Chapter 63: The Curtain Falls

"How do you feel?" emerged from the stifling council chamber, Pennie heard the inquiry from the middle-aged crimson-robed figure, hands behind his back.

"The commander of the Northern Legion has been replaced like this?" Pennie's mind still lingered on the chaos in the council chamber just now, giving him a direct impression of the politics clad in crimson.

It was much better than he had imagined; at least most of the high-ranking mages in the crimson robes were still reasonable.

At least on the surface.

"Of course, Odessaron should pay the price for their failure, not just losing the Northern Legion, but their family leaders should also step down," Janhwa spoke slowly, "If I'm not mistaken, in a while, there will be another coup within the parts of Serle belonging to Odessaron."

"Failure? This word seems..." Pennie chewed on the word, feeling it was somewhat inappropriate. Colluding with terrorist organizations to assassinate colleagues, dividing the nation, such treasonous acts...

"The Mage Guild cannot define their actions as you wish because Serle cannot bear the consequences of doing so," Janhwa said, glancing at Pennie.

"So, this is a compromise at the upper levels?" Pennie muttered softly, furrowing his brow, "But if that's the case, similar incidents are likely to occur continuously in the future."

"Such incidents have never ceased before," Janhwa said lightly.

It is probably because of this reason that Serle's political situation is so bizarre. Pennie thought to himself. Obviously, the six major families, along with the eight major schools and the Serle political arena as a chessboard, tolerate many moves that cross the line for fear of causing a complete rift, and this political system—it seems to be on the verge of collapse at any moment.

But this situation has somehow endured for over four hundred years, and it seems to have evolved into a tacit understanding, thus transforming into a kind of alternative implicit rule system, a magical circumstance that left Pennie deeply incredulous.

"In fact, this is the essence of the Crimson Mage Guild. Some attempt to gain higher power through struggle, but when they fail, the masters of order are unwilling to let the losers panic and resort to desperate measures, that's all," said Janhwa.

"Struggle?" Pennie noted this word inexplicably.

"Of course, it's a struggle. Odessaron hopes to use the power of the Heartless to further undermine the prestige of the necromancer chief, and also hopes to wrest power from our side, so they have employed various means, all just struggles," Janhwa looked at Pennie's expression, "And we have prevailed, but the opportunity arose from you, which no one in Fras anticipated."

"Um..." Pennie touched his nose, "Actually, I was thinking..."

"Don't worry, no one knows it's you, at least not now," Janhwa said lightly, "Serle's intelligence agencies have long been infiltrated by factions, so expecting them to uncover information is futile. As for the trusted followers of Elder Jasti, for mages, guarding against prophecy is no easier than guarding against spies."

"So Fras needs some trusted followers for private tasks?"

"Um... you don't quite qualify."

"It seems I've overthought it," Pennie smirked, knowing he had been overly presumptuous. Just out of the reserves, having barely glimpsed the true nature of the crimson robes, to think he was being treated as a trusted follower—was Fras daft?

"You did indeed overthink it. I just wanted to see what you were capable of, but you gave me a surprise," Janhwa's robes swayed as he opened his stride, walking towards the western corridor.

Pennie followed suit.

"I haven't taken good care of my daughter," Janhwa suddenly said. Pennie paused, then heard the middle-aged man continue.

"She hasn't received the education that a noble girl in Serle should have, lacks the knowledge that normal noble girls should possess, and is utterly clueless about how to serve a husband. As a life companion, she requires selfless tolerance, care, soothing, and protection, yet her background dictates that her partner must be a Crimson Mage..." The dean spoke these words in a detached tone. "But I fear that most of my current, past, and future colleagues probably won't have any relationship with those kinds of behaviors."

"I understand," Pennie's mood grew solemn as he listened to the dean's narrative, and only after the dean finished did he nod solemnly. "The things you're concerned about won't happen."

"That's not necessarily true," Janhwa smiled. "Everyone is constantly changing with time."

"But the core won't easily waver."

"Is that so? When you were reading those materials just now, you were so diligent that it surprised me. I presume you remember those figures who wield authority in the six major families?" Janhwa shook his head gently. "Compared to before you left for the North, your heart now harbors more ambition."

Pennie's heart skipped a beat. "I believe that to survive in this world, a certain level of ambition is necessary."

"Indeed, indeed," Janhwa nodded. "But are you prepared to fight for your ambition?"

"Of course," Pennie was about to nod, but then heard a commotion to his left. He turned his head in response to the noise.

On the other side of the courtyard, two young crimson-clad apprentices were engaged in combat under the guidance of a mentor. The defeated one lay sprawled on the ground, engulfed in flames, yet the mentor showed no intention of extinguishing them. Instead, they uttered in a chilling tone, "To still have other thoughts during battle, what folly! Once you're in battle, you're the enemy; there's no room for past friendships. For us, that's the least needed thing."

Beneath the hall of the Council at the summit of Serle, there stood an apprentice academy. It was said that only apprentices possessing certain exceptional qualities were eligible to practice there, and those who graduated from it would become members of certain specialized departments. Of course, the training was exceedingly rigorous, with sparring that sometimes verged on fatal.

However, such occurrences were not novel to Pennie; he had witnessed them in the intermediate academy and had even participated. However, as someone who often emerged victorious, he generally maintained a certain level of restraint. Yet, just after leaving the council chamber, witnessing this scene again stirred within Pennie a peculiar discomfort.

Struggle, ubiquitous struggle.

"Do you know what Serle was like around two thousand years ago?" the dean suddenly inquired.

"Back then, it seems there was a disciple of Sereld who opened a portal to another realm, triggering the Orcgate War..." Pennie furrowed his brow, recalling this segment of history.

Lord Mage Sereld, though his ancestors' history remained obscure, was the historically attested first Serle mage to rebel against Murlorland. Official records of the Crimson Mage Guild also recognized him as the founder—despite his personal aversion to wearing crimson robes.

After his rebellion failed, Sereld himself was executed by the forces of Murlorland, and his followers were also hunted down. In a desperate act, a few of his disciples established a portal linking to an alternate dimension, which drew the aggression of the orcish race and the orcish pantheon towards Pharen.

This was followed by the famous Orcgate War, during which several important deities of the Murlorland Ensen pantheon fell, leading both empires into decline.

"Indeed, while the actions of that sage dealt a severe blow to the Murlorland Empire, rendering it unable to exert effective control over the Serle region and thus preserving a glimmer of hope for the fledgling Mage Guild, our ancestors subsequently found themselves mired in endless troubles," Janweser recounted slowly. "Do you know what kind of world our mage predecessors and the abandoned local Murilan nobles faced after the Orcgate War?"

Seeing Pennie's earnest expression of listening, he continued with the same measured but weighty tone, "Amidst the clash of titanic forces of the orcish pantheon and the Murlorland Ensen pantheon, vast swathes of land turned into desolate wastelands and plateaus. Ninety percent of the territory was occupied by hundreds of thousands of orcs and goblins. This region was forsaken by all human civilizations, and our forebears—Sereld's disciples, along with the abandoned local nobles and commoners of Murlorland—numbered only a few tens of thousands. There was no one willing to help us during those times."

Janweser paused for a moment. "Now, Serle boasts over three million inhabitants, where either the goblins and orcs have retreated into the wild or have become our thralls. Do you know why?

In the thousand years following, our ancestors fought tirelessly for living space. The remnants of the Murilan nobility, in order to combat the foreign races, were willing to reconcile with our mage forebears, gradually merging until from then on, Serle and Murlorland began to have conceptual distinctions.

So when Serle stabilized, the Murlorland Empire attempted to reclaim us, resorting to various means of division, coercion, and intrigue, yet without exception, all failed. Other disagreements were resolved in the near millennium of strife that followed, with Murlorland returning to Murlorland and Serle to Serle. They ultimately had to acknowledge us as an independent nation.

The order in Serle today was established in the relentless and ceaseless struggle of over two thousand years."

Janweser smiled. "Our neighbors have always found our combative nature incomprehensible, but in truth, it's not at all surprising, as it's intrinsic to our civilization."

As Janweser recounted, an indescribable heaviness weighed upon Pennie's heart, until he was breathless and speechless.

Only at this moment did Pennie realize clearly that where he stood was not a mere location in a game, but a civilization.

In the course of over two millennia, a civilization forged through myriad struggles emerges. Dark, fervent, ruthless, and fierce, yet undeniable. And he is but a member of this civilization. Since the day of his rebirth, the imprint has been etched into his bloodline. Pennie Sion suddenly felt that the world became more tangible, the memories of the previous life seemingly transforming swiftly into a fleeting dream.

"Struggle!" Janweser stated firmly. "The ship of destiny will not always steer its power to your hands. Without proactive efforts, drifting with the current only leads to decline. We advocate for struggle, believing that through it, we can attain all we desire. The Mage Guild provides an environment that honors all who fight for their interests, regardless of their success or failure. As for those who refuse to engage in strife yet hope to benefit from others' efforts, Serle deems slavery most fitting for their status!"

"I... understand," Pennie sighed slowly, lifting his head with gradually firm resolve.

Before him stood a deep crimson wall, with a seemingly inconsequential small door at its center. Like a backdrop dyed in blood.

...

Kissing your right hand, Seeking your eternal blessings,

The gaze of your dual pupils, Seeking the direction of hope,

Following your radiance, Guiding the beacon of wealth,

May the shimmering clouds of gold coins Illuminate our path,

The melodious twang of the strings, the splashes from the silver coin pool, the chants of the celebrants, the resplendent robes of the priests, the opulent splendor of the shrine.

A maiden clasps a pristine silver coin, standing quietly before a new statue of the deity, a lady's hand slightly inclined forward, as if gently caressing the maiden's head.

She feels much trepidation in her heart, unsure if her prayers will be answered.

Perhaps it's just a plea for peace of mind.

Hoping that the cherished, departed, and remembered will all be protected.

For the bewildered, the lost, the directionless, may they all find guidance.

Be it in the past, present, or future.

"This year does indeed promise more than the last," Veeka remarked, her hands on her hips, her gaze shifting away from the girl's silhouette to the resplendent figure beside her, trailed by a bald man clad in crimson robes. The man carried himself with deference, clearly signifying his esteemed status.

"Of course, amidst our formal duties, it's imperative to nurture the faith of our ladies," the middle-aged man smiled, addressing the tavern proprietress. "Miss Veeka, fulfilling your requests hasn't been without its challenges. However, I must admit, gathering the required sum isn't a daunting task. Such elaborate efforts seem unnecessary..."

"Spare me the chatter," Veeka raised an eyebrow, her tone unapologetically curt. "The trade routes are now established. You will naturally receive what's due, and your contributions won't go unnoticed."

"Um... very well, it's an honor to serve you, as always," the middle-aged man awkwardly touched his nose.

Veeka sighed, a shadow crossing her face, as if recalling some unpleasant matter. The middle-aged man shrugged to the red-robed figure beside him.

"A peculiar bunch of fortune seekers," the red-robed mage muttered inwardly, though his expression remained unchanged, until the temple burst forth in radiant brilliance.

"Divine grace!" exclaimed everyone within and outside the temple, their gazes fixed on the sanctuary engulfed in light.

Veeka and the middle-aged man watched the temple, their faces reflecting varying emotions.