Translator: CinderTL
The candle flame flickered on the lampstand, casting the shadow of Rodney XVIII onto the heavy tapestry in the study.
He had reached the last page of the meeting summary report from the Northwest Bay, the edges of the paper slightly curled from the densely packed notes.
"Through systematic observation and experimentation, establish a verifiable system of natural laws..."
The king's fingers gently traced the paragraph defining "science" in the report, the ink shimmering with an indigo hue under the candlelight.
The chime of the capital's clock tower drifted in through the window, but he seemed oblivious.
On the desk, a planetary motion chart circulated from the academic conference in Alden Town lay atop the astrolabe.
The brass plate was etched with the geocentric orbits passed down by the church for millennia, yet the elliptical trajectories on the sketch were like a sharp sword, cleaving the ancient astrolabe in two.
Rodney XVIII suddenly recalled his childhood astronomy tutor's warning: "Heretical ideas will burn the fingers of those who touch them." But now, what his fingertips touched was a lunar eclipse prediction table more precise than the royal archives.
"F=ma," the king murmured, his throat tightening. Just three symbols could explain all motion, from falling objects to flying arrows, like a key unlocking the door to truth that had always been locked. A sentence from the report lingered in his mind: "Natural laws do not change with prayer, nor shift with blasphemy."
"Repeatable verification..." Rodney XVIII softly repeated the key phrase from the report, suddenly realizing the corners of his mouth were curling upward.
From "repeatable verification," his thoughts turned to "repeatable production."
The workers in the Northwest Bay didn't need mysterious rituals; they could replicate the same machines by following blueprints and produce the same goods by following instructions—this power was more terrifying than any magic, for it would spread like wildfire.
Moonlight filtered through the stained glass, casting blue spots on the steam engine sketch at the end of the report. The king gazed at the monster composed of pistons and connecting rods, as if hearing the distant whistle of a steam engine hundreds of miles away.
According to the description, the power of this machine far surpassed that of horses, capable of pulling over a dozen large carriages, and it didn't need fodder, just coal—the black stones used for heating.
This was undoubtedly a great, or perhaps terrifying, tool. Rodney XVIII's mind conjured an image: a long steam train carrying an entire army and countless supplies, projecting the kingdom's military power thousands of miles away.
The candle wax slowly accumulated on the bronze lampstand as Rodney XVIII rubbed his tired eyes. The parchment report from the Alden Town academic conference lay spread out on the oak desk, the mathematical expressions of Newton's Three Laws gleaming with a cold brilliance under the candlelight.
Suddenly, there was a soft knock on the study door.
"Enter," the king said without looking up, his gaze still fixed on the orderly squares of the periodic table.
Count Merlin slipped into the room like a shadow, his black cloak damp with night dew. In his hands, he carried an iron-bound oak box, the lock on its edge reflecting a cold light.
"Your Majesty, the preliminary interrogation report on the southern prisoners," the intelligence minister's voice was like the rustle of dry parchment. "There are a few special cases among them."
Rodney XVIII finally looked up and noticed that Merlin had unusually not immediately unrolled the scroll. Beneath the old earl's graying eyebrows, his eyes were curiously fixed on the steam locomotive diagram spread out on the table.
"Get to the point, Lord Merlin."
"We have discovered a group of special prisoners among Giles' lackeys," Merlin unlocked the box and took out a scroll tied with a red string, "They claim... they claim to be Wizards, Your Majesty."
The ancient clock in the corner suddenly made a grating sound of gears jamming, and the king's hand paused mid-air.
"How many?" the king finally spoke, his voice as calm as a frozen lake.
"Seven confirmed cases, and more than twenty suspected accomplices," Merlin took half a step forward, fully exposing the documents in the box to the candlelight, "The leader is a man named Dirk Doyle, who claims to be Giles' chief—"
Merlin's fingers unconsciously rubbed the iron edge of the oak box, waiting for the king to reach out and take the heavy list.
Rodney XVIII took it and carefully read through it. His fingers lightly tapped the table three times, then he looked up at Merlin.
"I want to meet these so-called Wizards."
Earl Merlin's knuckles suddenly tightened, causing the iron edge of the oak box to emit a faint creak, "Your Majesty, although these Wizards are shackled, the interrogators reported that—" his Adam's apple bobbed, "someone could extinguish candles without cause while restrained—this was their way of proving their identity. But please consider carefully, who knows what other mysterious powers they might be hiding? Is it possible—they deliberately became captives to infiltrate Aldor's core and cause destruction?"
The king thought for a moment, then pushed his chair back and stood up, "I still want to meet them. Are there any safety measures?"
Earl Merlin sighed, "There is a stone called a magic-detecting stone, which is usually white but turns black when it senses magic. This was once just a legend, but since we learned that the kingdom's civil war is related to Wizards, we began to pay attention to the collection of information related to magic. Coincidentally, because of these Wizard prisoners, we have verified this property of the magic-detecting stone."
He took a small velvet bag from his cloak pocket and poured out a pigeon-egg-sized milky stone, which appeared very smooth under the candlelight.
Earl Merlin said, "As soon as the stone begins to change color, have the musketeers shoot them. I don't think they can cast spells faster than the speed of a bullet. What do you think?"
The king nodded, feeling that this plan was quite reliable.
...
The stone walls of the interrogation room were seeping with water droplets, refracting the torchlight into distorted ripples. Rodney XVIII sat at the iron-clad oak table, watching as two guards escorted a staggering figure into the room.
Dirk Doyle's prison uniform hung loosely on his body, revealing the shadowed hollows of his collarbones. His bald head had an unhealthy waxy yellow hue, and his sunken eye sockets looked like two bruised pits.
The guards placed the magic-detecting stone on the table between the king and Doyle. The milky crystal swayed slightly within the Wizard's breathing range. Six musketeers stood in the shadows, the hammers of their flintlock muskets all cocked and ready, the barrels pointed at the dangerous figure being brought in.
Dirk Doyle, shackled at both hands and feet, was forced to sit on a chair. His features were indistinct in the shadows, but when his gaze fell upon the royal crest on the king's chest, he suddenly broke into an exaggerated smile.
"Salutations to the Morning Star of Aldor!"
The Wizard's voice was like a blunt knife scraping against bone, yet it carried an eerie cheerfulness.
"Giles, that arrogant fool, has finally fallen into your hands. Congratulations, Your Majesty, the great Rodney XVIII!"
(End of the Chapter)
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