Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 663 - 662: The Times Have Changed

It has been several days since the news of the Eastern Front victory arrived. In the southern borders where the information transmission channels are relatively developed, more and more news is spreading between the cities and countryside.

In the streets and alleys, in taverns and game rooms, almost everyone is eagerly discussing the recent amazing and exciting news, discussing the past of Anzu’s royal family and the future of the Cecil Empire. On this land, even the most ordinary citizens will express their opinions on similar topics, no matter how ridiculous and shallow those opinions might be.

In a tavern in the merchant district of Rocky Ridges Town, the bright magic crystal lamps dispelled the dusk’s dimness, and rows of bottles on the bar shelves were polished to a shine. The liquor within bathed in the lamplight, glistened invitingly. A small rectangular machine resembling a cabinet sat beside the bar, emitting a simple, bright, and cheerful rural tune favored by the southern border people.

A light shone on the small machine’s top nameplate, the words "Kode Household Service Company" gleaming on the brass plate surface.

A man in work clothes sat at the bar, taking a beer glass from the bartender and raising it slightly: "To after-work hours, cheers."

"Gawain, have you read the recent newspapers?" a tall, thin man sitting next to him casually remarked, "The royal family seems to have reached the end—they even had the King abdicate voluntarily."

"Naturally, didn’t Mister Godwin say so—the royal power is over. The kingdoms everywhere couldn’t hold on after this battle. If not for our southern border’s army’s rescue, the North would’ve probably completely fallen. The royal family can’t control the situation anymore; what other choice do they have but to restructure..."

"Indeed, the newspapers say the Eastern Holy Spirit Plain has completely turned into ruins. If the Cecil Legion hadn’t blocked the river in time, the West might not have been saved either."

"To Gawain Cecil—soon we’ll be calling him Your Majesty," the man in work clothes laughed, shaking his cup, "Not bad, he’s much better than the King... speaking of which, who’s the King again?"

"The one who just abdicated is Wales, but I guess you mean Francis... anyway, it doesn’t make much difference, we don’t know them either."

The two laughed, seemingly unbothered by the end of Anzu’s royal power.

For a long time, the southern border people hadn’t cared about their King. This abandoned land had been left to its own devices for over a century. To many from the southern borders, the distant St. Soniel and Silver Castle might as well be part of a story.

Ordinary citizens are practical like this.

However, not everyone thinks alike. Suddenly, a loud clink of a glass hitting the table echoed from nearby, drawing a few gazes from around the bar in that direction.

"I just can’t figure it out..." a man reeking of alcohol with a scruffy beard mumbled noisily, loud enough for those around to hear, "Wasn’t he a Duke, Duke... How did he suddenly become King... A Duke can’t become a King..."

"Hey, Porter, drunk again," someone familiar called from behind, "Have you been soaking here since morning?"

Someone else nearby the drunk reminded him: "Not King, should be called Emperor Your Majesty—the title ’King’ is gone now."

"Emperor, it’s the same... Emperor... and Administrative Office and Constitution, all a bunch of things making... making no sense," the drunk wobbled up, shrugging off a few hands trying to support him, stumbling past the bar, "Talk about new opportunities everywhere... damn new opportunities..."

The swaying man walked through the aisle, stopping suddenly by the bar beside the little machine playing the rural folk tune. His drunken eyes scanned around, suddenly flashing with anger.

"You... noisy thing, you ruined... ruined my job..."

He cursed and suddenly lifted a foot, about to kick the machine—however, before he could, the bartender behind the bar raised his hand, a magical device on his wrist flashed faintly, and a block of ice with cold vapor hit the drunk’s face, knocking him to the ground.

Two security guards stepped forward, lifting the still quarreling drunk, preparing to drag him outside, but the bartender stopped them, walked up to the drunk, and fished a copper coin from the other’s pocket.

"Freshly made ice, one copper coin." The bartender waved the magic transmission terminal he used to create the ice and start fires in front of the drunk, making sure the latter nodded before getting up and leaving.

The drunk was dragged away, and the minor commotion was just an insignificant episode. People continued drinking and chatting as before. Some unfamiliar with the scene inquired about the drunk’s background, prompting someone to explain: "That guy? Porter, a bard—in reality, just a lousy organist. Hardly anyone listened to his noise before, and now nobody does."

"He mingled in the factory for a few days, got fired for stealing, and refuses to do something steady. Now... I bet he’s sold his instrument."

"A bard... no wonder he feels that Kode’s gramophone took away his livelihood."

"It’s not just the gramophone. He previously blamed newspapers and magic web broadcasts, even chess and football teams—said these things drew people’s attention, making everyone unwilling to listen to his stories and performances in the square..."

It seemed this little episode stirred an idle discussion among the people. Listening to the surrounding chatter, the man in work clothes at the bar turned his head, glancing at the tall, thin man beside him: "Speaking of which, I remember you used to be a bard yourself—don’t you perform on the streets anymore? Do you also blame this machine for taking away your livelihood?"

The tall, thin man looked at the small machine beside the bar, then at his friend, and suddenly burst into a rather proud laugh.

"Does the sound from this machine sound familiar to you?" he laughed proudly, observing his friend’s dawning expression. His smile grew even brighter, "It’s my recording... well, only two of them, though."

Several people in the surrounding area heard the conversation here, and some couldn’t help but show a look of surprise – seeing the person from the ancient magical device appear alive in front of them, this feeling is novel and interesting no matter the occasion. The tall, thin man who attracted many surprised glances smiled reservedly, adding, "However, compared to playing music, I really do prefer telling stories, so in a while, I plan to try out at Carol City’s Magic Web broadcasting station. They seem to be recruiting people good at storytelling for a new program..."

More and more people gathered around the bar counter, clearly drawn by a new topic of focus there. But at a corner far from the counter, a man cloaked in an old robe, skinny, pale, with messy brown short hair, quietly stayed seated at his spot, seemingly uninterested in the happenings of the bar and the topics discussed by those around.

In front of this skinny, pale man, a current issue of the newspaper was quietly spread out on the table, his gaze slowly moving over the paper, focusing on a particular section:

"According to preliminary investigations, the disaster orchestrated by the Oblivion Association stems from the ’divine power’ they stole. The ’Evil Creation’ subsequently eliminated by the Cecil Legion and sea demons allies seemed to be a divine replica crafted by Oblivion Association believers using some method...

"The power of this replica originates from the now-deceased God of Nature...

"The God of Nature, once worshipped by Druids, fell about three thousand years ago, according to evidence..."

The skinny, pale middle-aged man finished reading the contents of the newspaper and suddenly sighed softly, "Such content... to think it could be printed on newspapers, allowing those newly literate commoners to freely discuss... Is it possible that we’ve been wrong all along?"

No one heard his low mutter. After speaking, the man quietly stood up. He lightly rubbed his fingertips, and a small flame suddenly appeared out of thin air, burning the newspaper on the table in an instant.

Watching the ashes on the table, he paused briefly before turning discreetly towards the bar door and leaving.

"Rocky ridges Town... didn’t think this place could become so bustling."

Walking along the streets of this city on the southern borders Gateway, observing the tall, new buildings and the wide, clean streets around him, the middle-aged man couldn’t help but murmur.

Then he noticed the pedestrians around suddenly fleeing, and a large group of public security officers, wearing black uniforms equipped with weapons and barrier devices, had appeared at various road junctions nearby, quickly converging towards him.

The skinny, pale man instantly reached towards his waist—there he wore a dagger for self-defense. But upon noticing the number of officers and their weapons and equipment, he wisely stopped.

A tall sheriff stepped forward, a solid magic shield gleaming faintly beside him: "Sir, put down the weapon and raise your hands over your head! You’re under arrest for breaking the Transcendent Control Act!"

While loudly announcing, the sheriff instinctively glanced at the man before him:

Wearing an outdated style traditional short robe, a belt of cloth with tied laces, handmade boots, under the robe seemed to be broad-legged pants... an obvious outsider, likely new to the southern borders.

In the southern borders, changes in labor tools and methods have prompted various changes—due to safety operation requirements of various machinery and equipment, due to factory dress codes, fitted, lightweight, easy-to-move, aesthetically pleasing, and practical new clothing styles have gradually become mainstream. Various robes, short robes, wide-legged pants, wide cuffs, and cloaks with tied laces have gradually been replaced by fitted formal dresses and light workwear, as well as everyday variations of such clothing. Although some scholars believe this "machine dictates human change" is a form of constraint, a regression of traditional customs, it’s undeniable that ninety percent of the workers in the southern borders are accepting these changes, and those still wearing traditional attire... are either those more conservative or outsiders.

In this fortress city at the southern borders Gateway, the latter’s likelihood is higher.

The middle-aged man surrounded by public security officers was clearly still in shock and surprise, but he understood the sheriff’s intent, undoing and placing his waist dagger and wand on the ground, then raising his hands over his head.

The sheriff nodded: "Well done, sir, cooperation is a good start—your name?"

The middle-aged man cautiously observed the surrounding officers, remained silent for two seconds, but finally cooperatively spoke: "Bard... Bard Wendell."

"Mister Bard Bard?"

The middle-aged man’s face slightly twitched: "No, it’s Bard Wendell. Only one Bard."

The sheriff maintained a serious face: "Okay, Mister Wendell, you’re going to have to come with us—the possibility of release depends on your cooperation."

"Why are you arresting me?" The middle-aged man finally couldn’t help but say, "I haven’t harmed anyone..."

"We detected unauthorized spellcasting," the sheriff stared at Bard and said, "Times have changed, Mister Wendell, where’s your spellcasting permit?"

Bard froze: "...Spellcasting permit? What’s that?"

The sheriff shrugged: "Well then, it seems you smuggled your way in. This time, you probably will be locked up."

Bard’s eye corner twitched slightly, but after brief hesitation and contemplation, he finally sighed.

"At this point... it doesn’t matter," he sighed, "Do as you wish, I won’t resist."