Chapter Forty-Nine: Kept in the Dark

Compared to those policymakers in the central provinces, who naively believed that simply dispatching troops to block the Loya Avenue would be enough to cut off the Black Iron Dwarves’ army from entering the east, relying solely on stereotypes, Mori Stevenson felt deeply concerned.

“Bladesmith Harbor is vital to East Cyprus. Clay, convey my exact words to Radiance City. Also, you should send a scouting party westward. Two hundred thousand troops won’t all perish. See if the residents of West Cyprus can be relocated, at least in part, to the east. They are all children of the Empire,” Baron Mori concluded.

Clay hesitated, his face uncertain.

Mori rose to his feet, unwilling to spare him another glance, and said quietly, “If you want to return with something more than empty hands, do as I say.”

Baron Mori was furious, unable to understand Clay’s hesitation. Shouldn’t he himself be the one to question, given how little he knew of the frontline’s situation, and yet he was left to clean up the aftermath for these people?

The decree of noble promotion arrived at Saltwell Town half a month later, delivered by a raven.

Along with it came the document granting Mori stewardship of Bladesmith Harbor, as well as the authority to mobilize the army across the entire northwest.

On that day, Clay dispatched his knight scouts. They crossed the Blackstone Fortress, which was under reconstruction, and headed west along Loya Avenue.

Now Duke Mori, newly promoted, felt the honor came somewhat late, but he did not refuse it. He immediately ordered the mustering of the legions, intending to personally oversee Blackstone Fortress and the Loya Avenue. Augusta, the steam guardian, was elevated by Mori to commander of the Watchers’ Legion. His task was to take over Bladesmith Harbor from the Lionheart family, establish a reliable supply line, and of course recruit personnel.

For a time, news of the two prominent figures in Saltwell Town being entrusted with important duties—and preparing to depart—spread throughout the settlement.

Ironically, Carlos, the youngest son of Duke Mori, was the last to hear the news.

Carlos stared intently at the catalyst before him, recalling the violent reaction in the alchemy furnace yesterday that nearly resulted in an explosion, leaving him shaken. He picked up the catalyst and carefully poured it into the mixture.

“Watch the dosage,” Dubeuy cautioned.

Carlos was well-versed in basic pharmaceutical techniques. As his small hand steadily added the catalyst, the jet-black mist potion fused rapidly with the red catalyst, gradually forming a dark brown liquid.

The solution glowed fiercely within its container.

Carlos quickly grabbed his specially prepared feather pen and a blank scroll.

According to the geometric symbols in his memory, he dipped the pen into the fused liquid and began to write on the scroll, slowly and carefully.

Carlos’s hand was steady, his script neat. When drawing the diagram, he held his breath and focused, his pen unwavering. Soon, a large circle containing three smaller circles and several semi-triangular figures took shape on the scroll, drawn with precision.

“Pay attention to every symbol,” Dubeuy stood behind Carlos, his eyes showing satisfaction. “Look closely: before the ink dries, you must complete all the symbols, or the scroll will fail.”

Afraid the ink would dry too quickly, Carlos dipped the feather pen into the liquid again, recalling the sequence of characters for the Mist Scroll.

Once he began, he wrote smoothly and swiftly, inscribing the symbols at the four corners of the geometric diagram.

After finishing and carefully checking that the ink of the fused mist potion hadn’t fully dried, he finally sighed in relief. This was the second alchemical array he had mastered during this period.

Moreover, this time he had directly produced it as a scroll.

Dubeuy, the seasoned alchemist, was very pleased with Carlos’s progress.

In terms of talent, Carlos was the most gifted beginner in alchemy Dubeuy had ever seen. As his teacher, Dubeuy’s face showed a trace of pride.

Suddenly, the tightly shut door rattled. Someone was pounding urgently, making the wooden door resound with loud thuds.

Carlos ran from the basement to the first floor to let his anxious elder brother, Dericht, into the house. Several solemn-faced Night Watchers followed behind him.

“What’s happened?”

Carlos saw anxiety in Dericht’s eyes and noticed he was unusually clad in armor—the silver-gray gleam accentuated his resolute features, making him appear even more heroic.

Dericht did not let his brother Carlos wonder for long. He ordered the Night Watchers to carry several chests into the house.

“Father has regained his title as Duke,” Dericht said.

Carlos was delighted at first, but seeing the worry on his brother’s face, he realized things were not so simple.

“The war in West Cyprus has ended in defeat. Father has taken sole responsibility for defending the northwest. We’re about to depart for Blackstone Fortress in the north. He sent me to inform you. The contents of these chests are what he left for you. He asked me to tell you: when the winter snow melts, go to the central provinces.”

Carlos stood stunned, clutching his brother’s trembling hand. “Has Father already left?”

“He’d already departed when I came. He’s first heading to Sylin City to gather several mercenary legions.”

“I must go see Father,” Carlos declared, rushing out of the house.

He ran to a Night Watcher and ordered him to lift him onto an armed horse. He grabbed the reins, turned the horse without looking back, lashed its haunches, and galloped away.

Dericht shouted after him, “It’s too late—the convoy has already left!”

Riding through Line Street, Carlos saw many ragged residents queuing with luggage, moving slowly forward. In the middle of the line, dwarf overseer Julio was herding a group of prisoner miners ahead; it seemed the Stevensons weren’t the only ones heading for Blackstone Fortress.

There was no time to worry about them. Carlos rode alongside the advancing convoy. Having been occupied with alchemy lately, he was unaware of the outside world’s events. Upon hearing that his father had been promoted to Duke and was heading to the front, he grew anxious. Raised by his father since childhood, and with his mother gone, Carlos couldn’t bear the thought of losing his father without warning.

West Cyprus was a military stronghold—the true frontline of the war. Yet after only two months, East Cyprus had become the new border. Carlos felt his father was too eager to restore the family’s glory, perhaps making a wrong decision.

And as the next heir to the Stevenson family, Carlos believed he must shoulder some responsibility, even if only to offer a necessary warning.

Carlos’s horse could not gallop swiftly in the crowded street; people constantly left the convoy, crossing in front of his mount. He had to rein in the horse carefully.

Staring at the endless line ahead, Carlos grew increasingly anxious.

At that moment, a familiar figure approached on horseback, drawing up and halting right in front of Carlos.