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Chapter 76: The Night Raid Part 3
It was nearly midnight.
Brandon couldn’t help but recall the guide he had read in the past. The text described how, after progressing to the "Eradication of the Lizardfolk Brigands" phase, the enemy would launch their first attack on a certain midnight. The enemies in question were none other than the Treeminders—or rather, their front-facing faction, the mercenary group known as The Cards.
“…The sudden assault hits with overwhelming force, leaving everyone stunned. It begins from the northern hilltops, but anyone attempting to flee south will likely meet their doom. Why? Because the bulk of the monsters (the Treeminders) are concentrated in the south. This at least proves that Torrential Rain’s promise of advanced artificial intelligence isn’t just empty words…”
“Our strategy is to do everything possible to save the Gray Wolves Mercenary Band from annihilation. Notably, both Macaro, the leader, and his second-in-command, Buga, possess formidable combat prowess, roughly equivalent to players at levels 45 and 55 respectively. Ensuring their survival is crucial for completing this quest.”
“However, we’ve discussed an alternative approach based on a minor discovery in the eastern region. It seems Torrential Rain considered the endurance of players at this stage and designed a Light Altar in the east…”
“We brainstormed ways to leverage this. Regardless of the method chosen, saving the Gray Wolves from inevitable destruction appears to be a key condition for achieving 100% completion of this quest line…”
Brandon rubbed the tip of his nose. This wasn’t so much a guide as it was a post-mortem analysis. Due to the unique nature of the storyline, he could never replay or retry it. Previously, he’d approached the document like one might a novel—after all, reading about groups of adventurers navigating perilous challenges carried its own thrill.
What Brandon enjoyed most was using his imagination to fill in the gaps between the lines, creating an immersive experience that made him feel as though he were there.
“But damn it all,” Brandon muttered under his breath, “if you’re going to write a battle report, at least give me some specifics—time, place, characters!”
What irked him most was the author’s lazy habit of vague phrases like “one midnight.” Such imprecision in what should have been a serious tactical breakdown was infuriating. Before, he hadn’t thought much of it, but now he realized how such carelessness could be disastrous. Of course, there was no way he could drag the writer out from behind their screen to demand explanations or apologies. Now, all he could do was rely on his own wits to compensate for the guide’s shortcomings—and perhaps hope Radi would hurry up and finish whatever argument he was having.
He certainly wasn’t chasing after 100% quest completion. In games, perfect execution often rewarded double benefits, but here in this harsh reality, where was the mythical “system” to hand out prizes? Was he supposed to pray silently to Lady Marsha, hoping she’d drop a miracle from the heavens?
That was clearly absurd.
Brandon’s plan was straightforward. Initially unfamiliar with the story’s progression, he now remembered the details and intended to revise his strategy accordingly. His goal was simple: disengage from the doomed Gray Wolves before the Treeminders struck, then make his way east to activate the auxiliary plotline tied to the Light Altar. From there, he’d crush the Lizardfolk Brigands, claim the Philosopher’s Tablet, and vanish into the night.
As for whether the Gray Wolves lived or died—it mattered little to him. Dozens of mercenary bands rose and fell across Vonder each year due to endless conflicts. Besides, he doubted he had the capability to subjugate someone like Macaro or Buga. One was a grand swordsman at level 45, the other an awakened elemental knight at level 56—a sealed servant of the church. Though they might not openly acknowledge these titles, their strength was undeniable. For Brandon, even entertaining thoughts of recruiting them felt laughable.
Instead, his focus lay elsewhere. He sought potential allies like Antietta and Tama, individuals who showed promise for the future. If he could foresee events, long-term investments offered the safest path to high returns.
But alas, while dreams were sweet, reality proved far crueler. Even assuming his plan was flawless, Brandon hadn’t accounted for unexpected complications—like the current situation unfolding before him.
Lost in thought, he barely noticed when Roma finally lost patience.
“Brandon,” she hissed, prodding his back with her finger. Her voice, though soft by her standards, still carried unnervingly through the oppressive silence of the forest.
Everyone present nearly jumped out of their skin.
To be fair, Roma’s whisper wasn’t particularly loud—just louder than the eerie stillness warranted. In the dead quiet of the woods, it stood out sharply.
“Br—mmph!”
Without hesitation, Brandon clapped a hand over her mouth and glanced back. Sure enough, Radi had stopped mid-conversation, his expression wary as he scanned the surroundings.
For a moment, Brandon seriously contemplated throttling the reckless girl. But of course, he wouldn’t—he valued her too much.
Fortunately, Radi seemed to dismiss the noise as harmless and resumed his discussion. Brandon exhaled in relief, then turned to glare daggers at Roma.
But Roma, undeterred, continued shaking her head and making muffled protests, clearly displeased with being silenced.
At first, Brandon nearly snapped at her. Then something clicked. Despite her scatterbrained demeanor and devil-may-care attitude, Roma wasn’t stupid. Beneath her mischievous exterior lay a sharp mind that rarely allowed her to come out on the losing end.
And just as this realization dawned on him, Tiger Finch—the seasoned mercenary leader—reached out a calloused hand to grip Brandon’s wrist. Startled, Brandon looked up to see a flicker of intense caution in the old soldier’s eyes.
He loosened his hold on Roma, who immediately ceased struggling.
Radi, too, paused once more. The white-haired youth turned his head, staring intently toward their position.
The forest seemed to fall utterly silent—not just the people, but even the wind stilled.
“What did you hear?” Brandon asked instinctively, knowing full well that Roma’s senses far exceeded those of ordinary humans.
Roma shot him a glare—but nodded.
Brandon sniffed the air, his stomach sinking as a strange, acrid odor reached his nostrils. Sharp and sulfurous, it reminded him of boiling water erupting from underground volcanic vents.
Sulfur.
The word flashed through his mind just as his sword slid free from its scabbard with a metallic ring. He didn’t think; the motion was pure reflex.
“Damn those Blackfire cultists! That bastard who wrote the guide really screwed me over. If I’d known they were involved, I’d never have stepped foot in this mess!”
His thoughts raged furiously.
The Blackfire cultists served under Mayad, the Lord of the Cursed Swarm, one of the Twelve Patriarchs of the Treeminders. Unlike the insect-wielding Swarmborn Warlocks, these human filth consorted with devils born from rivers of molten sulfur deep beneath Yhaggoroth’s underworld.
They called themselves the Depthsborn.
Simply put—they were lesser lords of hell.
Brandon smacked his forehead in frustration. He should’ve anticipated this. The southern wilderness near Eruin had always been a stronghold for the Blackfire cultists. Yet his attention had been fixated on the Philosopher’s Tablet and the enigmatic Gray Wolves, causing him to overlook this obvious fact.
Perhaps this was what they called “blindness under the lamp.”
But Brandon’s aversion to the cultists stemmed less from their raw power and more from their sheer insanity. Each member rivaled the fanatical zealots of the Sanctuary of Light in madness. When battle erupted, they charged headlong, seemingly impervious to fear or pain.
Moreover, the demons they bound with chains varied wildly. While ostensibly fighting together, each cultist harbored ulterior motives. Logically, this discord should’ve weakened them. However, every creature spawned from Yhaggoroth’s depths possessed bizarre abilities that defied conventional tactics.
Worse yet, higher-ranking cultists could absorb demonic energy, fusing with the very creatures they enslaved. The grotesque imagery alone made Brandon nauseous.
One or two such monstrosities might be manageable, but encountering a horde bordered on divine punishment.
Instinct screamed at Brandon to flee. But before the thought fully formed, a whistling sound cut through the darkness.
As a warrior reborn at level 130, Brandon recognized the noise instantly. Ducking reflexively, he watched a spiked chain ball connected by a dark iron chain hurtle from the shadows of the forest—
A Piercing Chain Ball.
“There’s a Chain Lord among them,” Brandon muttered grimly as the massive projectile tore through trees thicker than a man’s waist before narrowly missing Radi and his companion. Though no harm came to the pair, the sight froze them in terror.
Brandon, however, only winced at the memory.
In the infernal hierarchy of Yhaggoroth’s underworld, Chain Lords ranked above Cerberus hounds—a full 29 levels of demonic power. Back when he’d trained in the Lava Pools at level 30, these fiends had given him no end of trouble. Now, past nightmares returned to haunt him.
But there was no time to dwell on past grievances.
He watched Radi and his companion bolt in panic.
“Idiots without brains!” Brandon nearly shouted in frustration. A 29-level Chain Lord throwing a chain ball wide? That wasn’t poor aim—it was reconnaissance. He knew these cunning devils all too well. A scout team must be nearby.
And Radi’s panicked flight risked drawing the main force of Blackfire cultists straight toward them.
While Radi’s fate mattered little, Brandon’s group currently shared the same direction.
Without hesitation, Brandon slapped Tiger Finch’s shoulder and rasped, “Go grab those two idiots. Bring them back here—now.”
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