Although Gwayne grumbled inwardly, he understood there was little helping the way this world had developed.
Civilization followed certain patterns, yes—but it was also prone to fits and stalls. Sometimes a single groundbreaking invention could propel a society forward. More often, especially in a world where feudal ignorance held sway, centuries could pass with barely any progress at all.
And in a realm gripped by supernatural forces, trapped by rigid class systems, and scarred by an ancient cataclysm, such stagnation was only worse.
The existence of magic brought undeniable conveniences—yet also fettered civilization's advance.
Those born with power lived in ease, secure in their dominion over the powerless masses. Yet because the gift of magic was rare and random, it could never serve as a foundation for societal progress.
The fortunate few with awakened talents simply ascended into the aristocracy, reinforcing the cycle of oppression. They had neither the incentive nor the strength to lift the rest.
Magic was not for the smallfolk. It was a rule as ancient as it was cruel.
Thus, progress remained a trickle. The commoners lacked the means to change their fates. The elites, comfortable atop their thrones, saw no need for change. Even the peasants themselves saw no hope in striving—only in praying for magical awakening.
In a world where one could conjure ice arrows at will, who would dream of inventing the humble refrigerator? Yet an ice arrow could never give every soul in summer a cool drink, nor could it preserve lifesaving medicines across distant lands.
Such was the way of things now. And it was wrong. Gwayne knew this in his bones.
Magic should be an engine of progress, not a shackle. Its flexibility, its sheer potential—these ought to have built wonders, not chains. But he also knew that revolution was not a matter for today.
For now, he would take the first small steps.
He explained, patiently and thoroughly, the importance of population registries to Hestia and Rebecca. He taught them how to organize the information, how to record names, ages, skills, and family ties.
Of course, given their inexperience—and the fact that many peasants could barely recount their own surnames or exact ages—he relaxed his demands. For now, only craftsmen would be fully catalogued. The rest would at least have their names recorded.
It would be enough to start. Once their new home was secured, the records could be completed.
No lord had ever bothered to make such detailed records before. After all, to the nobles of this world, peasants held little value—barely even fit to die as soldiers. Their only worth was in harvesting grain and providing unpaid labour.
No one understood that people themselves were the foundation of a realm's strength. Thus, no one had ever seen a need to record them.
Thankfully, despite her many other shortcomings, Rebecca grasped Gwayne's intent immediately.
She even seemed excited to carry it out. Given that this same young lady had once passed a decree allowing serfs to earn freedom through service, perhaps she was not as hopeless as some thought.
With careful guidance, she might even—he mused—be tricked into becoming a halfway decent administrator. (Or at least, into managing the human resources ledgers.)
Luckily, there were fewer than nine hundred survivors to sort through. Ser Philip had already conducted a rough tally months ago. With Hestia's steady hand, Rebecca compiled the full records swiftly.
Once the data was in hand, Gwayne made a decision. They would divide into two groups for the journey to their new home.
The vanguard—led by Gwayne himself, with Rebecca and Hestia at his side—would include Ser Byron, half their soldiers and militia, a contingent of craftsmen, and a hundred able-bodied workers.
Their task was to reach the site first, establish a fortified camp, survey the water sources, and prepare for any beast attacks.
The main body—mostly noncombatants—would follow later under the protection of Ser Philip.
Charging into the wilderness with eight hundred civilians was sheer folly. Though most survivors were hardy enough—those too old or weak had perished in the chaos—the civilians still needed the soldiers to blaze a safe trail.
Preparation could never be perfect. But some risks had to be faced head-on.
After setting everything in order, Gwayne led his vanguard out of Valewatch Town, heading southeast, toward the looming shadow of the Black Mountains.
They followed a tributary of the Whitewater River, advancing along the flatter stretches of riverbank. Gwayne, the knights, and the lords rode at the head, soldiers guarded the flanks, and craftsmen and supply wagons rolled at the center.
Riding beside him, Hestia glanced back at the modest caravan and whispered in awe: "It feels… as if we are true pioneers."
"We are pioneers," Gwayne replied, smiling.
"I meant—like the Second Exodus, seven hundred years ago..." she said quietly.
Gwayne chuckled. "That was me too, you know."
"...Right," Hestia murmured, cheeks reddening.
"Have faith," Gwayne said, his voice firm. "Every step into the unknown is the beginning of something great. Whether it was the First Exodus, the Second, or our journey today—the spirit is the same. We are not merely building a home. We may be forging a new age."
Hestia stared at him, stunned, then nodded solemnly. She did not fully understand what he meant by a "new age"—but if her legendary forebear spoke of it, it must be something glorious indeed.
Meanwhile, the ever-pragmatic Amber clapped her hands enthusiastically. She didn't really understand the speech either, but figured if the boss said it, it had to be right.
Better safe than sorry—clap now, think later.
The closer they drew to the mountains, the more desolate the world became.
Signs of civilization dwindled, swallowed by wilderness.
Long ago, the heirs of the First Pioneers had tried to tame this land, carving out settlements with fire and steel, dreaming of reclaiming Gondor's lost heartlands.
But year after year, the magic-tainted wilderness pushed back. Beasts and monsters flourished, while human villages withered and died. The Mistfall Uprising a century ago shattered the last tenuous grasp civilization had upon the southern frontier.
Today, the wilderness had fully reclaimed what was once lost. Only broken ruins and dark woods remained.
Magic had calmed. The great Dark Tide was confined once more to Gondor's corpse. But mankind had grown content within their safe borders. None sought to reclaim the South. Especially after the fall of House Seawright, no one dared.
Their wagons crawled along the rough paths, the air thick with unease.
Not even the presence of the legendary Gwayne Seawright could fully lift the people's fears. Especially not the craftsmen and peasants, who marched less out of hope than out of obedience—and numbness.
On the third day, they reached it.
A clearing at the base of the mountains: a slender plain wedged between river and rock.
Here, the Whitewater's tributary widened and slowed, flowing eastward toward the Imperium.
Before them loomed the Black Mountains, towering and foreboding, its peaks lost in swirling mist.
Gwayne rode ahead and climbed a large boulder, scanning the land, matching the terrain with the ancient satellite's-eye view that lived in his mind.
To the west, forests thick with blackwood and giant-trees—perfect for lumber. To the east, rocky outcroppings that, if memory served, concealed rich veins of iron.
And elsewhere... other treasures.
He knew the mountains well. He had once mapped them himself, long ago during the Second Exodus.
If the Crown had abandoned this wealth, well, Gwayne would gladly claim it anew.
Jumping down from the boulder, Gwayne turned to Hestia.
"Set camp here," he commanded. "Raise all the tents. Post guards around the perimeter. Send the woodcutters into the western forest for lumber—but not too deep. Stay close, avoid beasts."
He smiled faintly. "No need to fear monsters. The Dark Tide's corruption faded long ago. Unless you march straight into a mana nexus, you won't find any horrors here."
He turned to Rebecca, Byron, and Amber. "You three, come with me."
Hestia blinked in surprise. "Ancestor, where are you going?"
Gwayne grinned. "To reclaim my inheritance."