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Chapter 53: The Planeswalker
The towering skeleton took a single step forward, raising its war axe high. Though it still stood partially concealed behind a crumbling wall, Brandon—a seasoned mercenary—knew he was already within the creature's striking range. A chill ran down his spine as his mind raced for a way to counter this impending blow. His only recourse seemed to be sacrificing an arm to save his life.
He had already steeled himself for the grim decision.
But just then, a young man with silver hair and piercing violet eyes emerged from around the corner. He appeared no older than twenty-five or six, his handsome face shadowed by a brooding expression. Behind him trailed two soldiers clad in deep blue knightly uniforms, their silver chest plates gleaming beneath insignias marked with silvery scales—the unmistakable garb of the Silver Wing Cavalry’s elite cavalrymen.
This young man was none other than one of the second-in-commands of the Silver Wing Cavalry, and the bastard son of Duke Goran-Elsun—Viscount Teste. Upon seeing Brandon, Teste hesitated briefly, as if recalling something significant, but his features quickly darkened. Without uttering a word, he unsheathed the slender rapier at his side and lunged toward Brandon’s left chest.
The strike came with blinding speed, precise and lethal, the blade tracing a line so fine it was nearly invisible to the naked eye. But Brandon was far too quick-witted to fall easily. The moment he saw Teste’s hostile demeanor, he knew they were enemies. With no weapon in hand and uncertain of Teste’s strength, all he could do was instinctively shield his vital areas and dodge to the side.
Teste faltered slightly, surprised that such a seemingly ordinary lower-tier iron-rank mercenary could react so swiftly. Adjusting his angle mid-strike, the tip of his rapier grazed Brandon’s shoulder instead, drawing a spray of blood.
Brandon grunted in pain, using the momentum to roll away. His heart pounded—not out of fear alone, but realization. In that instant, he had seen enough to gauge Teste’s skill: intermediate chivalric swordsmanship, wielded by someone undoubtedly of gold-rank strength or higher. Thankfully, Teste’s focus had wavered; otherwise, Brandon would have been staring death in the face.
He didn’t have time to wonder how he’d crossed paths with yet another formidable opponent—one who had clearly awakened the Third Level Strength—and at such a young age, no less. This youth, Viscount Teste, was undoubtedly an Enlightened One. What Brandon didn’t know was that Teste wasn’t merely an Enlightened One but also a candidate for one of the Twelve Elders of the Ouroboros Society—a position that granted him ample reason to carry himself with pride.
Yet that pride had suffered its second blow thanks to Brandon. Teste had never experienced failure until recently, when the disappearance of Borg Nesson’s daughter began gnawing at his composure. Intelligence suggested her family might share ancestral ties to the long-lost Sifah Dynasty—a secret vast enough to shake kingdoms. Confident she wouldn’t stray far, Teste had underestimated her completely. Now, faced with this new complication, his usually meticulous nature felt shaken.
And now, here stood Brandon.
Recent intelligence pointed to a critical oversight in their earlier investigations. All evidence converged on one conclusion: there was indeed a leader above Retto, the Copper Dragon stationed in Braggs. That leader was reportedly young, and Teste’s suspicions immediately fell upon Brandon, who had appeared alongside Barthom days prior.
It was nothing more than speculation, even Teste admitted as much. Yet encountering Brandon here was unexpected. Seeing him triggered an impulse to test his mettle—and Teste’s method of testing involved cold steel. After all, if he killed the wrong person, what did it matter?
A nameless mercenary, after all.
What Teste hadn’t anticipated was the surprise Brandon had in store—a rather large one.
As Brandon rolled between Teste and his men, slipping past them entirely, he used the chaos to evade further pursuit. Just then, the wall behind Teste shattered with a thunderous roar. From the rubble stepped the Crusader Executioner, its crimson-helmeted skull glowing ominously. It swung its massive axe, tearing through the remaining debris and sending chunks flying toward the group.
Teste reacted instantly, deflecting the blow with a burst of wind slash from his rapier. The gust reversed the trajectory of the falling masonry, buying him precious seconds. “Executioner,” he muttered under his breath.
The skeletal giant showed no mercy, even for a prominent member of the Ouroboros Society. Its bony claws lashed out, targeting Teste’s ribs. Had the strike landed, it would have cleaved the nobleman in two. But Teste parried effortlessly, his movements economical yet effective. The Executioner’s claw found no purchase against his grip.
“Seize that man!” Teste commanded his subordinates, unwilling to engage the Executioner directly. Though newly ascended to gold-rank status, he recognized the danger posed by a mid-tier silver-ranked undead monstrosity. His orders were clear: intercept Brandon.
Unfortunately for Teste, Brandon proved far craftier than anticipated. Even as he rolled, Brandon orchestrated the clash between the Executioner and Teste’s forces. Before the monstrous skeleton could retaliate, Brandon slipped away, disappearing into the shadows. The Elemental Revelation Scroll awaited him in the next room.
If Wind Spirit Spider hadn’t led him astray, that is.
Brandon crashed through the door, his eyes immediately falling on a set of mana potions resting atop a table. He recognized them instantly—they were the very same concoctions he and Tama had brewed together. So these were the potions he’d sold to the auction house. A pang of dread shot through him.
Wrong again.
But then his gaze shifted to a box perched on a nearby chair. Inside lay a familiar piece of parchment, its yellowed surface bearing the intricate markings of an ancient scroll. There it was—the artifact that might save his life. If he could awaken the Second Level Strength via the ‘Holy Sword’ card, even temporarily, Brandon believed he could hold his own against gold-rank adversaries—or at least escape unscathed.
Without hesitation, he snatched the scroll, biting his finger and smearing his blood across its center. The process was deceptively simple. The scroll glowed faintly before igniting along its edges—not with mundane fire, but with elemental flames sourced from the abyssal plane of Babbatar, the Blazing Purgatory. Such fires were sacred, used by both celestial beings and infernal entities to seal pacts since the dawn of creation, stemming from the First Covenant between Marsha and the Elven King of Fire.
Once the pact was sealed, identical patterns materialized on Brandon’s hand—the mark of an Elementalist. Examining it closely, he sighed. It was the most common sigil: the Fire Rune. Single-element Elementalists were considered among the least promising practitioners, and Brandon couldn’t help but feel disappointment. He’d hoped for something… grander.
Still, becoming an Elementalist wasn’t his goal.
The notification blinked into existence before his eyes, casting a faint green glow. Below it, his Elemental Pool manifested: six slots each for the standard elements, seven for fire, and none for light or darkness. Confirming his lack of potential as an Elementalist, Brandon chuckled bitterly. Compared to true players—who boasted seventeen slots per element and full access to light and darkness pools—he was laughably inadequate.
If Brandon’s current state could be likened to anything, it would be a hapless commoner stumbling upon a rare Elemental Revelation Scroll. Casting even a basic spell like Flame Arrow required three units of fire energy, meaning his meager pool allowed for only two minor spells per week. Worse still, those spells weren’t even powerful enough to qualify as first-tier magic.
Despite his amusement, Brandon couldn’t deny the absurdity of his situation. As he reached for the mana potions, footsteps echoed outside. Was it Teste? Panic surged as Brandon lunged for the table—but his hand grasped only air. In an instant, the world dissolved around him.
Darkness swallowed everything—the room, the table, the potions—all vanished, replaced by an endless void. Memories of virtual death during gaming sessions flashed through his mind. Could it be? Had he truly perished?
No, this wasn’t a game. Then what?
Before he could ponder further, a figure emerged from the gloom. A young man with flowing black hair and crimson eyes approached, his delicate hands brushing against the silver robe draped over his shoulders. Smiling softly, he spoke. “You seem confused.”
Brandon recognized the robe instantly: an Elementalist Master’s Cloak. But the four intersecting blood-red runes adorning its sleeves gave him pause. Among high-ranking Elementalists, those who mastered twelfth-tier spells became emissaries of the Elven King, marked by a single rune. Two runes signified mastery over an elemental throne, while three denoted legendary sages.
Four runes?
Only one name came to mind: Tumen, the Elemental Emperor. And this youth bore the same description as the mythical Minarian—black hair, crimson eyes, follower of the Dragon of Darkness. Yet Tumen had been dead for millennia, hadn’t he?
As though reading Brandon’s thoughts, the young man smiled. “I am Tumen.”
“You’re Tumen?” Brandon blurted, momentarily forgetting his predicament. “How are you here?”
“That’s irrelevant, Brandon,” Tumen replied. “My last contractor passed three centuries ago, and the bearer of those cards refused to abandon his path as a knight. I never expected another successor so soon.”
Pausing, he added with a grin, “Would you care to hear the tale of the Planeswalker?”
“The Planeswalker?”
Brandon froze, his curiosity piqued.
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