Alice in the Land of Steam

Chapter 1465 Is it all in my hands right now?
For many, knowledge is synonymous with words; only what is inscribed on clay tablets, written on parchment, and printed in books is considered human wisdom. But in reality, it's an abstract concept, irreplaceable by any tangible image. Wild beasts know how to tear at their prey's throat most efficiently to kill them; insects know the season when raising their young is most successful; even a humble farmer in the countryside can predict when it will rain, when it will frost, and when is the best time for seeds to grow with just a glance. This knowledge isn't passed down through records, but rather follows biological instincts—sometimes in language, sometimes in images, and sometimes in the vague "experience" of others.

In the past, Ovira's royal power was still incomplete, so the knowledge presented in the Library of Truth was almost entirely in written form, which was the most suitable form for mortals to understand, update, and pass on. However, when it came to certain knowledge that could not be recorded in writing, its approach was usually more direct, or rather, it returned to the original form of knowledge.

Not through hearing, not through sight, and certainly not through any other sense, but in a more primal and brutal way, it poured directly into the depths of her consciousness. Ovira felt her existence being abruptly pulled from her Nibelung chair, plunging into a boiling, directionless torrent of colors and information.

An overwhelming torrent of information, far exceeding the brain's processing power, completely overwhelmed her. Every sudden thought sought a place in this ocean, only to vanish in an instant. Knowledge, at this moment, seemed to transform into a powerful force, even capable of reversing time and tracing back to the past. In the endless torrent, she witnessed how matter was stripped from the thoughts of the creator god to become a real existence; she also witnessed how the primordial laws combined with the spirit to weave the warp and weft of the universe. This was the memory of creation, magnificent, grand, and awe-inspiring. On such a scale, individual joys and sorrows, the mission of royalty, and even the survival of planets were as insignificant as the tremor of a single magical particle.

This is such a peculiar perspective, like omniscience, yet close to the unknown.

Secrets remain secrets, but they are no longer presented as riddles and answers. Instead, they follow a recurring cycle, as if today's riddle might become tomorrow's answer, and tomorrow's answer would become the next riddle. She saw how a long-extinct civilization etched the history of its entire race into the sand, ensuring its eternal existence; she saw a god unconsciously murmur words in his sleep, instantly guiding 100,000 people to see the truth of the world, but also luring them into the abyss of depravity; she saw an observable physical phenomenon isolated by the ocean, existing in different states on two continents.

History remains history, but linear narratives bring no change; only cyclical repetition is the law. All the eras recorded in the poetry of the Moria are like pages torn apart and simultaneously thrown into the air, dancing wildly in her consciousness. She witnessed the birth and demise of an ancient people, its long journey compressed into a hazy dream between closing and opening her eyes; she witnessed the millennia-long journey of a great empire from ambition to dust, yet it was as brief and silent as watching an anthill disintegrate in the rain. The rise and fall of kingdoms, the cries of heroes, the lamentations of civilizations—these chapters, so vividly depicted in human epics, are here merely insignificant ripples in an endless ocean of information.

Countless legends shed their glamorous exteriors before her, revealing their cold core. Even the great saint who betrayed royal power, bringing extraordinary strength and religious history to humanity, ultimately died from the betrayal of others. But from which pair of prying eyes did the one who killed him emerge? The city high in the distant sky, ever new, fell when the wings of the winged elves could no longer withstand the storm. But did the betrayal of destruction bury the truth deep within? The war of the gods, sung by bards of the Eastern Continent; the tales of the dead returning home, widely circulated among sailors and explorers of the Western Continent; Durandal, the golden land whose full form even the oldest dragons could not fathom; the common ancestor of all beast-like races and the curse that scattered their bloodlines… all are within reach, no longer distant.

But Ovira had no interest in this and knew it wasn't the most important thing right now. Despite the excruciating pain in her brain and the precarious state of her mind in this unimaginable torrent, she still retained her rationality. Or rather, in this storm of knowledge from all of humanity, all of civilization, and even the entire universe, only the Mysterious Kingdom could maintain its rationality and stubbornly pursue the original riddle, that fleeting answer.

But this is precisely the source of the suffering.

Knowledge itself is not malicious, but it is too vast, too real, and too chaotic. Every clue she tries to trace related to the forbidden question instantly branches into billions of other clues, each equally real, equally urgent, and equally containing the potential answer. If it were anyone else, even the "supercomputer" Alice speaks of, it would crash and become useless in the face of this terrifying amount of data and endless calculation results. Only the Mystic Kingdom can support such a precise and efficient operation. Of course, she does not rely on intelligence, knowledge, or her own logical thinking; these are merely constraints. The core lies in the laws.

The poems of the Moria, ancient legends, and the prophecies of astrologers all state that only those who master the mysteries can roam the vast oceans and explore all the knowledge of life since its inception. Many define mastering the mysteries as wisdom, believing that perhaps only the wisest wizards, the oldest sages, and the most learned men meet this standard. Ovira used to believe this as well, but now, as she gradually regains her royal power, she suddenly realizes that it was not a description, but a pure statement.

Although she didn't feel like she was swimming in an ocean of knowledge, compared to that poetic description, it was more like digging underground, like those experienced but weary miners in the Fesse Coal Mine, holding the simplest tools and using the most primitive methods, constantly digging through the soil and mud along a dark tunnel, hoping to glimpse the light that belonged to the gemstone.

Even though I'm covered in wounds, even though I'm exhausted, even though my hands are stained with my own blood...

We must persevere.

……

Ovira jolted her eyes open, or rather, she felt herself make that movement. She was still sitting in the central control room of the Nibelungen, her fingers digging deeply into the cold metal of the armrests, her knuckles white. The massive warship was silent, as if the storm that had just swept through her consciousness had never happened.

But everything is different now.

After a digging that felt like an eternity—or perhaps just a second—she finally got the answer she wanted, however unexpected and unsettling it was. Her head still throbbed with pain, as if she had just awakened from a coma, and the conflicting emotions swirling within her—exhaustion and excitement, confusion and tension, fear and determination—left Ovira speechless. She simply sat motionless at the table, staring silently at the moss-covered ceiling.

Sweat slowly seeped from her forehead, trickling down her pale cheeks, from her chin to the back of her hand. The slightly warm touch snapped Princess Beman out of her reverie. She immediately realized that this was not the time to daydream. The answers she had unearthed from the ocean of infinite knowledge were still briefly lingering in her mind, but they were both dangerous and incredibly fragile. If she didn't want to forget this knowledge completely the next time she turned her head, she had better choose the safest way to record it.

Paper and pen were on the table, tools she had prepared long ago. The pen had been held in her hand, and the draft paper was neatly laid out, but now it had unknowingly rolled to the edge of the long table, and the paper had some slight wrinkles. It seemed that this journey in pursuit of knowledge had not only stirred up turbulent waves in her mind, but also made reality quite turbulent. Ovira took a few deep breaths to calm the complex emotions in her chest, then silently wiped the sweat from her forehead, picked up the pen again, and gently smoothed the draft paper. However, the moment the pen tip touched the paper, she was at a loss. It wasn't that she didn't know what she wanted to write; on the contrary, there was too much to write about, and for a moment, she didn't know where to begin.

Thinking of this, she couldn't help but glance at Lin Ge, who was still fast asleep in the corner, with a complicated look. Who would have thought that this seemingly ordinary young man would have such an amazing background? However, perhaps fate had already foreseen everything and guided everything, which is why he became a believer of Mother.

The countless believers all come from the heart; the power of one heart is the will of all.

Auvila withdrew her gaze, recalling the young man's evaluation and advice when she first attempted writing. He said that instead of getting bogged down in elaborate descriptions and ornate language, it was better to try to simplify the text; sometimes, simple and unadorned content is more touching. This advice remains one of Princess Berman's writing principles to this day; it is universal, regardless of the situation.

And so, Ovira knew what she had to do.

She lowered her head and began to write furiously, a few strands of her delicate hair falling along her neck, gently caressing the elegant, timeless characters on the paper. These were the result of the princess's diligent practice in calligraphy lessons since childhood, honed during her court education; yet, for some reason, they were now somewhat blurred. The soft rustling of the pen across the paper was like raindrops falling on flower petals, mingling with the soothing breathing of the young man in his sleep—everything was so peaceful.

Such tranquility sometimes made Ovira feel that perhaps there was never any imminent crisis, perhaps all the uneasy premonitions were just illusions, perhaps this war was not as cruel as everyone imagined, and that as long as people worked together, they could soon defeat the invading enemy, drive away the hateful witch, and protect their homeland. The travelers could then embark on their journeys again, continuing to pursue that elusive ideal of saving the world, stopping the villain's conspiracy, until finally achieving a happy ending...

Of course, fantasy is fleeting. Even if she wanted to immerse herself in it, many memories would surface, forcefully pulling her back to reality. For example, the Battle of Grayhill, which even a reversal of fate couldn't stop, or the Countess resting in the next cabin, and... that blue-haired girl who would never return, everyone's kindest elder sister.

If it is destined to leave and never return, how can it be called a happy and fulfilling ending?
The pen paused slightly, a fleeting thought interrupting her writing. When Princess Bemang came to her senses and wanted to continue recording, she realized she had unknowingly written everything she needed to. Even if she wanted to elaborate further, it would only be baseless speculation, and recording it would likely mislead others. She hesitated for a moment, ultimately deciding to stop there. Knowledge isn't something that can be simply given; it only has meaning when the person who sees the answer is willing to think, to look at things from multiple perspectives, and to arrive at the whole picture.

From error to correctness, from complexity to simplicity, from obscurity to accessibility... the updating of knowledge lies hidden in these constantly repetitive processes.

After finishing the recording, Ovira looked out the porthole and noticed that the sky had become even darker, with heavy, gloomy clouds pressing down, almost obscuring half the sky. The pitch-black Ark Fortress sailed through this chaotic sea of ​​clouds, more like rampaging across a landmass forged from steel. At its closest point, one could even clearly see the writhing shapes of electric snakes and feel the thumping of eardrums from the roar of thunder.

Like the end of the world, it foreshadows the end of the world.

It seems that I don't have much time left.

Ovira pondered, but many questions remained unanswered. For instance, what was the true identity of the Golden Apple? How could she find the 130 million laws her mother had sealed within the core of Mirror Star? And how could she break the seal and harness their power? What were the Witch Society's actual plans? Most importantly, where would the turning point of this journey lie?
The secrets that have not been revealed in the Heavenly Sanctuary, the secrets that Tentis deliberately concealed, and the secrets that Themis of the Celestial Realm was unwilling to reveal—all of these, the hope of hope, are now in his own hands.

Although it will be a bit tough, but—

Come on, Ovira!

Princess Beman encouraged herself inwardly, then looked away and refocused her attention on the Library of Truth and the draft paper in front of her.

Give me some cats