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Chapter 12: The Relics of the Saints
"Land of Saintly Relics?"
It was said that in the Age of Sages, the ancestors carved out a sanctuary within the valley. At its entrance stood statues of ancient kings, and any creature of darkness attempting to enter would be struck down by lightning—within a kilometer of the valley, dark forces were suppressed to their weakest state.
Then, during the turbulent years of shadow, humans, elves, and dwarves emerged from this refuge. Under the leadership of the Azure Knight, they vanquished the Twilight Dragon, Calamity, thus ushering in the Year of Chaos.
"It is the Relics of the Saints, the Valley Guarded by Kings, Your Highness," Orville replied.
"He truly found such a place?" The princess had already been served another cup of tea, yet her mind remained elsewhere. Even her beloved porcelain teacup with golden filigree edges lay neglected as her slender fingers idly stirred the silver spoon.
"The young man likely knew of it beforehand but did not know its precise location," Orville explained.
"However, his method of finding the way is rather ingenious. Your Highness, you may have heard—Brunson’s Witch King wields the power of fate and stars, passed down through generations. And among the Grand Council of Buga, there are Grand Wizards who believe in the existence of celestial and fated forces, stemming from the blind goddess Elaine."
"I thought such tales belonged only to myth."
"Not necessarily."
"May I hear more?"
"But, Your Highness, your court tutor, Sir Panoson, surely awaits you."
The princess smiled slyly. "I am already late, Lord Orville. So please, continue. I wish to hear how they fare this night."
Orville chuckled, having anticipated this response, and continued. "Then let our tale begin with a legend—a story of a king and a white stag."
……..
Night fell completely, and the wind swept through layers of clouds, causing the towering fir trees to rustle like ocean waves.
Freya stared anxiously at the pitch-black sky, her hair whipped by the wind. She clutched the hand of her closest companion and whispered nervously, "Does Brandon even know what he's doing? He speaks of the Land of Saintly Relics, yet even Retto and Mano, who are locals, have never heard of such a place—"
"Have faith. Brandon knows exactly what he’s doing," Roma said, gazing at the stars peeking through the clouds.
"You haven’t given it a second thought, have you?"
"There’s no need to."
Conversing with someone whose mind seemed so blissfully blank left Freya exasperated, though she soon realized her own tension had eased. She couldn’t help but notice that both Roma and Brandon shared a certain quality—a calming presence. Yet while Brandon exuded confidence and composure, Roma radiated carefree ease. Freya suddenly felt uncertain about how she’d handle difficulties without them by her side.
At that moment, a collective gasp erupted from the refugees. Freya and Roma turned back, disbelief washing over them as they beheld a breathtaking creature standing in the center of the camp—a translucent white stag. Its form embodied the perfect proportions of grace and nobility, with long limbs, a robust body, and antlers sharp as blades.
This was no ordinary being of the mortal realm. It leapt onto a rock, surrounded by glowing motes of light that danced around it like fireflies.
Not only Freya and Roma but also Retto, Mano, and Barthom rose to their feet in awe. Meanwhile, Brandon stood farther away, holding the base of the stag statuette alongside the alchemist Tama, watching as the stag bounded onto the rock, nodded toward them, and then galloped off into the distance.
"It has some flaws, but given the circumstances, it’s remarkable work," Brandon remarked, quite pleased with his first alchemical creation.
Chael and Tama agreed, though the young mage apprentice hesitantly asked, "My lord, how much truth is there to the tale of the Valley Guarded by Kings?"
"You know of it?" Brandon asked, surprised.
"Of course. Ancient knowledge is a staple for wizards, and many schools of magic trace their origins to the Age of Sages."
"I can vouch for its authenticity, though the valley lies shrouded in mist, its location uncertain. I can only hope Lady Elaine favors us tonight, so my dear stag might find the path swiftly." Brandon inwardly smirked. Naturally, the Land of Saintly Relics was infamous in the game world; countless adventurers had ventured there, speculating it hid a great secret. Yet none returned with anything substantial. He himself had gone, discovering nothing beyond what others had reported—nothing at all.
"Favors us?" Tama inquired.
"Whether Lady Elaine grants us her blessing," Brandon clarified.
"And if she doesn’t?" Chael interjected.
Brandon remained silent. At least three to six thousand skeletons and zombies trailed behind them, along with elite forces of Corpse Grub and Kabirus, and wraiths prowling the forests. This night promised to be perilous.
He watched as the white stag elicited cheers from the refugees before racing ahead to the far end of the valley. Brandon knew the night’s journey had begun—he checked the time: eleven o’clock.
With a command, he ordered the refugees to break camp and move forward. Armed militia marched parallel to the caravan, two long lines snaking through the valley under the light of stars and moon, rendering torches unnecessary.
Bringing up the rear were over fifty riders. Brandon and Chael mounted their horses, drawing their swords. Brandon’s blade, Lustrous Stinger, glowed faintly—an indicator that no undead lurked nearby.
"Follow the white stag. It will bring us fortune," Brandon declared, turning his horse to address his riders.
Mano rode up beside him, shouting, "Sir Knight, are we truly going to pass through this valley ahead of Madara’s forces?"
"Indeed."
"I do not doubt you, Sir, but this sounds... implausible."
"It does, but trust me now. I wouldn’t gamble with my life or yours—"
"What of the undead army ahead? To the north, at least three of Madara’s columns patrol the mountains, some from Thornstone Valley, others from Deer Hunting Forest. I suspect they’re vanguards of the White Knights and ‘Ghoul.’" A rider from the White Mane Swordsmen Legion spoke up—Brandon recognized him. Luc Besson referred to him as Voltaron.
In Ridenburg, Brandon had clashed with this man once. He vaguely remembered knocking him aside with his sword—or perhaps it was someone else. The chaos of that day blurred the details.
Voltaron harbored deep resentment toward Brandon, despite acknowledging his skill with a blade. Whenever tactics were discussed, he inevitably opposed him.
"And let’s not forget the pursuit by Magus," Voltaron added. "Engaging them head-on spells doom for us."
Brandon regarded him calmly. He needed an officer from the White Mane Swordsmen Legion to command the soldiers under his banner, so he wasn’t angered. Instead, he replied, "They’ll have weaknesses."
"Weaknesses?" Voltaron gripped his reins tightly, pressing further.
Brandon, however, kept the secret of the Gargoyle to himself. While some knew he commanded the monstrous entity, none understood its full potential.
"We’ll circle behind Corpse Grub. In half an hour, they’ll pass through here." An impulsive idea struck him as he spoke.
Silence descended. Even the mercenaries who had begun to trust Brandon questioned whether he’d lost his mind.
But Retto chimed in, "A good plan—if we seize the opportunity."
Brandon glanced back at Retto, impressed by his boldness. Such a maneuver was risky, requiring precise control of the battlefield and the ability to blind the enemy’s eyes. Though confident, Brandon had merely suggested it offhand, never expecting Retto to see its merit and commit fully.
Another pause followed. Then Mano, finally catching on, exclaimed, "Fine! If that’s the case, I’ll take the gamble too—"
But leading a thousand refugees through enemy lines?
Aside from Mano, Retto, and Brandon, everyone else, including Freya, believed the trio had gone mad. Yet Brandon remained calm, his gaze fixed on the Gargoyle circling above. He knew precisely where his strength lay.
……
Since morning, Corpse Grub, Magus, had become aware of another group of refugees fleeing toward Silver Sparrow Hill. Before dawn, they had escaped into the hills, eliminating one of his skeleton cavalry units.
Initially, he hadn’t paid much attention. Most refugees scattered into Deer Hunting Forest, and compared to those fleeing Thornstone Valley alongside the White Mane Swordsmen Legion, these stragglers weren’t his priority. Humans were weak, after all.
To him, the battle unfolded as expected. The White Mane Legion, though hailed as Eruin’s finest, crumbled before Madara’s forces. The relentless pursuit throughout the day culminated in a decisive strike just before sunset. By then, the fight was over.
Though his vanguard suffered heavy losses, they were expendable. Ghoul and Kabirus’s skeleton cavalry sustained minimal damage.
What truly pained him was last night’s skirmish. Forty skeleton cavalry—accumulated over months—were lost.
Now, Magus turned his focus to this refugee group. Targus’s orders were clear: seal off Thornstone Valley. Every unit involved dared not falter.
Yet something unusual nagged at him. These refugees seemed adept at evading detection by his necromancers’ bone vultures. Throughout the day, they had glimpsed the group only a few times before losing track entirely.
This was troubling.
Under the dim glow of soulfire, Magus spread out a parchment map, marking several circles around Silver Sparrow Hill…
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