Pillar of Yita

As the October autumn winds pass, the temperature drops day by day. North of Rune Fortress, the trees wither at a visibly fast speed, and the fallen leaves pile up and rot within the forest; alongside the roads between forests, only bare trunks remain.

A carriage creaks through the countryside of Lowell, and a few forest crows, still busy preparing for winter, are startled by the sound of the carriage, flying high and leaving behind a string of flapping echoes in the desolate woodland.

Passing through the mountains of Dulun to the north, with Holy Mountain Eldron to the west, people often say that this is a land infused with star-strewn winds, beloved by the gods. Rivers melt glaciers, crisscross hills, and finally, weave across plains, creating this endless emerald land. Fields, estates, and windmill farms dot the landscape, making it the fertile ground of the Kingdom, from Rune Fortress to the east of Eis; everywhere one looks are the serene scenes of rural life, the earthly paradise with merchants and workers, farmers and artisans, adventurers from the north, all found on the pathways of the countryside.

But several decades ago, it was not such a tranquil sight; the best lands were often the worst places to be. At the first sign of turmoil, horse-riding knights, seasoned guards, and pompous noble generals would swarm from south to north, from east to west, ceaselessly.

However, for now, things seem fine. The south may be slightly restless, but Duke Phoenix has instilled enough confidence in the people to believe the White City’s revolt is nothing more than a skin disease. Look, the young king has just ascended the throne; everything is still budding, but the Prime Minister is decisively taking charge. Although the Kingdom may have minor ailments, there seems to be no major issues—almost everyone thinks this way from north of Rune Fortress.

The young Duke Phoenix is heading to Golande for his investiture, which indicates just that.

Lowell sits at the center of this fertile land, once famous for its wine in earlier times. The estates scattered across the countryside are mostly witnesses to that glorious era. The courtyard is dim; scant sunlight filters through the skylight, falling on the chilly corridors—with no crystal lighting, nor roaring eternal torches burning.

The rural nobles often distrust magic guided engineering—as if constantly wary of the peasants whose greedy eyes covet the vast wealth hidden in their cellars. It is as if alchemists can turn into ghosts at any moment, stealing their fortunes and lives; those enigmatic individuals with magician-like methods, with curses ready at their words, could lead to someone’s death soon after.

But the owner’s bellyaching seemed to have been perceived by the alchemists; despite his cautiousness, he succumbed to a sudden illness a few years back, leaving behind an orphaned mother and child. Fearing the curse might extend to others, the widow sold the estate. The new owner didn’t plan to build on its original foundation, so its original design was preserved.

As Loya crossed the dim courtyard, his gaze briefly landed on the bare oak tree; his stern gaze unsettled several Invokers who stood up awkwardly from the railing—they had all heard about the reputation of the manager, cold, unyielding, but efficient and meticulous, thus highly regarded by those ’above.’

Yet Loya didn’t even glance at these people; the ancient trunk in the frosty air seemed to evoke certain memories from his past, until the old housekeeper shakily approached and reminded him:

”The carriage is parked outside the courtyard, sir.”

He nodded slightly, withdrawing his gaze.

But as he passed through the courtyard, Loya still heard the whispering from nearby. Those Invokers threw glances at him from afar, whispering as though believing they hadn’t been noticed:

”This guy even hired a native as a housekeeper; did you see him? Truly sickening with pretentiousness.”

”Full of rotten hierarchical ideas; he really thinks he’s a noble, foreign sycophant.”

He didn’t turn his head, just offered a cold chuckle.

How many elites don’t enjoy the feeling of superiority? Only mediocrity pursues equality; how can there be equality between humans? Being equal to those fools is the greatest injustice to those who strive.

Hasn’t he, too, fought his way from the bottom to reach his current position, seizing every opportunity?

As for the ”Stargate Declaration,” ah, the ”Stargate Declaration.”

Isn’t the other world a hierarchical society too, where relationships are clearly priced? Compared to that, the master-servant relationship here still has traces of tender warmth.

Remaining here compared to these morons is just wasting his time.

And regarding his pursuit, Loya pursed his thin lips and looked forward—

The guard opened the door for him, the flickering firelight from the fireplace in the living room reflected on his emaciated, gloomy face molded by time. In his early years, he also had times of adventure, but all of those past experiences have long since drifted away with the fading starlight.

Starlight is like a youthful goddess who loves new things, always favoring those young at the prime of life, only to discard them like dirt in an instant.

”I’ve brought you some unexpected news.”

Loya walked to the center of the living room, casually tossing a stack of documents onto the coffee table, and spoke.

The sofas were like a group of ancient statues, no one spoke. Only a middle-aged, pig-like obese man flicked the ash off his cigar and replied:

”If it’s about the aerial battle at Kailan Ao, we already know.”