Everything unfolded just as Gawain had expected.
The news from the south would indeed alarm the king and nobles. Coupled with a warning from a resurrected ancient figure, this alarm might even rise to a degree of apprehension, but no further. Those who had never experienced or even imagined the horrors of the Cataclysm would not be moved to drastic action by mere words alone.
Even the evidence Gawain presented—the swords and armor corroded by elemental forces—could only push them so far. While "natural anomalies" capable of corrupting metal were rare, they weren't entirely unheard of. This wasn't definitive proof of an impending Cataclysm. In truth, even Gawain could only speculate based on historical accounts, unable to declare with certainty that the world was about to end.
Francis II was justified in his response; he couldn't, on account of these sudden reports, plunge the entire kingdom into a state of readiness. Even if he wanted to, the cumbersome feudal structure made such a command impossible. Furthermore, even if a Cataclysm was indeed on the horizon, mobilizing the nation now wouldn't be prudent. The monsters and magic surges in the south were just warning signs—not even the vanguard of the Cataclysm. The true catastrophe might not arrive for months, even years, if it came at all. In such a calm period, with no concrete evidence, calling for nationwide preparedness would have been unrealistic.
Gawain held back Rebecca, who seemed ready to speak again, and turned to the king. "We've delivered the message and issued our warning. How you proceed from here is up to you."
"We will take your warning with utmost seriousness," replied Victoria Wilde, the Northern Duchess, her voice cool. "All investigations will commence immediately after this meeting concludes, and you will be informed of any findings."
"Investigations, then… it'll have to do." Gawain nodded, then shifted the subject. "That concludes the official business. Now, I'd like to discuss some personal matters related to House Cecil."
This time, the tension was genuine.
"Relax, there's no need to act like the 'ancestor has come back from the grave to collect on all those burned offerings' or anything." Gawain smiled, though his humor clearly didn't land as expected.
"I'm well aware of what happened a hundred years ago, and frankly, I'd like nothing more than to throttle that unworthy descendant myself…" Gawain's face tensed as he cut straight to the point. "So, I don't intend to overturn the past. I've come only to retrieve certain items that rightfully belong to me."
Francis II and the dukes exchanged glances, visibly relieved by Gawain's candor. The ancient topic of that upheaval a century ago was a sensitive one, and any conversation surrounding it was fraught with tension. For the "living ancestor" before them to approach it so pragmatically put them all at ease.
But the relief was short-lived, as new questions arose: What, precisely, did Gawain Cecil consider to be his personal property?
"Everything belongs to the lord"—this was the fundamental rule of nobility. Everything the Cecil family once possessed—lands, vassals, titles—had been Gawain's personal estate. But what exactly did he want back?
The nobles stiffened as subtly as possible, while Francis II's calm gaze met Gawain's. With a slight nod, he signaled his readiness.
"No need to worry. Most of what I owned was passed down to my descendants. If those unworthy heirs squandered it, I can hardly reclaim it now." Gawain chuckled. "I'm referring to something that can't be inherited—specifically, my right of expansion."
The nobles and councilors exchanged looks, quickly realizing he was speaking of the ancient and revered Pioneer's Edict.
That edict was a shining testament to the Second Great Expedition, a symbol of humanity's will to survive against all odds. It was enshrined as part of the foundational laws across the four nations—an edict that, though it might never again be used, would never be abolished. The original Pioneer's Edict, engraved on a platinum plate, was enshrined in every human kingdom's hall as a sacred relic.
But everyone viewed the edict as a mere symbol, a way to showcase legitimacy to future generations. So, how did it suddenly come back into effect?
Even so, beneath their astonishment, a subtle relief appeared on each face, a reaction that did not escape Gawain's keen observation. He relaxed slightly, joining the conversation with the nobles about the matter of his perpetual right to pioneer.
Gawain believed this wouldn't be too challenging. Compared to the fear that he might return to reclaim his family's vast dominion—lands so extensive they had almost been a kingdom within the kingdom—a mere request for pioneering rights seemed trivial. Although the term "perpetual right to pioneer" sounded impressive, it wouldn't directly affect any present individual's interests. When personal interests weren't at stake, nobles (the king included) tended to be remarkably agreeable.
This was precisely the reaction Gawain had orchestrated. From the start, he'd intentionally drawn attention, spreading word of his resurrection and flaunting ancient banners as he entered the capital, presenting an air of urgency and determination. His strategy was to give everyone the impression that he sought to restore the Cecil family's lost legacy, possibly even its vast holdings.
As a result, each noble came to the table prepared for a verbal battle to protect their interests. In comparison, Gawain's true request—a mere pioneering right—seemed almost trivial. It was like expecting to buy a luxury watch for 860,000, only to find it discounted to twenty-five. The sudden relief was so palpable they might have doubted its authenticity. Yet, even if there were doubts, the "ancestor" was real enough, and if he merely sought a pioneering right… then, by all means, grant it.
Had Gawain raised this request without any setup, the outcome might not have been as smooth. Greed might have driven them to haggle or impose limitations. But after all the lead-up, his actual request felt like a simple transaction.
Thus, without much debate, the king and dukes agreed that the right to pioneer was to be recognized. Indeed, it had to be.
Originally, the Edict of Pioneering was agreed upon not only by Ansu but by the four human nations and their neighboring territories. Elves from the distant Silver Empire of the far south had been witnesses—a race known for their mystical nature and, above all, their commitment to longevity and integrity.
Those elves, with their extreme longevity (averaging three thousand years), were famously meticulous and steadfast. The reason the original pioneers had invited the elves as witnesses to the edict was precisely because of their reputation. To emphasize the importance of this law, each kingdom created an official copy in Elvish, which was then stored in the archives of the Silver Empire.
Though everyone knew that the first pioneers couldn't live eternally, humans insisted on drafting a law with a "permanent" stipulation, enforced by a long-lived race—likely a testament to human peculiarities. Back then, the elven representative had muttered, "Humans are indeed peculiar," as he carried the document back, and the elven queen had affixed her seal. Seven centuries later, the queen—who had just taken the throne at that time—was still the reigning elven monarch and remembered that seal well. A mere suggestion of Ansu disregarding the pioneering rights was met with Gawain's half-serious suggestion of moving his family to elven lands, where much remained uncharted, and some old connections with the Silver Empire still endured.
The idea of their ancestral founder moving to live "in the trees" due to internal conflicts wasn't something anyone wished to entertain.
Thus, everyone quickly agreed to uphold the pioneering rights, though the exact territory Gawain would be permitted to settle required negotiation.
"Within the kingdom, every livable area is claimed, each inch of land has its owner…" The royal chancellor, Aiden Alfred, stood up, a composed man and a trusted advisor to Francis II. He continued, "Beyond the kingdom, the bordering territories are equally claimed, and what little unclaimed land exists is inhospitable—like the buffer zones of the Gondor Wastes. Your Grace, where exactly do you intend to pioneer?"
"Bring me the map," Gawain replied.
The map was presented, and one glance had him frowning. Despite the availability of magical means like Eagle Vision and Forest Sense to assist with mapping, the document was crude. Its proportions were inaccurate, almost as if drawn by a novice. Compared to the satellite imagery ingrained in his mind, it was practically a sketch.
Perhaps the convenience of magic had inadvertently hampered the development of some fields? Gawain mused as he mentally overlaid this rough map with his own internal image. Then, he pointed to a specific region on the map. "I'll start here."
He had chosen a mountain range bordering the Gondor Wastes and the Tifon Empire.
The Black Mountains.