Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 1019: Chapter 1018: The Day of Descent

The Typhon Empire’s military movements are still ongoing, with one extraordinary corps after another being summoned from all over the country to the Winterhold area—this originally extremely vast deep defense line now even appears "crowded." Various Typhon army corps have already filled all the castles, cities, and fortresses within the defense line, and have set up a large number of camps and temporary military stations between the lines. Correspondingly, the Cecil side’s army is also continuously heading to the frontline.

Of course, in terms of sheer numbers, Cecil’s army is still far from matching the Typhon Empire, which has taken out its ample reserves.

The atmosphere in the entire war zone has reached an extreme level of tension and oppression, and amidst this peculiar atmosphere and the gathering of massive personnel, the special "breath" permeating the whole region becomes more obvious day by day.

Reports of "abnormal phenomena sightings" from ordinary people have begun to rise exponentially, and the number of civilians fleeing from the border to the inland has reached a new peak in recent days; even those who were previously unwilling to leave their homeland or too poor to migrate are now trying their best to distance themselves from this place of trouble.

In the Intelligence Office at Winterwolf Fortress, Amber was sitting behind an exceptionally large desk—around her were piles of intelligence documents sent from various channels, including those from the Bureau of Military Intelligence Headquarters, frontline reconnaissance units, and the documentation archives department. The agents of the Bureau and strategic advisors at all levels have tried their best to streamline and process the documents, yet they still piled up like a mountain in front of her.

The petite half-elf sat behind this desk, looking almost buried under the files.

Amber adjusted her position on the spacious chair to a relatively relaxed posture, her legs swung twice, and her amber-colored eyes scanned through those rapid analysis notes and clue maps again.

She was attempting to find a critical time point and the potential "hidden risk of abnormal movements" of the Typhon Empire.

A bald man with a scar on his face, looking quite imposing, stood opposite her, placing sorted documents on the desk while cautiously asking, "Boss, your expression... have you discovered something?"

"As I’ve said, in formal occasions call me ’Director’ or ’Chief,’ it sounds more impressive," Amber raised her eyelids to glance at this veteran subordinate, then slightly shook her head, "It’s not much of a decisive discovery... just summarizing some obvious conclusions."

As she spoke, her fingers brushed over a few clue maps, "The Typhons gathered so many troops in a narrow area, from the simplest common sense, we all know that so many people can’t be deployed on such a massive battlefield—so whether they’re going to use these troops to fight the War God or attack us, two-thirds of the troops probably won’t be used. In other words, Emperor Rosetta Augustus concentrated so many people here clearly not solely for fighting, a considerable portion of them... should be used for other purposes."

"Other purposes?" Scarface Anton showed a trace of puzzlement, "What do you mean, which aspect?"

"If I knew, I would have reported it already, do I need to waste time chatting with you here?" Amber rolled her eyes, "Moreover, in military deployment matters, Sir Philip and his team of advisors are certainly more professional than me; I just tell them the anomalies I’ve noticed, how to analyze and investigate further is their business. Our really important task now... is to identify the time point and prepare in advance."

"The time point for Typhon Empire’s action..." Anton pondered briefly, then slightly frustratedly shook his head, "No one knows what that emperor of Typhon is thinking; if he really wants to eliminate the Gods alongside us, he should at least release some signals..."

"He won’t," Amber shook her head, appearing quite understanding, "According to our King’s statement, anything between Typhon and Cecil can be discussed, except this matter. Turning war into a mockery and trap against the war itself would waste all efforts so far."

Saying this, her attention returned to the mountain of files in front of her — if anyone else was present, they would be amazed at how sincerely and seriously she engaged with such a formal task, but Anton knew that this "big sister" had maintained this state for several days.

When truly critical matters are looming, even the typically carefree Amber becomes serious.

Amber did not care what thoughts her subordinate held; she was just contemplating the clues she had recently come across, trying to analyze the Typhon Empire’s action arrangements from them, and while summarizing those clues, she broadened her perspective, attempting to find breakthrough points from directions outside the existing clues.

Often, the unraveling of fog comes not from the people within it, but from the forces outside.

She didn’t find any clues that could reveal the critical action time point of the Typhon Empire among the piles of paper on the desk, but in exhaustion, she raised her head and yawned, inadvertently glanced at a calendar hanging on the nearby wall.

After a moment of blankness, she blinked, seemingly recalling something, and casually asked, "In a few days... is it New Calendar Festival?"

Anton hesitated slightly, probably not expecting his boss’s thinking to jump so miraculously, but considering her usual style, he felt that her interest in a holiday—which allows for time off, raises and bonuses, and a chance to feast openly—was quite natural. So he nodded, "Yes, the day after tomorrow is the New Calendar Festival, the first day of the year... But to be honest, given the current situation, you shouldn’t even be thinking about having a holiday and drinking..."

Amber entirely ignored the latter half of Anton’s joking remarks (under normal circumstances, she would have kicked him into the shadow realm by now), she seemed almost lost while muttering the syllables of New Calendar Festival, then glanced down at the shorthand notes she had taken at hand, a sparkle emerged in her eyes — "I know!"

...

"Three days later? On New Calendar Festival?" In the Frontline Command Hall, Gawain looked somewhat surprised at Amber, who suddenly ran over excitedly to report, "Are you certain?"

Having lived in this world for years, he was not unfamiliar with traditional festivals like New Calendar Festival. It’s a day somewhat resembling New Year, being the first day of the Cold Month and the first day of the year. On this day, the Frost Throne starts descending, the Flowing Fire throne begins ascending, although the whole month is known as the Cold Month, in reality, the coldest days of the year will soon be over — as the upcoming Revival Month approaches, people celebrate this special occasion in various ways, not only humans but also southern elves and many other races in the western part of the continent.

Recalling some knowledge about New Calendar Festival, a thought suddenly flashed through Gawain’s mind.

He seemed to know what Amber had discovered.

"On New Calendar Festival day, the gods need to rest and reestablish arrangements for governing this world," Amber spoke unhurriedly, "For this reason, all religious activities pause for a day – regardless of which deity the believers follow, including those who boast deceitfully, all will remain ’silent’ on this day. People will not pray, not go to church, not conduct services at home, they even try to avoid mentioning the names of gods because... gods are resting on this day."

The key to unveiling the mystery is not found in any line of intelligence, but in a traditional custom — all things indeed fascinating.

Amber carried a slight smile, "Emperor Rosetta Augustus can’t solely through his command cause everyone to stop praying to the War God at the same time, even though he has forcibly controlled the activities of the Sect of the God of War everywhere with his military, forbidding public, formal sermons, he can’t stop people from praying secretly at home, can’t ensure there aren’t some underground churches secretly operating among nearly tens of millions of people, and certainly can’t control those sects outside of Typhon... But the power of traditional customs can achieve this, at least better than he does.

"On New Calendar Festival, everyone will cease praying, regardless of which god they believe in or whether they follow Rosetta’s orders, everyone will do this, and according to our research on deity operational rules, under such circumstances, the power of the gods will lose its ’supplement’..."

Gawain’s expression became particularly serious as he gently rubbed his knuckle, his tone low and grave: "So, if he wants to strike at the God, New Year’s Eve will be the most suitable day... Time is running out, but we can still prepare."

...

Several days passed in the blink of an eye.

In a gathering hall near Winter Fortress, huge fire pans had been ignited, and iron-made sacred artifacts and candlesticks were neatly arranged around the altar. The scent of incense wafted from the bonfire and candle flames, spreading throughout the entire gathering hall.

A large number of priests, cloaked in black or gray robes, stumbled into the gathering hall as if they were a swarm of staggering zombies, gathering in front of the altar. They stood there vacantly, appearing to have lost the normal human ability to think. Yet, from beneath the heavy hoods, a continuous low murmuring or muttering could be heard, as if each of them was conversing with an unseen interlocutor, and even quite animatedly at that.

The Obsidian Imperial Guards, clad in black armor, stood watch at the perimeter of the gathering hall. Beneath faceplates made of alloy, their gazes were cold and nearly devoid of emotional fluctuation.

A commanding officer of the guard glanced at the mechanical watch in his hand, then looked through a wide window nearby to the sky outside.

Cold wind was blowing through the open window into the gathering hall, carrying with it snow grains accumulated over the past few days.

A new year had begun today... with a dark and bloody day as its start, and no one yet knew whether this beginning would lead to a future that retains hope—the commander did not know either. His only task here was to carry out the orders passed down by his superiors.

"This might be the worst New Year’s Eve I’ve ever had, it’s so damn cold..." he murmured softly, stepping toward a priest standing by the altar.

As time passed, the scent of incense permeating the hall began affecting these dazed priests and clergymen; some seemed to start praying quietly, but this could hardly be called a real "ceremony". The commander approached the priest, addressed the face hidden under the hood slowly and deliberately: "The sacred time has come, won’t you offer a prayer?"

"The sacred time... the sacred time..." the priest muttered under his breath, sounding muddled, but seemingly maintaining a shred of reason, "But today, I cannot pray... Today..."

"New Year’s Eve already passed yesterday, Your Excellency Bishop, you are mistaken," said the commander quietly. "Look at the fire pans and candles before you... these are offerings for the God, and such things are not part of New Year’s Eve, are they?"

"Oh... oh... you’re right, New Year’s Eve passed yesterday..." a more muddled voice emerged from under the hood, becoming completely incomprehensible by the end. As that murmuring turned hoarse and tattered, mixed with sounds humanly impossible to produce, the commander swiftly retreated to the edge of the gathering hall.

Low prayers began to echo around the fire pans—

"... War God shelter me, my heart like steel, battle-hardened..."

An indescribable mental pressure began to spread; even the well-trained Obsidian guards couldn’t help feeling their skin tighten and lips dry. They gripped their longswords tightly, their gaze fixed on their leader. The commander stared intently at the fire in the center of the altar, now increasingly tinged with iron-gray, occasionally glancing rapidly at the priests surrounding the altar. Slowly, his hand moved towards his longsword at his waist.

Inside the hall, the prayers melded into one, interlaced with several other strange sounds, as the flames in the altar’s center burned ever fiercer. Outside this hall, in the howling wind, throughout the vast Winterhold area, the same was happening simultaneously at dozens of other gathering halls.

In the sky, clouds began to gather strangely, large expanses of iron-gray clouds seemed to appear from nowhere. In the clouds’ center, a thing, twinkling faintly like a portal, loomed ominously—just like the legendary gates of the kingdom suspended high over the earth, clearly visible for all in Winterhold who look up.

The surviving residents of this region felt an overwhelming pressure. In panic, they hid in their homes, ducked into cellars, secured doors and windows. Soldiers anxiously awaited further orders, countless commanders and passing messages cast their gazes towards Winterhold.

Emperor Rosetta Augustus stood in the highest layer of Winterhold’s Hall of Mysteries, his gaze piercing through the wide floor-to-ceiling glass windows to the sky, watching the projection of the divine image become increasingly clear in his view.

Today is New Year’s Eve, a day when the gods "rest", and all prayer activities worldwide have ceased, yet tens of thousands of War God’s most corrupted clergy are praying here... this is a powerful "coordination", enough to direct the connection of the kingdom precisely to the mortal world.

Yet this still seems insufficient, for the gods have not truly descended—common prayers cannot bring about a qualitative change through sheer numbers; a critical final push is still required.

Rosetta withdrew his gaze, turning to stride toward a blazing fire pan at the hall’s center—the people within had long evacuated, even Palin Winterhold was no exception. Now, Rosetta Augustus was the only one left in this vast space, the only one capable of accomplishing what he intended here.

He stood before the fire pan, pausing momentarily in thought before glancing back in the direction of the Cecil Empire.

"At such a distance... not even an exchange of glances is possible."

The Typhon Emperor made the first joke he had cracked in a decade, then reached his hand into the void with a sweeping gesture.

An illusory, vacuous eye abruptly appeared behind him against a background of starlight, while in his hand he gripped a shadowy, indistinct figure.

It was none other than the projection of Malm Dunite’s avatar.

After pulling this avatar out, Rosetta cast it into the fire pan without so much as a glance, then reached out again—catching and tossing another "Malm Dunite" into the flames.

Then a third... a fourth...

As though adding fuel to the fire pan.