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Chapter 32: Forbidden Orchard
The mist in the forest had dissipated, and with it, the battle had come to an end. The sudden assault launched by the young members of the human Guard Unit initially caught Madara’s vanguard off guard, delivering unexpected results. But once Kabirus rallied his higher-tier undead forces, the tide of the battle quickly turned.
The forest fell silent.
"Lord Kabirus," the pale-faced necromancer apprentice pressed a hand to his chest and bowed respectfully before the towering skeleton before him.
"I didn’t think you worms would dare show your faces to me, Roscoe."
The brass-armored skeleton general’s eye sockets burned with intense flames. He sat atop a pile of corpses, one hand gripping his double-bladed battle axe and the other resting on his knee, looking down at the frail apprentice with disdain.
Dark lords and necromancers had always despised each other, and their alliance under the banner of the Mercury Scepter was merely a facade—unity in appearance only. As for the bloodborn, they kept to their own circles, rarely involving themselves in Madara’s affairs. This fractured nation had endured for centuries in such a divided state—until recently, when darkness, like smoke, began seeping out from its stable shell.
This was the prophecy spoken by the banshees, aligning perfectly with the goddess Elaine's revelation about "the spreading darkness in the east." Whether dark lords, necromancers, or the bloodborn, all believed that this era was nearing its end, and the new age would be ushered in by Madara.
Roscoe smiled faintly. Kabirus was one of Targus’s main generals, while he was merely a lowly company leader—a gap too vast to measure. The fact that this bony frame deigned to lecture him was not out of spite but rather because his vanguard had stolen the spotlight from the entire flank army. With just three hundred skeletons and two dozen skeletal wizards, Roscoe’s unit had shattered Buchi’s Guard Unit, then orchestrated the complete annihilation of Green Village’s militia, paving the way for Kabirus’s advance. Finally, they cooperated to wipe out Buchi’s remaining Guard Unit—a feat that could only be described as glorious.
By Madara’s tradition, the vanguard of the main army was typically composed of expendable cannon fodder, used to whittle down the enemy’s forces or, at worst, buy time as a buffer. Such units were usually made up of skeleton soldiers and lower-tier skeletal wizards. Eruin’s Guard Units, even at a third of the size, could easily crush them.
In Targus’s plan, Roscoe was merely a pawn meant to sow confusion. The true spearhead of the attack was supposed to be Kabirus and Wesah, the Ghoul, on the flank. However, the one-eyed vampire commander, Targus, had not anticipated the surprise delivered by this necromancer apprentice named Roscoe. Just as he hadn’t foreseen Wesah’s critical blunder on the right flank. Battles were always rife with variables, and even the most skilled commanders couldn’t dominate every step. Besides, Targus was known for his cautious strategies.
But this humble necromancer apprentice, unaware of his future path, did not retort. On the contrary, Kabirus’s words felt almost like an honor to him. After all, the skeleton general’s disdain was directed at all necromancers, yet it inadvertently elevated Roscoe’s status.
He glanced at the row of cold, imposing Black Warriors behind Kabirus, envy flickering in his eyes. During the invasion, he had looted many valuable items, but most had to be handed over. What remained wasn’t enough to summon even a single Black Warrior. He’d heard rumors of a Knight Templar’s tomb in Green Village—an ideal vessel—but now that area was under Kabirus’s control.
Ah well, there would be other opportunities. This campaign was Madara’s chance to reap rewards, and every commander was eyeing their share.
After a moment’s thought, Roscoe replied, "Lord Kabirus, a few stray rats fled northward. We didn’t see the refugees we spotted yesterday afternoon. I suspect they’re using a diversionary tactic—their main force has likely moved north into Dagger River Bank."
That was all he needed to say. The north was Wesah’s territory. If anyone wanted to chase down those "live materials" or claim a share, they’d need this "Reaper’s" approval. A mere company leader like himself couldn’t shoulder that responsibility.
But Kabirus wasn’t a fool. He glanced at the tiny necromancer apprentice and suddenly realized the ulterior motive behind his words. Adjusting his jaw with a sharp crack, he sneered, "You want me to clash with that bald ghoul Wesah? What do I gain from it, you little worm?"
"The opportunity to further expand your power. Isn’t that benefit enough?"
"Hmph. Nothing but a rabble of weaklings. I have no interest in those feeble bone frames."
"I’ve heard that among Buchi’s Guard Unit, there’s a veteran of the November War—their captain."
The flames in Kabirus’s eye sockets flickered. "Not worth the effort. Let that brat Wesah have them."
Roscoe sighed inwardly, realizing his persuasion had failed. He raised his head, ready to take his leave. After all, he and Kabirus weren’t part of the same faction. If not for this matter, he wouldn’t have come here at all. Despite Kabirus being one of the main commander, Roscoe’s vanguard, as part of the necromancer corps, could completely ignore his orders if they chose.
But just then, a faint tremor passed through his mind, and he instinctively turned southward.
The towering skeleton also looked in that direction—their gazes piercing through the forest toward the shadowy mountains.
Such a strong surge of magical energy—
"It’s Xavier Mountain Pass," Kabirus sniffed the air, as if catching the scent of magic wafting from the Usson River.
Roscoe said nothing, for he too felt an even stronger wave of magical energy emanating from that direction.
What was the Golden Magic Tree doing? Such a reaction would surely be felt by any wizard within dozens of miles. He suddenly grew uneasy, wondering if the sorcerers of the White Mane Legion in Ridenburg might detect something.
"We should send someone ahead, Lord Kabirus."
"Hmph. No need for you to tell me. Our undead senses are far sharper than yours when it comes to magic. Wait until you become a lich before lecturing me."
Roscoe chuckled softly.
---
Brandon emerged from a jagged crevice in the cliffside, motioning for Freya and Roma to stop. From this vantage point, they could overlook the entire sunken valley below. Encircled by barren mountains, the gray rock basin dipped downward, dotted with jagged stone spires. At its center stood a sprawling golden oak tree, its branches stretching skyward.
This was the Forbidden Orchard.
The Golden Magic Tree absorbed nutrients from the earth and free-floating magical particles, leaving the land barren. The displaced Earth Element rose into the air, creating the oppressive, overcast scene above. Brandon looked up; the valley was shrouded in dark clouds, a result of the imbalance in elemental forces.
As the Earth Element broke down, it attracted an influx of other elements, causing chaos in the elemental order. Elemental balance was a rule established during Marsha’s creation, governed by the four Elven Kings. But stability wasn’t guaranteed—human interference often disrupted the environment, as the Golden Magic Tree had done.
In the early days of this valley, elemental anomalies suppressed Elementalists’ powers by 30%. For this reason, few teams initially accepted Elementalists into their ranks—a period later referred to as the "Three Years of Tears" by the class. Of course, Elementalists eventually rose to prominence, but that was another story.
Roma and Freya stared in awe at the eerie Golden Magic Tree. They had only heard of such creatures in bedtime stories and never imagined they’d see one in person. For a moment, they wondered if they were dreaming.
The beauty of the Golden Magic Tree starkly contrasted with the desolation around it, creating a surreal, fantastical sight.
"What… what is that?" Freya asked, her voice trembling.
"It’s so beautiful, Brandon! Is that the golden apple tree from the myths? Are those monsters its guards? I can’t believe something so lovely exists in such a bleak place!"
"That’s an oak tree, Roma," the future Valkyrie sighed.
"I—I know that! It’s just a golden oak!" Roma hurriedly defended herself, raising her eyebrows.
"Don’t be deceived by its beauty. That’s the most dangerous creature—or monster—you’ve ever seen," Brandon said, his gaze sweeping across the valley. He quickly spotted a patrol of treants—vine-covered monstrosities slowly advancing along the rugged terrain.
It matched his memories from the game.
"A monster?"
"Yes. All the monsters we’ve encountered so far were born because of it."
"How is that possible?" Freya’s eyes widened in shock.
But she and Roma had already noticed the treant patrol. By now, they were accustomed to these minions of the Golden Magic Tree. Along the way, the trio had fought them countless times. Brandon himself had gained 65 experience points and obtained a tree crystal from an adult treant.
In the game, tree crystals were crafting materials. Though he wasn’t sure how production skills worked in this world, he decided to keep it, just in case.
Still, he noticed significant growth in Freya and Roma, especially the future Valkyrie. Her strength and agility had risen rapidly—after several battles, she was nearly on par with Guard Unit Trainees. Yet Brandon still didn’t understand how they gained experience. On the surface, it seemed much slower than his own progression.
Even against high-level monsters like treants, Freya should have leveled up multiple times as a pure militiaman. But in reality, her progress seemed even slower than his secondary class, Mercenary.
It was puzzling.
For now, all questions had to be set aside—they had more pressing matters. If the Golden Magic Tree detected them and summoned the Withered Beasts, they’d have little time left. Brandon recalled from the game that they had fifteen minutes from the start of combat until the first wave of Withered Beasts arrived—exactly the duration the Holy Sword would last. If they couldn’t defeat the Golden Magic Tree by then, they’d need to consider retreat.
But Brandon wasn’t planning to charge in immediately. First, there was the issue of dealing with the treant patrol. More importantly, he had another question to answer.
With that thought, he glanced at a higher cliff nearby.
"Wait here. Don’t let yourselves be discovered," he said, turning back to the girls.
"Brandon?"
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