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Chapter 11: Nightfall
By the time Brandon returned to the refugee group, he learned that Tama had been searching for him ever since regaining consciousness, wanting to thank him for last night's rescue. Seeing Brandon leave with Chael and the rider earlier, Tama followed them, only to coincidentally witness Brandon casting a forbidden spell.
However, Brandon wasn’t particularly worried about Tama reporting him to the Temple of Flames. For one, the stubborn middle-aged man didn’t strike him as the type to do so, and besides, Tama lacked any concrete evidence.
What Brandon didn’t realize was that while he was surprised by Tama’s identity, the older man found him equally enigmatic. The blood magic array—a forbidden technique—was something Tama had only read about in ancient parchment texts. In truth, he himself had no idea how to perform such a ritual; his deduction came solely from observing the backlash effects Brandon might have suffered during the casting.
Still, even without full knowledge, Tama’s sharp instincts were uncanny. Such perceptiveness and talent weren’t common traits.
That said, Tama harbored no prejudice against forbidden arts. After all, which noble these days didn’t dabble in something illicit? Though the Temple of Flames strictly forbade the trade and smuggling of slaves, the practice thrived along borderlands, often with complicity from local clergy.
Instead, Tama now wanted to discuss alchemy techniques with this young noble. After some thought, he finally asked, “Sir Knight, what is it you’re trying to create?”
Hearing the future Alchemist Master address him as “Sir” made Brandon puff up with pride. “I need to synthesize a batch of soul crystals using remnants of high-tier undead. I’ll use them to craft a soul statuette.”
In truth, Brandon aimed to create a Soul Statuette (White Stag)—one of the simpler forms of soul statuettes. It could summon the spirit of a white stag, an ethereal creature said to dwell in an ancient oak forest bathed in tranquil sunlight, symbolizing a resting place for souls. Brandon intended to use it to detect wraiths lurking within the spirit realm—the first mid-tier undead they might encounter, and among the most terrifying killers under the necromancer’s command at night.
“A soul statuette?” Tama couldn’t help but feel perplexed. While crafting a soul statuette wasn’t inherently difficult, its main challenge lay in obtaining the materials. He struggled to imagine why Brandon would resort to forbidden magic just to make one.
“There’s no need to be puzzled, Tama,” Brandon replied, sensing the man’s confusion. “It’s simply because I lack proper alchemical tools…”
Tama nearly stumbled at that explanation. Blood magic was considered forbidden not only for its raw power but also for its efficiency on the battlefield, offering advantages unmatched by traditional alchemy. However, activating advanced arrays through blood magic inflicted severe physical tolls on the caster.
During past wars between the Light Alliance and the Dark Realms, desperate alchemists had sacrificed themselves using blood magic arrays to summon powerful artifact creatures and turn the tide of battle. Yet, the core principle of sacrifice ran counter to the teachings of the Temple of Flames, hence its prohibition.
And yet here stood a young noble casually treating it as a substitute for “alchemical tools.” A professional alchemist would sooner die than part with their equipment!
“Well then, Sir,” Tama managed after a moment, “I happen to have my own tools. If you don’t mind, please feel free to use them. Techniques like blood magic take too great a toll on the body—they should be avoided when possible.”
“Of course, I don’t mind. Thank you,” Brandon responded smoothly. Why endure self-inflicted wounds when ready-made tools were available? Even though Number 5 Holy Water wasn’t as potent as Number 7, saving it meant having a lifeline in critical moments.
With reduced costs and the unexpected boon of gaining a future Alchemist Master, Brandon felt lighter than he had in days. For the first time, he relaxed enough to engage in lively discussions about alchemy with Chael and Tama as they walked.
Though Chael was still a mage apprentice, his exposure to Highland Mage mentors within Karasu Black Tower gave him considerable insight into alchemy. Meanwhile, Brandon possessed Level 5 alchemical knowledge, sufficient to earn a First-Class Professional Alchemist title in Eruin’s formal exams. Compared to Tama, who remained somewhat inexperienced, Brandon appeared almost prodigious.
Their conversation greatly benefited Tama, though the older man’s imaginative ideas occasionally startled Brandon. He recognized that Tama merely lacked opportunity and resources; otherwise, he might one day become a legendary master.
Alchemy was indeed an expensive art. Take, for instance, the teeth of intermediate skeletal wizards—each sold for over three hundred torr on black markets or among wizards. Thirty such teeth were required to craft even a simple White Stag Statuette.
As the trio conversed, Brandon spotted Freya weaving unsteadily through the long line of refugees. What was going on? He approached her and waved a hand in front of her face. Getting no response, he gently tapped her forehead. Startled awake, she snapped, “What… what are you doing?” Upon recognizing Brandon, her expression turned exasperated. “Brandon! Where have you been? More people keep arriving, and I can barely keep up!”
Her voice trailed off, less accusatory and more weary. Leading the refugees had worn her thin, especially as their numbers swelled throughout the day. Like Brandon, she hadn’t slept in days—but unlike him, her responsibilities weighed far heavier.
Seeing Brandon speak with Freya, Chael and Tama discreetly stepped back to continue their discussion. Whatever transpired between the young noble and the ponytailed girl, they chose to ignore.
To an outsider, it was clear how much Freya relied on Brandon—but the young mage squire found amusement in watching. As for Tama, the earnest middle-aged alchemist assumed the girl must be the young noble’s betrothed.
“You haven’t slept yet?” Brandon asked.
“How could I, with so many people needing help? Did you know, Brandon? Word has it the White Mane Swordsmen Legion was crushed. We’ve taken in soldiers retreating from Thornstone Valley—many didn’t survive…” Freya rubbed her reddened eyes, frustration evident.
Brandon frowned. Had this foolish girl taken everything upon herself? He sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you trying to handle everything alone?”
“What else can I do?” Freya stared blankly at him.
“What about Retto and Mano? Or recruit capable individuals from the refugees, give them authority to assist you!” Brandon suggested, exasperated by her single-mindedness.
“Oh… why didn’t you say so earlier?” Her cheeks flushed. “I’ll talk to you later!” With that, she spun around and dashed off, leaving behind a whirlwind of energy. Watching her bouncing ponytail retreat, Brandon chuckled and shook his head.
“How’s it going?” Chael teased once Freya was out of earshot.
Brandon raised his waterskin, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Freya, of course. She’s kind-hearted and earnestly adorable. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed, my lord—she clearly likes you,” the young mage squire remarked.
Brandon choked on the water he’d just sipped, spraying it everywhere. “What did you say?”
“I said, Lady Roma and Lady Freya—this is quite the predicament, isn’t it, my lord?”
……
For the rest of the afternoon, Brandon focused on carving an appropriate vessel. Being his first alchemical project, he insisted on personally crafting the base for the White Stag Statuette. But after ruining several pieces of fir wood, he quickly realized the gap between ambition and reality. His best attempt resembled a misshapen carrot rather than a stag. Reluctantly, he handed the task over to Tama, whose expertise included craftsmanship, tailoring, painting, and forging—skills most professional alchemists possessed, except for Brandon, the amateur.
Stepping out of the carriage as evening approached, Brandon watched the sun dip below the western mountains. Its fading light bathed the peaks in a warm bronze glow, while distant fir forests shimmered like gold dust.
Leaning against the carriage, Brandon gazed at the horizon. To the west lay the towering Kalanja Mountains, their majestic ridges stretching into a peninsula within the Dead Moon Inland Sea. He recalled his first long journey in the game, trekking alongside those woods until reaching the eastern shores of the Dead Moon.
This world—it felt so vividly real before his eyes.
After leaving the carriage, Brandon searched for Roma but found no trace of the elusive girl. True to form, she spent her day embarking on “her own adventures,” often unseen. Her boundless energy earned her a reputation among the refugees, who spoke fondly of “that young lady” wherever Brandon went. By the time he checked the sky again, twilight had fallen.
Around 7:30 PM, Brandon ordered the refugees to halt in a deep ravine. Shadows thickened, obscuring the cliffsides, and mist began to rise, accompanied by distant owl calls—an eerie atmosphere perfect for evading Madara’s bone vultures. Yet Brandon knew nightfall signaled the emergence of wraiths.
Once the refugees settled, Brandon sent the militia to gather timber from nearby slopes. They needed makeshift spears to arm the newly recruited volunteers.
His core strength remained the peacekeeping cavalry led by Mano, now numbering over fifty riders. Throughout the day, he’d absorbed nearly a hundred mercenaries and White Mane infantry, doubling his forces with conscripts from the refugees. Despite ample manpower, weapons remained scarce—three men shared a single sword, reminiscent of revolutionary struggles in his old world.
Meanwhile, Brandon instructed Chael to assemble key leaders: Retto, Mano, Uriel, and Barthom, who represented various factions under his command. He needed to brief them on tonight’s plan to avoid complications.
At eight o’clock, the final rays of sunlight vanished, and the Witch King Constellation’s twelve stars emerged in the eastern sky. Standing atop the valley ridge, Brandon addressed the group while surveying the bustling camp below. “You’ve seen today’s situation—the White Mane Legion and most refugees met disaster at Thornstone Valley. News likely reached you all. Madara’s intent isn’t merely to drive us away—they want us dead, delaying Ridenburg’s fall from reaching Vimiel.”
“So what do we do, Sir Knight?” Mano asked. “The undead army vastly outnumbers us. Our scouts report seas of skeletons to the west. Slow during the day, they’ll overrun us at night.”
“And zombies,” another added.
“There’s a solution, though escape isn’t an option,” Brandon replied. “Thanks to Luc Besson’s failure, Corpse Grub and Kabirus’s elite forces have moved ahead of us. We must find a shortcut elsewhere.” He paused, then asked, “Have you heard of the Land of Saintly Relics?”
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