As Hetty's words fell, almost everyone present subconsciously swallowed hard—everyone except Betty, who didn't understand a thing.
Rebecca couldn't help but think of the monstrous creatures that had devastated her family's lands, the products of the magical tide. Until now, she'd assumed they had wandered over from the Gondor Wastelands, slipping through some breach in the Great Wall that protected Anzu's southern border, close to the Cecil lands.
But now, a more dreadful possibility crept into her mind—what if those creatures hadn't come from the Gondor Wastelands but had instead formed naturally within the Cecil domain? What if… they signaled the start of a new magical tide?
"Aren't we perhaps overreacting?" Amber was the first to break the silence, forcing a smile as she pointed at the notebook in Hetty's hands. "It's just the diary of a wild mage, and a vague one at that. Should we really jump to conclusions about another magical tide?"
Gawain didn't argue, instead nodding thoughtfully. "You're right. I may indeed be too on edge."
After all, he was basing his thoughts on inherited memories and analyzing them haphazardly. While it was satisfying to recite the major events of seven hundred years ago in first-person detail, he realized it did sound rather alarming.
"Exactly…" Amber relaxed visibly as Gawain agreed, "You've been dead for seven hundred years, sir. Your mind hasn't adjusted yet. You lived through the magical tide, and it must've left a mark… Ow!"
Rebecca thumped Amber on the head with her staff, glaring at her. "Don't be rude to our ancestor!"
Gawain gave Rebecca's staff a strange look, thinking how not long ago she'd been swinging that "Rest in Peace stick" at him without a second thought.
"Regardless of how plausible these concerns may be, we'll need to report this to His Majesty once we reach Saint-Sunil," Hetty said as she handed the notebook back to Gawain. "As for how much the King will believe… that's beyond our control."
Gawain silently took the notebook and set aside his scattered thoughts, looking up toward the sky at the great sun.
The open clearing allowed a full view of the sky, where the massive sun was now reaching its zenith, casting an overwhelming, majestic glow that bathed the world in light, warmth, and magic.
Perhaps it was this last factor that endowed this world with laws of nature so different from Earth's.
Gawain's gaze traveled over the sun's surface, where faint patterns hinted at the gas giant's stormy surface. He searched for any ominous dark red markings but found nothing. Perhaps those patterns truly had been fleeting, as they'd now vanished.
The sense of urgency in Gawain's heart remained, though he pressed it down, silently planning his next steps.
For now, he would establish himself in this world. It might be a fallen, old family, but starting here was better than awakening in an empty wilderness.
After passing through the forest, their journey became smoother. Perhaps "the law of conservation of luck" was real, for they encountered no more magical creatures or strange "natural phenomena" along the way. They soon reached the main road and came across a small caravan.
After paying a fair price, Gawain's group was able to leave behind the ordeal of traveling on foot and secured seats in the caravan's cart headed for Tanzan Town.
The caravan leader was a plump northerner who traded local goods and herbs in the southern borderlands. He had originally intended to make one last trade in the Cecil territory, but upon hearing of the disaster there, he had turned back halfway.
At first, he was wary of Gawain's battle-worn group, but Hetty eventually persuaded him by offering two gold coins. The gold was more convincing than any words, and the merchant even allowed them his cart.
Thus, on the seventh day after leaving the Cecil territory, the gates of Tanzan Town finally came into view.
This was Gawain's first close encounter with a human town in this world. He had caught a distant glimpse of his nominal estate upon leaving the Cecil lands, but by then, the entire region had been ravaged by elemental chaos, and even scorched by a stray blue dragon's corrosive breath.
Now, facing Tanzan Town, Gawain's initial impression, to be honest, wasn't exactly favorable.
One could even say he felt a bit disappointed.
Rebecca had described Tanzan Town as large, one of the most populous settlements in the southern region, situated on fertile plains, near a river, with nearly ten thousand people living on this flat, triangular land. The Baishui River split in two just before reaching Tanzan Town, flowing along the town's northern and southern sides, irrigating vast farmlands and serving as a key transportation route. To the east of the town, a mining mountain provided an essential economic lifeline.
Yet, despite such advantages—fertile fields, a mine, a river that could be used as a trade route—Gawain's first impression upon entering was that of emaciated townsfolk, countless dilapidated wooden shacks, and filthy streets reeking of a mix of unpleasant odors.
In a world where civilization was far from advanced enough to subjugate nature entirely and where magical beasts were more than mere zoo attractions, the town was surrounded by a low wall to guard against the dangers of the wilds and occasional border skirmishes. But inside the walls, the slums sprawled chaotically, packed with layers of shacks and rotting hovels that offered little more than basic shelter. A wide avenue led from the town gate to the center, yet it was hardly more appealing than the squalid alleys around it.
Seated in the caravan's cart, Gawain observed the street scene. The peasants walking along the sides of the road wore ragged clothes. Only a few had shoes; most wrapped scraps around their feet, and some couldn't even manage that. The people walking in the center of the street were noticeably cleaner, with proper shoes.
They did not interact with those walking beside them, nor did they seem to clash. They simply walked in silence, separated by an invisible boundary, as if existing in two entirely different worlds while sharing the same road.
Searching Cecil's memories, Gawain found little that could help him make sense of this. Gawain Cecil had grown up in the prosperous Gondor Empire, a land that had known neither such poverty nor division. Later, when the magical tide erupted, Cecil had led his people through untold hardship, escaping north where distinctions of rank were irrelevant. After Anzu was founded, the kingdom's pioneers toiled side by side, with even the kings and dukes working the land.
And then… Gawain Cecil had died young, at 35, on the southern border, never living to see the social divisions that would later form in the country he'd helped build.
So he turned to his "descendants" for an explanation.
"Those on the road's sides are serfs, including laborers from the mines," Hetty explained. "There are also poor freemen from surrounding areas. They aren't allowed to walk on the main road, as they didn't contribute financially to its construction. Those walking in the center are 'respectable citizens,' as well as merchants and mercenaries who can afford to pay the various taxes."
Gawain recalled the handful of coins the caravan leader had handed to the gate guards as they entered the town, presumably as an entry tax.
Then he remembered the soldier now buried in the forest—the serf's son. His chance to bear arms for his lord had only been possible because of Rebecca's leniency. But even in death, he was denied a warrior's burial because he hadn't yet redeemed himself, nor had he even paid off the debt on his own sword.
"Ancestor, is something the matter?" Noticing Gawain's shifting expression, Hetty asked curiously.
Gawain withdrew his gaze from the window, shaking his head slightly. "No, nothing's wrong."
It was only his instincts as an outsider that caused him to feel resistance toward such things. But it wasn't yet time for him to make any judgments or "correct" anything here.
After a brief reflection, he turned to Hetty. "What's your next step?"
Hetty had clearly thought it through. "First, we'll meet with the local lord, Viscount Andrew. He's generally reasonable, and through him, we should be able to contact Sir Philip. If Sir Philip managed to regroup the survivors, we'll decide whether to settle the townsfolk here or head directly to the capital. Given the gravity of what happened in the Cecil lands, Rebecca must inform the king personally."
Gawain had no objections—especially as a "founding ancestor" from seven hundred years ago with little relevant advice to offer. "Then let's proceed with that plan."