Chapter 35 — Reaching an Agreement

Everything went just as Gao Yang had foreseen.

The news from the south would make the king and the nobles nervous, and coupled with the warning of a resurrected ancient, that nerves might escalate into something close to panic—but no further than that.

These people who had never lived through a Dark Tide, who could not even imagine one, would not react in any dramatic way to mere words and reports. Even if Gao Yang had brought along swords and armor corroded by elemental power as evidence, it still could not have induced them to take any higher level of response.

After all, while "anomalous natural phenomena" capable of corroding swords and armor with magical power were not many, they were not nonexistent either—they could hardly serve as ironclad proof that a Dark Tide was about to return. In fact, even Gao Yang himself had only made some bold speculations based on records in his memory; even he would not thump his chest and swear that doomsday was at hand.

Francis II's response was not wrong. He could not plunge the entire kingdom into a state of war readiness on the strength of these sudden reports—even if he wished to, the bloated and antiquated feudal system of noble enfeoffment would not permit it. And even if the Dark Tide truly was coming, nationwide war preparation at this moment would be unwise. The monsters in the south and the surge of magical power were merely omens—not even the vanguard of a Dark Tide. The true Dark Tide might not appear for several months, or even several years (if it appeared at all), and until then, all was calm and still.

To demand nationwide war preparation when all was calm and no evidence could be found—perhaps the House of Morne in its heyday could have managed it, but the Second Dynasty of today... no longer possessed such influence.

Francis II could not even give orders to the Duke of the Eastern Marches.

A resurrected founding grand duke might carry great weight in terms of prestige, but to use that prestige to interfere with the kingdom's present order was wishful thinking. On this point Gao Yang was quite clear—he knew that his say here amounted to nothing more than a flower-topped scepter, magnificent and ornate but utterly powerless. The foundations of the Cecil family were gone: no land, no people, no soldiers, no generals—even the travel expenses to the royal capital had been borrowed from others. To the ever-pragmatic circle of nobles, this was a deeply awkward position.

So Gao Yang held back Rebecca, who still wanted to speak, and looked across at the king. "We have delivered our message and issued our warning. As for the specific response that follows—that is your affair."

"We will certainly take your warning seriously," said Duchess Victoria Wilde, her voice cool and clear. "All investigations will begin immediately after this meeting concludes, and you will be informed at the earliest opportunity."

"Investigations... I suppose that will have to do," Gao Yang nodded, then shifted tack. "Then let this matter rest here. Now let us discuss the private affairs of the Cecil family."

This time, the atmosphere genuinely tensed in an instant.

"Relax, don't look like 'the Xuanmai Sect has clawed its way out of the coffin to demand repayment of all the paper money burned over the years,'" Gao Yang said with a wave of his hand and a laugh—then realized that no one understood his little joke...

How awkward.

"I know what happened a hundred years ago. Frankly, I'd quite like to wring the neck of that unworthy descendant myself," Gao Yang's face twitched as he cut straight to the point. "So I have no intention of overturning that verdict. I've come only to reclaim certain things that ought to belong to me personally."

Francis II and the grand dukes exchanged glances, and the expressions on every face relaxed to a greater or lesser degree. That Gao Yang had taken the initiative to broach the earth-shaking events of a hundred years ago came as a heartfelt relief. After all, on this sensitive topic, whoever spoke first bore a psychological pressure that could spike anyone's blood pressure to two hundred—and for this living ancestor before them to show such consideration for his juniors was truly a relief.

But once they had breathed that sigh, their hearts clenched again: those things belonging personally to Gao Yang Cecil—what might they be?

Everything belongs to the lord—such was the noble's rule. All that the Cecil family once held, including fiefdom, vassals, title, and so forth, had been the personal property of Gao Yang Cecil. Which of these did he mean?

Everyone tensed their muscles where others could not see. Only Francis II, his expression calm and grave, glanced at Gao Yang and gave an imperceptible nod.

"Don't be nervous. Most of what I owned in life has already passed to my descendants. That unworthy heir squandered it all, and I cannot forcibly take it back," Gao Yang's expression twisted slightly as he came to the point. "What I refer to are the parts that cannot be inherited—such as... my right of exploration."

The great nobles and their advisors exchanged looks, and then these learned gentlemen and ladies of excellent breeding immediately recalled that ancient decree imbued with a sacred significance—the Edict of Exploration.

It was the glorious monument of the Second Exploration, the proof of humanity's valiant struggle for survival in desperate straits, the iron-sworn oath of mortals before nature. To this day it remained part of the foundational legal code of the four great nations—a law that would never again have occasion to take effect, yet which no one dared speak of abolishing.

The original version of the Edict of Exploration had even been inscribed separately upon a platinum tablet and enshrined in the halls of every human nation.

But everyone kept it as a memorial! As something to show off to the descendants! As a declaration of legitimate inheritance!

So how had it suddenly come back into force?!

Yet amid their astonishment, a trace of genuine relief was hidden in every face—and this slight shift in expression did not escape Gao Yang's eyes.

So he relaxed as well, and began to discuss the matter of that perpetual right of exploration with those present.

Gao Yang was confident this would not be difficult.

Compared to a living ancestor returned from the grave demanding repayment of paper money burned long ago, and incidentally claiming his vast fief of seven hundred years past—territory so expansive it was nearly a kingdom within a kingdom—a mere perpetual right of exploration was nothing at all. The latter, though it sounded intimidating, would not affect the vital interests of anyone present, and when their own interests were not at stake, every noble (including the king himself) would prove quite agreeable.

And this too was the result Gao Yang had deliberately engineered.

All along the way he had been high-profile, spreading every kind of rumor, even going so far as to bring out the banners of seven hundred years ago when entering the royal capital, presenting an appearance of ill intent and menacing momentum. This was in fact designed to lead everyone's thinking—to make them believe this living ancestor had come to overturn the verdict against the Cecil family and reclaim all its fiefs. Thus everyone would devise their countermeasures on that premise and prepare themselves for a war of words to protect their existing interests.

Yet Gao Yang's goal was only the perpetual right of exploration.

The gap was roughly equivalent to going out to buy a watch priced at eight hundred sixty thousand, only to find it discounted to twenty-five—and feeling you had stumbled upon an enormous bargain.

So much so that you could not help suspecting the watch was fake.

But even if that twenty-five-yuan watch was fake, the Xuanmai Sect was real. And if that was truly all he wanted—a perpetual right of exploration—then what was there to say?