Seated in the speeding carriage, Blake stared silently at the scenery flashing past the window. Across from him, Ophelia wore a calm expression—but anyone who looked closely could see the faint tension simmering beneath the surface. Her fingers were tightly clutching the hem of her dress, her head bowed as if she were lost in thought.
In the end, General Celt had been unable to change Blake's mind. Helpless, he had no choice but to personally dispatch men to escort Blake and Ophelia to the royal capital. After all, these were times of war, and the situation was tense. Ordinary citizens faced strict inspections just to enter the capital—some were even turned away outright. Only personnel from the three major legions were granted unrestricted access. Blake had naturally raised no objections to Celt's arrangement; the fewer complications, the better.
To be on the safe side, Celt had also sent a detachment of his most trusted soldiers to safeguard Blake and his companions. Of course, he knew full well that this "protection" was utterly unnecessary. But that did not matter. Celt was merely using this gesture to send a message to the nobles entrenched in the capital's heart. And those nobles, upon seeing these soldiers, would surely understand exactly where he stood.
The scenery outside the window was vastly different from what they had seen before—and the closer they drew to the royal capital, the more pronounced these changes became. In other parts of the kingdom, architectural standards remained stuck in a primitive state. There were large cities, yes—but their "greatness" lay only in population and size. The royal capital, however, was an entirely different story.
Tower after tower, gleaming with magical light, rose from the ground, arranged in neat rows along both sides of the road. The streets were smooth and wide, without a single pothole—a far cry from the uneven, rutted paths outside the city limits. Every now and then, a low rumble echoed through the air; glancing upward, one could see steel trains hurtling along tracks suspended by magical power, speeding toward the towering metropolis in the distance.
Blake raised an eyebrow.
This was the difference between the royal capital and everywhere else—the chasm that separated cities blessed with a **Mana Wellspring** from those without. In other regions, no matter how hard they tried to develop, they could never escape the trappings of a medieval existence. But here, in the royal capital, everything had undergone a complete transformation. It was as if they had stepped through a time portal, leaping from the Middle Ages straight into a future era. Of course, these buildings still retained their ancient exterior forms—but their functions had been drastically upgraded.
The reason for this transformation was none other than the **Mana Wellspring**. This immense source of power had been harnessed by humans to unleash infinite possibilities. On the surface, its role was similar to that of electricity on Blake's home planet—Earth. But there was one crucial difference: electricity could be transmitted through wires to power civilizations across vast distances. The Mana Wellspring, however, could not. Mages had tried, in the past, to transmit mana to remote locations—but every single attempt had ended in failure. The farther one traveled from the Wellspring, the weaker the mana became; if one tried to force it to travel even farther, it would dissipate entirely, leaving nothing behind. On Earth, countries could build power plants in every city to meet their energy needs. But Mana Wellsprings were not something that could be manufactured. Their appearance was completely random, with no rhyme or reason to their location—finding a mineral vein was child's play by comparison.
This was why the civilizational divide between Wellspring cities and non-Wellspring regions was so vast. Within the radius of a Mana Wellspring, magical technology had reached its pinnacle. But outside that radius, people were forced to live exactly as their ancestors had. For the nations of the continent blessed with a Wellspring, this was a source of great regret. With such advanced magical technology at their disposal, they could have built invincible armies! But alas—any magical device powered by mana became nothing more than useless scrap metal the moment it left the Wellspring's influence. In the end, they had no choice but to equip their troops with conventional weapons, reserving their magical arsenal for limited use within the royal capital's walls. After all, what good was a magical cannon if it turned into a hunk of dead metal the moment you marched it onto the battlefield?
In his past experiences, Blake had seen even more powerful Wellspring cities—some so advanced they might as well have belonged to an alien civilization. There had even been a mighty mage who used the power of a Wellspring to build a floating city, suspended high above the clouds. It had been deemed an impregnable fortress! This was the reason why nations felt so confident in their defenses. They might suffer defeats on the border, yes—but conquering a Wellspring city was supposed to be impossible!
Unfortunately, nothing in this world was perfect—and no city could remain invincible forever. For all their former glory, Wellspring cities' invincibility had been shattered completely by the emergence of **Gifted Knights**.
Within a Wellspring city, mana-powered artifacts could unleash devastating power. But within the aura of a Gifted Knight, all that power was rendered null and void. No matter how strong the magic, it could not defy or distort the power of a Gifted Knight's aura. Take that once-invincible floating city, for example: it had stood unbroken for centuries of war, only to be destroyed by a single Gifted Knight.
His method had been simplicity itself. He had not brought a single soldier with him. He had merely walked to the base of the floating city and activated his Gifted Aura—a **Nullification Aura**, capable of erasing all magic in its vicinity.
In that instant, deprived of its mana support, the floating city had plummeted from the sky. It had not been able to resist. It had not been able to struggle. It had simply crumbled into dust and debris, vanishing from existence forever.
Of course, this was an extreme example. But there was no denying that the immense power of a Mana Wellspring paled in comparison to a Gifted Knight's aura. What was more, a Gifted Knight's aura affected not just individuals, but entire areas. In subsequent wars against Wellspring cities, deploying Gifted Knights had become standard practice for every nation. No one in their right mind would attack a Wellspring city without a Gifted Knight on their side—it would be tantamount to suicide.
As the Age of Chaos drew to a close, Gifted Knights had become a rarity, and magical technology had suffered a severe decline. Both sides had been reduced to a state of mutual exhaustion. But compared to Gifted Knights—whose emergence was unpredictable and uncontrollable—magical technology at least had the advantage of being understandable and transmissible. While Mana Wellsprings were hard to find, once one was discovered, a civilization could be rebuilt upon it in short order. But even if a Gifted Knight was identified at a young age, their growth depended solely on their own efforts; others could only watch and wait, powerless to help.
Blake could understand why King Wester V looked down on him. After all, so many years had passed since Gifted Knights last walked the battlefield. From what Ophelia had told him, there were barely a handful of Gifted Knights left on the entire continent—and they were treated like precious pandas, hidden away from even the most mundane wars, let alone conflicts over Mana Wellsprings. Times had changed. In the chaotic days of old, nations had spared no expense to seize each other's Wellsprings in their quest for greater power and resources. Back then, Gifted Knights had been far more numerous, and battles between Gifted Knight-led armies and Wellspring cities had been commonplace. But now, such conflicts had not occurred in living memory. With the balance of power stabilized across the continent, major nations with Wellsprings had focused on developing their own strength, while smaller nations without Wellsprings had accepted their lot, no longer daring to risk everything for a chance at seizing a Wellspring.
King Wester V had never lived in an era where attacking Wellspring cities was as common as eating breakfast. Naturally, he could not comprehend the terrifying power of a Gifted Knight. But the might of a Wellspring city was plain for all to see. It was like a ruler armed with tanks, armored vehicles, and bombers looking down on a group of medieval swordsmen wielding spears and arrows—he could never possibly view them as a threat. Of course, those advanced weapons would become useless scrap outside the Wellspring's radius—but within that radius, they were virtually unstoppable.
This was why the people of Wester had been so shocked when they heard the news that Oruth's **City of Eternal Night** had fallen. In their eyes, no matter how strong a Gifted Knight was, they were still just a warrior with a weapon. But the City of Eternal Night had boasted hundreds—if not thousands—of magical cannons! Its magical warriors were fearsome in their own right, and it was defended by countless golems. How could it have fallen so easily?
To Blake, however, the outcome had been nothing if not predictable. As a general rule, a single Gifted Knight was enough to conquer a Wellspring city. The Sith Empire had sent *two* to attack the City of Eternal Night—it would have been a miracle if they had *failed*.
Just then, the carriage climbed a gentle slope and came to a halt in front of a vast metal plaza. The door swung open, and a cavalryman stood at attention, his expression solemn yet respectful.
"We have arrived, Lord Blake."
"Arrived?" Blake stepped down from the carriage, glanced around, and frowned. "This is…"
"This is the **Transfer Station**, my lord. By royal decree, carriages are not permitted to enter the royal capital proper. Only high-ranking officials such as General Celt are exempt from this rule. All other nobles must enter the capital from here."
Unlike Blake, Ophelia recognized the place the moment she stepped out of the carriage. After all, this city had once been her home.
"That is correct, my lady," the cavalryman nodded. Deep down, he was now more convinced than ever that this young woman was of royal blood. The royal capital was not like other cities—due to the unique nature of the Mana Wellspring, commoners were almost never allowed inside. Even those who worked within the city walls held a status far higher than ordinary civilians. And soldiers like him were forbidden from entering entirely.
"Our duty ends here, my lord. From this point onward, the Royal Capital Guard will take over your escort."
"I see. Thank you," Blake replied, offering the cavalrymen a smile and a nod. In return, they saluted him respectfully before turning and riding away.
Only now did Blake allow himself to take in his surroundings. He had never been to the royal capital before, so everything was unfamiliar to him. But from what he could see, it was indeed an impressive place. The gleaming steel platform was surprisingly sparsely populated. Two sets of steel tracks stretched overhead, like ribbons extending into the distance, twisting and weaving their way into the heart of the city beyond. These tracks floated in mid-air, unsupported by any pillars—a feat utterly impossible on Earth. But here, with the power of mana, the impossible had become reality.
But when Blake's gaze shifted to Ophelia, he paused, slightly taken aback. She was staring quietly at a corner of the plaza, her expression tinged with sadness and loss. Following her line of sight, he soon spotted the object of her attention: a statue, standing alone in the corner.
It was a statue of a young girl, bearing an uncanny resemblance to Ophelia—nine parts out of ten, it was clearly modeled after her. The figure stood serenely, gazing up at the distant sky, a soft, peaceful smile playing on her lips. Carved into the base of the statue were these words:
*"To Her Royal Highness Princess Ophelia of Wester, Proposer and Founder of the Outlook Transfer Station. She brought us a life beyond our wildest dreams. We will never forget her deeds."*
"Is that your statue?" Blake asked softly, walking over to stand beside her. Ophelia merely offered him a bitter smile in response.
"I did nothing worthy of being remembered," she whispered, her voice heavy with melancholy.
"Everything I did was for myself, for my mother. I needed to win the people's favor. I needed to earn the nobles' respect. I needed to be accepted by everyone. I was never as great or as selfless as the stories made me out to be. I did it all for my mother—and for myself. Nothing more… So I do not believe I deserve to be memorialized like this."
"Regardless of what you think, they got what they wanted," Blake said, patting her gently on the shoulder.
"So even if you did not ask for it, they would have done this anyway… Hmm, it's not bad. At the very least, these people are not foolish enough to forget who gave them all this. One should learn to be grateful instead of complaining. This is good."
Ophelia managed a faint smile at his words, then lifted her head, her expression turning serious as she looked him in the eye.
"Lord Blake… I have never asked you this before, and perhaps it is too late now. But I must know—do you understand what you are doing?"
"Of course I do," Blake replied calmly.
"You are declaring war on the royal family," Ophelia pressed on, undeterred by his composure. She had likely been turning this question over in her mind for the entire journey.
"No matter who I once was, thirty years have passed. And according to the records, I am already dead. But if I appear here now—if I set foot inside the royal palace—do you realize the consequences that will follow? I think you already know. King Wester V is not a merciful ruler. If he decides to act against us…"
"Then I will let him experience firsthand how easily his beloved Wellspring city can be reduced to rubble," Blake cut her off with a gesture, his tone devoid of any hesitation.
"Lady Ophelia, I have my reasons for bringing you here… First and foremost, this is my decision. And second, it was your request. If I remember correctly, you did tell me not long ago that you wished to visit the royal capital again, did you not?"
"I did… but I thought it would be in a more discreet manner. After all—"
"There is nothing to worry about. Trust me, Lady Ophelia," Blake said, his face breaking into that familiar, elegant smile once more.
"I promise you, everything will go far more smoothly than you can imagine. All you need to do is cooperate with me."
Ophelia fell silent, staring at his smile for a long moment before letting out a soft sigh, saying no more. She knew all too well that whenever Blake wore this particular smile, his mind was made up—and no amount of persuasion would change it. She had wanted to ask him directly if his true intention in bringing her here was to overthrow the royal family. But the words had stuck in her throat, and somehow, she had been unable to voice them.
Perhaps it was because of *him*.
As this thought crossed her mind, Ophelia whispered softly to herself, then lifted her head, gazing at the distant royal capital with a trace of sorrow in her eyes.
If she were to see *him* again… what would she do? Ophelia asked herself this question, but could find no answer. But she knew one thing for certain: the moment she had chosen not to press Blake for the truth, she had already made her decision.
*Ding—ding—ding!*
The clear sound of a bell rang out, and a steel train glided silently into the station along the tracks, its doors sliding open with a soft hiss. Blake watched as the cavalrymen who had escorted them spoke briefly to the guards stationed beside the platform; the two groups exchanged solemn salutes, then the guards approached Blake and Ophelia.
"Lord Blake, these are members of the Third Regiment of the Royal Capital Guard. We have completed the handover of orders. They will escort you both safely into the royal capital. Please follow them."
"Very well, I understand," Blake nodded, then patted Ophelia on the shoulder again. She snapped out of her reverie and, under the guidance of the Royal Capital Guards, began walking toward the magical train.
But at that moment, a small accident occurred.
As Blake and Ophelia were about to board the train, they brushed past a group of people exiting the carriages—apparently a noble family. A little girl, hurrying along ahead of the others, accidentally collided with Ophelia and stumbled to the ground. The unexpected mishap caused a momentary commotion. Ophelia immediately knelt down to help the girl to her feet.
"Are you alright, little one?" she asked gently.
"I'm okay, miss…" the girl replied, shaking her head. Then she looked up at Ophelia's face—and her eyes widened in sudden recognition.
"Miss! You look *exactly* like the lady in the statue!"
At the sound of the little girl's innocent exclamation, the nobles who had been hurrying over to retrieve her froze, their faces paling instantly. Then, as one, they turned their gazes toward Ophelia.