Sword of Dawnbreaker

Chapter 503 - 502: Spirit Festival

This is a special day for the Anzu people.

Anling Festival.

On the 45th day of the Frost Month every year, nationwide festival activities will unfold as scheduled. On this day, with the chill growing stronger, the Anzu will take out the last portion of food and energy they can afford to squander, to commemorate their ancestors and the friends and kin who have already returned to the world of the departed.

Although many contemporary people have forgotten the original meaning of this festival, hundreds of years of tradition have made the 45th day of the Frost Month a special date filled with mystery, hope, and commemoration. Many Anzu people firmly believe that the gates to the realm of the departed will open on this day, granting the souls who have passed away—whether they have gone to the Reaper’s hall, to the Blood God’s ritual site, or to other deities’ realms—a chance to return to the mortal world. These souls will come along the paths lined with Death Chrysanthemums, celebrating the festival with the living, and at night, they will appear by the bonfires in the form of shapeless smoke, firelight, or shadows, accompanying those who miss them.

Therefore, although it is a day to remember the dead, the Anzu people will spend this day in celebration. They will decorate their doors with flowers, hang wreaths on fireplaces or walls opposite the doors, and build grand bonfires, singing and dancing around them—they celebrate this day because they believe that the souls will come home to visit on this day.

Besides commemorating the deceased, the Anling Festival holds another meaning for Anzu, as a kingdom in the north: it signifies the end of most social activities.

The 45th day of the Frost Month is the last day the Flowing Fire Constellation crosses the celestial sphere, signaling the approach of winter. Although winter is still over a dozen days away, the weather in the northern kingdom is already too cold for further outdoor exertion. Perhaps the aristocracy will host a few atmospheric winter feasts on snowy days, but for the common people, who face shortages of food, fuel, and clothing, this is their last opportunity of the year for large-scale outdoor activities.

After careful calculations, people gather together their fuel and food, using the form of a final celebration to lift their spirits and pray for a smooth year from their ancestors’ souls. The simple populace holds simple beliefs: praying to the three goddesses of fertility is the privilege of fertility priests, and consulting the Druids for a bountiful harvest costs a lot of money. So why not kindle a bonfire during this last festival before winter, hoping those who may have entered the realm of the gods will lend a helping hand—protecting them to yield a few more pounds of grain in the coming year.

With such simple wishes, people celebrate the annual Anling Festival, then hibernate after it ends, just as their ancestors who have returned to the realm of the departed, quietly hibernate during the long winter that follows.

In St. Soniel, the faint fragrance of Death Chrysanthemums wafts through the streets and alleys. Although the entire kingdom remains mired in the quagmire of war, the Anling Festival has arrived on schedule—or rather, precisely because the storm of war pours down, people urgently need this festival to console the souls about to embark on their final journey.

In front of every household, white flowers are already inserted. Decorative grass ropes or floral vines hang under the eaves of every dwelling. Adults, holding gathered firewood, head to the nearest square or open space to prepare for the evening bonfire, while carefree children shout and frolic around the adults, expending their energy and vitality.

This scene is not exclusive to civilian neighborhoods; even inside the magnificent Silver Castle, there is a similar spectacle.

Servants in the courtyard prepare a large bonfire, while knights polish their spears and swords, decorating them along the corridors leading to the courtyard. Victoria Wilder, clad in a long white dress, with silver hair cascading on her shoulders, stands at the courtyard entrance, holding a white Death Chrysanthemum and solemnly pinning it on Wales Moen’s chest.

"Your Highness, may you remember the glory of your ancestors," the Duchess said quietly and calmly to the heir of the Moen lineage standing before her.

Wales Moen glanced at the small white flower on his chest, offering a slightly self-mocking smile, then bowed his head, "I will remember it."

Duchess Victoria looked at the expressionless Wales Moen and suddenly asked, "Your Highness, do you know why every year on the Anling Festival the head of the Wilder Clan places the Death Chrysanthemum on the heir of the Moen lineage?"

There seemed to be a flicker in Wales Moen’s eyes, but he still replied calmly, "It’s because the Wilder Clan protected the Moen bloodline at the kingdom’s most perilous time—just as ancestors deserve remembrance, so does this friendship."

Victoria gazed into Wales’ eyes, devoid of any intimidation, yet her inherent winter-like demeanor imposed an indescribable pressure that people generally couldn’t endure for more than ten seconds under her gaze. However, the middle-aged man before her held his ground, meeting the Duchess’s gaze steadily.

Victoria seemed to smile slightly as she withdrew her gaze, looking towards the courtyard’s nascent pile of wood, "...I once asked Prince Edmund the same question, can you guess how he answered?"

"...I don’t know."

"’It’s to let every Moen descendant know that because of the Wilder Clan’s presence, they have the privilege to commemorate their ancestors in this Silver Castle, rather than in North Mountain County’s stables’, those were his exact words," Victoria stated in a calm tone, "That was three years ago, before our great founding hero crawled out of his grave."

Wales Moen said nothing, standing there silently.

"He should be wearing a Death Chrysanthemum now, somewhere in a fortress in the Eastern Holy Spirit Plain, by a bonfire, remembering the father he likely killed with his own hands. He’s finally free from the humiliation of accepting the flower I place on him here in the Silver Castle, following my requirements to remember the dead," Victoria slightly tilted her head, speaking to the crown prince already in his middle age, "And now this role is yours once more, returned to you."

"I don’t consider it humiliating."

"Maybe, but that’s not important," Victoria’s tone was indifferent, as if it really didn’t matter, "Your father was a good king, to be honest, I respect him—though he might not comfortably accept my respect."

Wales looked at the Duchess with some confusion, seemingly not understanding why this usually cold and aloof northern ruler, who seldom spoke at length, was suddenly saying so much to him. Yet Victoria paid no mind to his bewilderment, continuing:

"This kingdom has stood for hundreds of years, and dozens have sat on that throne, but not all truly cared about this kingdom. Your father did... Believe it or not, the Wilder Clan has always genuinely supported him."

Wales opened his mouth but said nothing in the end.

"I understand your thoughts; although you never say it, you also think this is a form of coercion and control," the Duchess said, without turning around, yet it seemed she had already seen the subtle change in Wales’s expression. "However, we have our own considerations—all for the Anzu Kingdom.

"The Fog Month Riot that occurred a hundred years ago taught us a great lesson. This riot was sparked by the struggle for royal power, but the real cause of the chaos was the last King of the First Dynasty and his reckless life and various misgovernances before his demise. From that day, we realized—the throne must have a lock.

"The King is supreme, but the King must not be uncontrolled. For long-term stability, someone must be able to promptly control the situation when royal power spirals out of control. Thus, in the Second Dynasty, we established the regency system, royal power would be monitored and controlled, yet conversely, the King also balances the power of the dukes. You know this.

"No one should have absolute power; there must be contingency plans for any authority. These two points are the lessons summarized by the Wilder Clan from the Fog Month Riot."

Wales Moen finally broke the silence: "Have you considered the variables of Edmund and the Duke of the East?"

"...Human nature always lies beyond plans," the Duchess said after two seconds of silence. "But this does not mean the lessons we summarized are meaningless. In fact, Anzu managed to survive the Fog Month Riot relying on the regency system. This system may need improvement, but it is far from being abandoned."

Wales fell silent, and after a long silence, he raised his head, looking at the Duchess before him: "...Why tell me this all of a sudden?"

"These words my father also said to your father before his ascension," the Duchess said calmly. "During the Ancestral Festival three years ago, I originally intended to say them to Edmund."

Wales’s breath paused slightly at this moment.

"The throne has been vacant for a long time. This country has functioned without a king for over half a year, but it cannot continue to operate like this indefinitely—the nobility needs a figure to pledge allegiance to, the Anzu Kingdom’s military needs a banner, the people need to know who the rightful heir is," Duchess Victoria turned around, staring into Wales’s eyes again. "Initially, we thought this war could end swiftly, for the Anzu Kingdom’s military had manpower and supplies two or three times that of the Eastern Territory Rebels, but we indeed miscalculated. We’ve been entrenched in a stalemate, thus we must prepare to continue in this stalemate."

Wales opened his mouth slightly: "I..."

"We cannot wait until post-war to crown you, Crown Prince," the Duchess said, emphasizing the term "Crown Prince." "Edmund will soon realize he cannot enter St. Soniel within the next year. He will also crown himself at any moment, while the Duke of the East will use his influence to compel the aristocracy of the Eastern Holy Spirit Plain and a significant portion of the plains to pledge allegiance to a new king, and naive commoners will soon acknowledge this matter—thus, you must become King before Edmund is crowned."

Wales Moen’s eyes widened slightly; however, having missed the throne once before, he forced himself to regain composure within a short time. Looking at the Duchess, he replied frankly and directly, "How many will acknowledge me as King? How many nobles are willing to pledge allegiance to me?"

"The Wilder Clan will fully support you, the Franklin clan as well; we can convince half of the kingdom’s nobility to pledge loyalty to you—at least publicly pledge allegiance."

Wales pondered, then after several seconds opened his mouth again: "Have you considered the greatest variable?"

As he said this, Wales Moen raised a hand, pointing to the Death Chrysanthemum on his chest.

"I have already prepared for a trip to the south, I will personally talk with the founding king," Victoria said solemnly. Even this northern ruler known as the Ice Lady could not help but adopt an especially grave tone when speaking these words. "I will do my utmost."

"What do you think are the chances he’ll support me?"

Victoria took a deep breath: "...I only hope he will not oppose."

Following this sentence, both of them fell silent together.

They gazed at the huge pyre in the courtyard, at the grass rings and Death Chrysanthemums decorating various places, at the mages and ritual officers preparing for the ceremonial rituals.

The sky was gradually darkening, the dim twilight signaling the moment to light the bonfire was drawing close.

The truly important part of the Ancestral Festival was about to begin.

This is a day of commemorating ancestors, a day to seek blessings from the ancient departed.

Yet the ancestor originally commemorated by this festival...has now returned from the blooming other side of the Death Chrysanthemum to the human world.

Victoria Wilder silently walked towards the courtyard, picked up a piece of oak from the stone table, tossed it into the pyre, and then commanded the lighting of the bonfire.

Watching the gradually rising flames, this northern ruler sighed.

If only it took just throwing a stick into the bonfire for ancestors to bless oneself...how wonderful that would be.