court, composed mainly of soldiers who had been left with hidden injuries or disabilities from previous wars but were still capable of fighting, was prepared to deal with the ferocious predators that emerged from the snowfields.

These beasts native to the harsh snowfield were far more formidable than the winter wolves of Aleisterre.

Even in Selwyn’s capital, the most prosperous and powerful city in the kingdom, many citizens young and old perished to winter. This year’s winter, colder and longer than before, was especially bad.

These losses arose not just from the weather but also because resources were diverted to supply the armies on the front lines, leading to shortages within the capital.

The ordinary and the poor, who had little savings to begin with, struggled to survive during this winter with limited income and skyrocketing prices.

Compared to Aleisterre and its balanced strengths, Selwyn’s geographical environment and resource limitations contributed to a lackluster economy and agriculture.

Selwyn had gained no advantage by choosing to cease hostilities against Aleisterre during the winter.

Massive resources had been poured into their war against Aleisterre, though without the desired results. Aleisterre was well aware of Selwyn’s weaknesses and continuously wore down Selwyn’s forces with their trained magicians and specialty magic.

Selwyn’s army, renowned for its powerful cavalry, was nevertheless foiled by Aleisterre’s guerrilla tactics. Whenever they attempted to pierce Aleisterre’s defenses, Aleisterre would sacrifice a squad of infantry to delay the cavalry, then launch devastating ritual magic that inflicted unacceptable losses on Selwyn’s more valuable heavy cavalry.

After a year of stalemate, although it seemed neither side had gained the upper hand and the skirmishes continued day after day, it was clear that Selwyn’s morale was more strained. The prolonged war in which Selwyn’s formidable close-combat strength failed to translate into victories left its army’s morale dangerously low beneath their outwardly brave and iron-willed facade.

Worse still, the brief winter truce allowed the soldiers to witness the dire state of the capital. The massive diversion of resources to the frontlines had left the Selwyn capital depleted, making what should have been a festive season bleak and desolate. This further eroded the soldiers’ will to fight.

The war, which had erupted suddenly with the approval of both the royal family and the nobility, had brought Selwyn no benefits—only danger and disaster alike.

As life grew increasingly difficult, the people began a silent protest. Under Selwyn’s iron-fisted policies, the capital’s residents dared not openly rebel. Instead, they were forced into austerity, converting what meager savings they had into valuable goods and long-lasting food supplies.

Decreased production, stockpiled resources, and the diversion of supplies to the front lines led to even more severe shortages and unchecked inflation, leaving the capital in a dire state.

Some far-sighted merchants and nobles released part of their stockpiled resources in an effort to revive the stagnant market, but to little avail.

Many more merchants and nobles clung tightly to their resources, refusing to spare even a little for those in need. In this regard, the moral character of most nobles in Selwyn was no different from their counterparts in Aleisterre.

The royal family made no attempt to address these rampant issues. No one knew what the young king was planning.

Was this the outcome he had intended? Would he be the last king of a kingdom that had stood firm in this harsh land for a century but now seemed to be teetering on the brink of decline?

A carriage covered in a thick layer of snow rolled over the cracked and frozen bricks of the street, crushing a section of the main road that had long been neglected. The carriage jolted and one of its wooden axles snapped, causing the entire vehicle to tilt precariously.

“Freeze,” came a weary incantation. Aloysius stuck his head out of the carriage window and cast an instant second-tier spell on the wobbling wheel.

Rapidly condensing ice formed a sturdy cylindrical rod that replaced the broken axle and allowed the carriage to continue moving forward.

Compared to his appearance half a year ago, this young man now exuded an indescribable sense of age. The faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, along with his terribly deteriorated hair and skin, made him appear extremely frail.

The pallor that had once marked his face had now turned into a sickly grayish-black, and the spark of intelligence in his emerald eyes had been replaced by numbness and gloom. The timid demeanor he once had was gone, replaced by a despairing weariness and helplessness.

What kept this body riddled with physical and mental scars moving was likely nothing more than his survival instinct and a faint sense of responsibility ingrained in him since his youth.

His listless eyes swept over the desolate street, devoid of shops or pedestrians. In previous years, the main road would have been bustling, with people and shops taking advantage of the changing of the seasons to buy or sell winter-specific goods at discounted prices.

But now, there was nothing but pale snow and frozen, cracked bricks. Well, almost nothing—there was also a thief trying to pry open the door of a closed shop.

The hooded thief scrambled into an alley upon noticing the carriage, leaving behind a trail of uneven footprints.

The carriage stopped. Aloysius’s eyes darted from side to side. The fear that lay beneath his numbness and gloom was dragged to the surface once more. No matter how many times he faced his “grandfather,” the source of his endless suffering, he couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of dread.

Stepping out of the carriage, he walked down the corridor he had traversed countless times, his steps as hesitant as ever. As he reached the familiar study, he recalled his grandfather’s words. He opened the door and entered without a knock or greeting.

No one was there. The room, filled with stacks of books, was devoid of the old man’s presence. Aloysius instinctively let out a sigh of relief, only to realize what was likely happening. A heavier sense of oppression enveloped him.

Resigned, Aloysius no longer hesitated. He walked to the bookshelf behind the wooden desk and reached into the gap between two books. His fingertip was suddenly bitten by something; he withdrew his hand to find it mangled and bleeding. The bookshelf split open, wood sliding to either side and revealing a dark space within.

Aloysius froze the wound on his fingertip, then stepped into the space that had filled him with fear and discomfort since the very beginning. The bookshelf closed behind him. A wave of dizziness overtook him as he was plunged into complete darkness.

Intertwined fluctuations of magic and void rippled. By the time Aloysius recovered from the dizziness, the darkness was gone. Instead, he found himself in a cramped environment similar to a prison.

“Don’t tell me what’s happened yet—let me finish the final adjustments to this key,” an old man’s strong voice came from ahead. Despite being much older than Aloysius, he seemed far healthier in vitality and spirit.

Aloysius didn’t respond verbally. He simply walked forward and lowered his head.

In this prison-like space, Aloysius’s “grandfather,” Mr. Roland, placed the body of a young boy at the center of two arrays: one magical, and the other powered by void energy.

The boy, bound and blindfolded, could not resist as Mr. Roland channeled mana and void energy into the arrays.

“I’ve found that keeping them alive with healing magic is too troublesome. It’s better to use necromancy to turn them directly into undead and then seal them with a time lock,” the old man muttered. He was nominally speaking to Aloysius, but clearly didn’t expect a response.

The forbidden magical array hummed. It was designed to turn living beings directly into undead: the bound boy would slowly become a skeleton soldier, the lowest class of undead. The process was nothing short of brutal.

The boy’s soul was decomposed by magic and infused into his bones, granting them the ability to move. They tried to break free from the boy’s living body, resulting in excruciating pain.

Even with his mouth gagged, nothing could stop the desperate screams escaping the boy’s lips and entering Aloysius’s ears. His numb soul trembled in fear and discomfort before sinking back into silence.

Finally, the boy’s skeleton forcibly tore through its flesh and emerged: a crimson skeleton, drenched in blood and shredded flesh, now stood atop what had once been its own body.

A grotesque, madness-inducing scene unfolded, one that even the twisted entities of the void would have struggled to create.

As the magical array wound down, the wizardry array hummed into action. The undead creature was enveloped in exceptionally pure void energy, directed by the array to complete the spell that Mr. Roland had prepared beforehand.

Invisible chains pierced through the skeleton layer by layer. At that moment, time stopped for the skeleton. Time Lock was a spell that converted motion into stillness, freezing the skeleton in stasis.

Mr. Roland claimed the boy’s time-locked skull and placed it on the table beside him. Around it were numerous other skulls, similar in size and shape but each with slight variations. They were soaked in blood and flesh.

Aloysius knew that each of these skulls had belonged to his “grandfather’s” so-called keys, whose lives had been suspended by his spells.

By now, however, his “grandfather” didn’t even care about their lives. They were nothing more than vessels for the keys contained in their broken souls.

“Alright. Tell me what happened.”

“Grandfather” turned his gaze toward Aloysius, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. Aloysius quickly lowered his head.

“We failed to obtain the last key, confirmed to be located within Stevenson Academy of Magic. It—””

“It wasn’t within the academy?” Mr. Roland frowned.

“Uncertain. The Font of Life was given sufficient nourishment and successfully brought Silent Forest into the academy to nullify its internal defenses. The quicksand barrier and the wizardry formation linked to the entity were both activated—but the process of virtualization was interrupted midway.”

“Interrupted… Were the Nightblades responsible? Do you have anything else to report to me besides bad news?” Mr. Roland’s expression darkened as he spoke. His restrained tone was laced with suppressed murderous intent; he seemed ready to explode at any moment.

“Nightblades involvement is uncertain. According to our spies, who possess only limited intelligence, someone entered the quicksand barrier and forcibly halted the virtualization.

“In addition, the Royal Research Institute demands compensation. You sought to use the Silent Forest to cripple an essential part of Aleisterre’s power structure, but you ultimately failed in your objective. The Institute seeks reparations for its loss of the strategic-class curio Silent Forest.”

Without hesitation or honorifics, Aloysius delivered a message that could potentially ignite Mr. Roland’s fury. He stood still and waited for his “grandfather’s” response.

“Only someone special could have stopped the academy’s virtualization. Have the spies keep an eye on whoever was responsible.

“And well done. You’ve discarded meaningless courtesy and servile formality in our communications, but don’t grow numb. If you do, you might lose your life—though you should know that I’ve taken a liking to you. Even in death, you will serve me.”

Contrary to expectations, Mr. Roland didn’t seem angry at all. Rather, he remained eerily calm. He stepped up to Aloysius and patted him on the shoulder, as if the failure of his plan had brought him no emotional distress. What gloom and oppression he had displayed seemed like mere pretense.

Aloysius simply nodded rhythmically in acknowledgment, expressionless save when Mr. Roland spoke of servitude beyond death. A hidden fear long buried under numbness was momentarily dragged back to the surface, though his trembling body and flickering pupils were the only signs of his reaction.

“The demand for compensation from them is simply a tantrum from the young king. Tell him I will provide them with the final set of records regarding the entity. Allow the Royal Research Institute to study it if it so wishes.

“And tell the king this: all the kingdom’s ails result from this barren, frozen wasteland. Once I complete my research and the entity descends, Aleisterre’s supposed ‘advantage’ will no longer exist. If he endures the pain of the present, he will obtain what he desires.

“As for the final key, forget it. I shall retrieve it personally. Now that its location has been confirmed, a perfect opportunity will soon arise. I will personally retrieve the key and open the door to the vault that he left behind.”

Mr. Roland’s gaze fell upon the bloodstained skull on the table before him, obsession and yearning flickering within his eyes. That name, the secret treasure it represented, the thirteen steps—in the end, he would gain access to that place. These failures, these obstacles before him, were merely the transient pains of impending success…

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