Turning Chapter 993
There were many reasons why General Gino Bodelli was held in such high esteem, but one of them was his ability to refrain from showing personal bias or favoritism in public. Though he occasionally smiled and treated Kishiar with a trace of warmth—Kishiar being royalty and his student in swordsmanship from childhood—even that was more akin to the demeanor of an old retainer than that of a close companion.
Even Meghna, his longtime adjutant and closest aide, had never seen the old general respond so openly and amicably toward a younger person. As she quietly hid her surprise, Yuder nodded and replied as if nothing were unusual.
“I heard you dug up some sweet potatoes quite effectively. I’m glad my advice was helpful, General.”
“Sweet potatoes?”
The people nearby, who had been eavesdropping out of curiosity to hear what the general would say to Yuder, looked visibly puzzled. But General Gino merely let out a hearty laugh.
“Yes, you were right. Sweet potatoes do have connected roots. Once you find one, the rest follow if you dig along the lines. It was quite the fulfilling task. Next time, I’d like to ask your advice on how to store them—or even how to plow the field. Would that be all right?”
“The Cavalry won’t be returning immediately after today. If it’s before then, I can make time.”
Even though it was General Gino making the request, Yuder didn’t smile or flatter—he simply gave a flat, schedule-conscious response. The watching nobles wondered if the old general might take offense at such a blunt tone from a younger Awakener.
But he didn’t.
“Excellent. Very good. Just like we discussed last time, I’d like to have a bout with Meghna and share some stories about the sword. Ah, do you play tactical games?”
“I know how.”
“Perfect! I’ll be in touch soon.”
The general cheerfully slapped Yuder on the shoulder with all the unreserved enthusiasm of a youth. If someone hadn’t known the difference in their age and positions, they might’ve mistaken the interaction for a conversation between old friends. Those who respected the general—and even those who didn’t—were stunned.
Clearly aware of the surprise his actions had caused, the general didn’t seem to care. With a satisfied expression, he turned to Kishiar.
“Well then, I’ll take my leave. Apologies for making this our farewell, but we’ll be departing as soon as the succession ceremony ends.”
“That’s unfortunate. I understand. I’ll be in touch again.”
The old general left with his student supporting him. Once they had moved far enough that no one paid them any attention, he spoke in a low voice, smiling faintly.
“Meghna. Did I seem strange just now?”
After a brief silence, Meghna shook her head.
“I was surprised, honestly... but no, I didn’t find it strange. I haven’t forgotten what Baron Aile did for our Southern Army. I can’t imagine you have either, General.”
Hearing her response, the general nodded.
“That’s right. Age {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} is something anyone can accumulate with each night’s sleep. Status is something you’re born into—or it can change. It’s never eternal. So don’t judge people by such things. Don’t make the same mistakes I did, mistaking the world for what I’d grown used to.”
Meghna knew all too well that the general had recently been forced to apprehend one of his own pupils—a pupil he’d raised by hand—and ensure that he could never wield a sword again. That pupil now sat imprisoned. So his words carried a heavy weight.
The general looked at her, his voice sincere.
“Remember this: the world we now live in is already beyond the limits of our old understanding. Those people are the proof. Watch them carefully and see how a world once thought immutable can be changed. And learn from them.”
Only by learning from those who lead change can we hope to change the world ourselves.
That sentence, filled with both the pain and hope the general had harbored for so long, left Meghna with only one possible response.
“...I will.”
***
At last, the succession ceremony for the new Duke of Hern began in earnest.
With the hall filled to bursting with nobles from the South and guests from all over the Empire, Mayra stepped onto the platform clad in stately ceremonial robes. In her hand, she held the most iconic symbol of House Hern—a spear.
The spear was taller than Mayra herself, and looked far too heavy to lift, yet she walked to the platform without so much as a twitch of discomfort.
“That’s Tolenebaragulran, the legendary weapon wielded by the first Duke Hern. It’s said he defeated countless enemies with that spear on decked ships. That’s why the Hern family crest is a winged spear piercing four waves.”
Yuder heard Kachien whispering behind him to Kanna and the other Cavalry members, offering an explanation. Just as he said, embedded near the spearhead where the blade met the shaft was a gleaming gem engraved with the crest: a winged spear piercing waves.
A priest stood atop the platform to recite the ceremonial blessing. It was none other than Galloam, a priest long connected to Mayra.
He was neither high-ranking nor noble-born, and not especially famous before. But after the day of hail and the despairing Blue Wall, he had become one of the most recognized priests in the South. Ignoring more prominent figures, Mayra had personally asked Galloam to bless her path forward.
“...Life is like land facing the tide. Waves will ceaselessly come to break and swallow the ground. But if the land we stand on is firm, the divine shall shine their light of peace upon it, and grant us tranquility.”
The priest’s calm, solemn voice filled the great hall. Clearly selected specifically for today, the prayer echoed reverently. Everyone was reminded of the days when waves of despair battered them without end—and how they had survived to see this day. They were moved all over again.
“May the divine bless the Duke, who now embarks upon a new voyage.”
As he finished speaking, the priest closed his scripture and placed his hand on Mayra’s head, emitting a sacred light. When the warm glow faded, Mayra lifted her head and stood tall before the crowd.
The hand holding the spear rose slowly, then came down to strike the floor.
Boom.
Again. Boom. Boom. The sound and tremor of the spear striking the stone rang through the air. She said nothing—but nothing more was needed. With each strike, the people could feel the full strength and resolve of the new Duke of Hern, as she bore the weight of the legendary spear without wavering.
It was more unifying than any speech.
After the twelfth strike, the bells in Sharloin’s tower rang out in majestic resonance, celebrating the inheritance of House Hern.
The entire hall, which had stood in awe, erupted into applause as everyone rose to their feet. The cheers grew louder and louder until they nearly drowned out the bells.
“Waaaaah!”
“Long live the Duke of Hern!”
As Yuder clapped for Mayra, he glanced at the man beside him.
Despite an intentional restraint in lavishness given the times, the succession ceremony was still grand and elegant—more than enough just by following tradition. But had every Duke experienced such dignity?
Kishiar was a Duke too. And yet, it was doubtful he ever had a formal succession ceremony. A prince being made a Duke and sent away was nothing worth celebrating. Unlike Mayra, he had no predecessor, no tradition to uphold, and no way to prepare a ceremony like this.
The House of Peleta—a name that existed for only one man in the world.
Yuder imagined the boy prince, freshly granted his title and sent off to the far north, immortalized in portrait. And just as he did, Kishiar turned to him with a smile, clapping gracefully.
“Hmm? Something on your mind?”
“...No. Nothing.”
When Yuder turned away, Kishiar chuckled softly.
“It was only a simple ceremony, but I did have one. Before leaving the palace.”
He already knew why Yuder had looked at him.