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Chapter 48: The Tumult
Darkness engulfed the surroundings in an instant—shrieks from the ladies pierced the air like daggers. Brandon and the cripple wasted no time, drawing their blades from beneath their cloaks before they could even glance around. Barthom and Chael were only a heartbeat behind; the red-bearded mercenary unsheathed his palm-wide greatsword from his back while placing a firm hand on the shoulder of the cripple nearby—lest the fellow try something underhanded. Together, with the young apprentice mage flanking them, they formed a protective barrier around the women.
The cripple let out a soft grunt but showed no outward sign of irritation.
After the initial panic subsided, angry shouts and questioning voices erupted from all sides, echoing from above as well.
Yet, the grand hall on the first floor remained eerily silent. Most of those seated were seasoned adventurers or mercenaries, battle-hardened veterans who had weathered countless skirmishes. Their calm demeanor helped prevent the chaos from spiraling further out of control.
“Brandon, what has happened?” Roma’s voice rang out curiously in the darkness, devoid of any trace of fear.
Behind her, Antietta clutched the fabric of her dress at her knees, her knuckles white with tension. But she narrowed her bright eyes, refusing to let her inner terror show.
“Hush—” Brandon murmured. He had already spotted some jittery youths and minor nobles lighting matches or activating the glowing gems embedded in their canes.
But some lights flickered on briefly, only to fade just as quickly.
Basic light-based spells were not uncommon in Vonder’s everyday life. In fact, in larger cities, enchanted crystals powered by such magic illuminated the streets through lampposts.
The cripple possessed a ring capable of emitting light, yet he made no move to activate it. Raising a source of illumination in the dark would only make one an easy target.
Yet, fate often works against intentions.
As Brandon and the cripple scanned their surroundings for danger, the sword in the young man’s hand suddenly flickered. He blinked, startled, as a faint glow began to emanate from the blade. At first, it seemed like a layer of phosphorescence clinging to the edge, but in the next moment, brilliance erupted. The raised sword cast a blinding radiance that bathed the area in stark white light. Before Brandon or the cripple could react, they saw four cloaked figures swiftly weaving through the narrow aisles between rows of seats, charging straight toward them.
Their hands were tucked beneath their cloaks—a gesture unmistakably concealing weapons.
Enemies, not allies.
“Brandon,” Barthom called out from behind.
Without uttering a word, Brandon decisively raised his left arm. A flurry of crossbow bolts shot forth from beneath his sleeve, striking the lead figure squarely. The steel-tipped projectiles carried immense force at such close range, causing the cloaked assailant to grunt and collapse backward. His companions scattered to either side, then turned their heads toward Brandon.
And Brandon caught sight of the burning orange-red flames hidden deep within their hoods.
“Undead…” he muttered, stunned. What in the blazes were these creatures doing here, and at this very moment? There was no time to ponder further, as three of the cloaked figures withdrew their concealed hands—revealing gaunt, armored limbs gripping bizarre single-handed scythes.
Brandon wasn’t sure whether to call the strange weapons scythes. They resembled gleaming, crescent-shaped starfish, though the hooks and sharp edges made it clear they were far from mere decorations.
Curses had little effect on undead, so the young man abandoned any thought of wasting cursed crossbow bolts. With swift precision, he pulled little Roma behind him and retreated toward Barthom and the cripple.
But the three cloaked figures had already surged forward, shoving aside those in their path. Their targets were unmistakably Brandon—their scythes swung without hesitation.
Brandon raised his sword, blocking one scythe with a resounding clang. The sheer force nearly sent him stumbling backward several steps, almost toppling the seats behind him.
Little Roma screamed, but Antietta had already grabbed her hand and pulled her away. The noblewoman embraced Roma, crouching low and crawling in the opposite direction.
Her heart raced, yet her mind remained startlingly clear, as if every movement were instinctual.
Barthom stepped forward, his longsword intercepting another cloaked attacker. He grunted, clearly feeling the strain.
“Upper-tier iron-rank strength!” the red-bearded mercenary bellowed.
“Soul Puppets,” Brandon identified their foes.
Soul Puppets were a type of construct, vile creations formed when necromancers infused warrior souls into empty suits of armor. In the game, Soul Puppets between levels 31-33 served as the backbone of Madara’s second-line legions. Agile and skilled at masking their presence, they also bore another identity—Madara’s assassins.
The leader facing Brandon was at least a captain, its power nearing the silver rank. While not exceptional among Madara’s forces, it was still considered elite within Braggs’ opposing army of undead.
Their target was him?
Brandon couldn’t fathom why, but the lurking Soul Puppets throughout the hall had begun their assaults. The panicked roars of mercenaries and adventurers filled the air.
Realizing he was outmatched in raw strength, Brandon ducked back, grabbing a chair and hurling it at his opponent. The Puppet Captain swung its odd scythe in reverse, shattering the chair into splinters. But Brandon used the distraction to thrust his elven blade toward the creature’s core—the location of its soulfire.
The Puppet Captain let out a raspy roar, seizing Brandon’s sword with lightning speed. Silver-white flames erupted from between its fingers, the Flame of Purification searing into its soul and marrow, eliciting a piercing scream from the undead.
Yet it did not release its grip. Instead, it swung its scythe at Brandon’s arm.
“Damn it—” Brandon gritted his teeth. He’d faced Soul Puppets before in Amber Sword, though that had been at much higher levels. Even so, their relentless ferocity had left a lasting impression. The Puppet Captain’s grasp on his Lustrous Stinger confirmed his fears.
He immediately let go of the blade and retreated, narrowly avoiding a devastating blow.
At such close quarters, losing the Lustrous Stinger left Brandon with few offensive options. The Ring of the Wind Sovereign was usable—but he couldn’t risk harming Roma or Antietta nearby.
His Holy Sword card lacked sufficient Earth Element to activate, and Energy Drain was ineffective. Summoning a Wind Spirit Spider might work, but at this distance, the Puppet Captain would likely tear him apart before he could complete the incantation.
His hesitation lasted only a fraction of a second.
Brandon dropped low, lunging forward with both arms wrapped around the Puppet Captain’s waist. The force of the collision sent the creature stumbling backward. Together, they crashed through three rows of chairs, each impact jarring Brandon’s body painfully. Yet his mind remained sharp. As soon as they hit the ground, he rolled to his feet alongside the Puppet Captain.
The Puppet Captain reached for its scythe.
Brandon snatched up the fallen elven blade.
Struggling to regain its footing, the Puppet Captain attempted to seize control once more. But Brandon was faster. Activating his Charge skill, he slammed into the undead’s chest with tenfold speed. The empty suit of armor flew backward—but even so, the near-silver rank Puppet Captain managed to swing its scythe diagonally at Brandon’s shoulder in the final moment.
“Tree Resilience!” Brandon shouted inwardly. His skin rapidly lignified, but the Puppet Captain’s scythe had already pierced the faint blue aura of magical protection provided by Aura of Resilience. It sank deeply into his wooden exterior.
Blood sprayed.
Gritting his teeth to suppress a scream, Brandon felt cold sweat bead on his forehead. He wrenched the scythe free and hurled it to the ground, then turned his attention to the Puppet Captain now lost amidst the crowd. Without delay, he drew a Wind Spirit Spider card from his pocket.
“Manifest, Fate Card—Wind Spirit Spider.”
A set of attributes immediately projected onto his retinas:
Wind Spirit Spider, 8 HP, 4 MP, Strength 1.9, Agility 2.7, Constitution 1.0. The latter three stats were marked with dashes. Its attack method was a bite (base damage 1-1), and its special ability was intangibility.
Intangible creatures reduced physical attacks to one-third damage. Thus, being disarmed, the Puppet Captain would struggle to kill a single spider. But Brandon knew the Puppet Captain wouldn’t face just one Wind Spirit Spider.
Fifteen of them materialized behind him.
He pointed forward, and fifteen green vortexes appeared in his wake. Spiders composed partly of whirling winds emerged, darting like streaks of emerald light. They zigzagged across the floor, converging on the Puppet Captain, who had barely regained its footing.
Each Wind Spirit Spider possessed nearly 2 units of strength. While the combined power of fifteen spiders couldn’t simply be added together, it was enough to hinder the movements of a near-silver rank Puppet Captain.
They latched onto the creature, biting furiously. The Puppet Captain shrieked in rage, tearing the spiders off and flinging them to the ground. But its efforts were futile. Brandon seized the opportunity.
While the Puppet Captain was distracted by the spiders, Brandon charged forward, driving his blade into its chest. The undead tried to resist in its final moments, but its movements, distorted by the spiders’ pulls, were riddled with openings.
A fatal thrust.
The Puppet Captain let out a defiant cry. The critical strike to its vital point amplified the purifying flames of the Lustrous Stinger nearly fourfold. Brandon watched as the undead swayed, consumed by pure fire, collapsing into a heap of charred, blackened armor fragments.
700 experience points gained.
Turning back, he saw Barthom, Chael, and the cripple retreating under the assault of two Soul Puppets. Meanwhile, Antietta had dragged Roma to safety in another direction.
A thunderous crash echoed from above. Brandon looked up to see a shadow plummeting from one of the upper balconies, crashing to the ground. For a moment, silence reigned in that direction, followed by screams.
“Sir Rosal!”
“By Marsha’s grace, it’s Vice-Captain Rosal of the Peacekeeping Cavalry!”
“They’ve killed him!”
Brandon’s heart tightened. It seemed these accursed suits of armor weren’t solely targeting him. Enstallone intended to strike at Braggs’ upper echelons—but for what purpose? History held no record of such an event.
Lost in thought, he suddenly noticed the doors on one side of the tiered theater-like structure swing open in unison—five doors in total. Rows of skeletal archers, their bones gleaming white, marched through.
Brandon’s pupils contracted instantly.
So many undead? What was the auction house keeper doing? Where were the Peacekeeping Cavalry, the Silver Wing Cavalry, and the Guard Unit?
How had they gotten in?
For a moment, Brandon was tempted to curse aloud.
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