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Chapter 77: Beyond Control
Radi and his companion had already turned and begun sprinting, shouting toward the camp as they ran.
'Tiger Finch' immediately gave chase.
The moment he moved, his figure became a seamless shadow blending into the darkness of the forest. He wasn’t particularly fast, but his movements were so quiet and practiced that it seemed as though this mercenary was a creature born of the night itself.
But Brandon turned his head just in time to hear the unmistakable clinking of chains dragging across the forest floor behind him.
“The Blackfire cultists have noticed the movement here. I need to change tactics.” Brandon frowned slightly, his mind racing. Antietta and Roma had already drawn their light crossbows from beneath their packs. The noblewoman’s hands trembled as she aimed into the gloom, while the other mercenaries unsheathed their weapons with practiced ease, each one slipping into a battle-ready stance.
“Sir Brandon?” Antietta hesitated, her voice barely above a whisper.
Brandon shook his head. He had already made up his mind. Things were spiraling out of control faster than he’d anticipated, and he needed to act swiftly to regain the upper hand. Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out a crystal meant for illumination.
In an instant, the crystal flared to life—soft, radiant light blooming from his hand like a beacon in the endless dark.
“Sir Brandon?” Antietta’s eyes widened.
“Brandon.” Even Roma was taken aback.
Every eye was drawn to the sudden brilliance cutting through the oppressive blackness. It was as if a single ember had ignited in the heart of an eternal void. The glow expanded rapidly before Brandon hurled it forward.
The light arced through the air, over a cluster of trees, and landed amidst a dense thicket of bushes. Despite the layers of foliage, the radiance seeped through, illuminating a small clearing nearby.
Three figures cloaked in black robes stood there, their faces obscured by hoods. They froze, clearly unprepared for their presence to be exposed. But what made Antietta gasp was the sight beside each of them—a monstrous creature, nearly seven feet tall, with ash-gray skin, goat-like hooves, long horns, and fangs jutting from its maw.
These beasts were tethered to the wrists of the Blackfire cultists by thick, black chains. Their bodies were covered in intricate, dark markings—the remnants of binding spells and contracts. There could be no doubt: these were the visitors from beneath the Yhaggoroth—the lowest rank of bound demons.
“The stronger demon is in the opposite direction!” one of the Rubis mercenaries shouted immediately.
As the most legendary band of mercenaries, they were no strangers to dealing with the darkest forces in the world. They knew the habits of such foes all too well.
But Brandon knew them better.
At the first glimpse of the three cultists, he raised his hand in the opposite direction. The silver ring on his index finger gleamed as he spoke the incantation: “Oss.”
A torrent of air exploded outward, visible lines of force rippling through the range of sight. With a deafening roar, the surrounding pine trees snapped and toppled outward, while anything directly in front of him disintegrated into dust.
After the hurricane-like assault, the forest was gone, replaced by a wide, open corridor stretching before Brandon.
The mercenaries stared in awe.
The noblewoman, however, let out a terrified shriek, covering her ears as she crouched down. Her mind echoed with a single thought: He’s a wizard. He’s a wizard. This young knight is actually a wizard.
Roma, on the other hand, was unfazed. She tilted her head slightly, watching as Brandon’s form blurred momentarily before vanishing entirely.
Only the Rubis mercenaries could see the truth: in that instant, Brandon had unleashed tenfold his usual speed, leaving behind a streak of afterimages as he shot down the newly cleared path.
“That’s Sun Knight’s Charge technique,” one of the mercenaries remarked.
But they weren’t lazy third-rate sellswords. No sooner had the words left his mouth than another stepped forward, drawing his sword and pointing it toward where the illumination crystal had fallen.
“I, Vice-Captain Rocco, now assume command,” he declared. “Attack those Blackfire cultists at once!”
“At your command.”
Eleven figures surged forward, charging toward the three stunned cultists.
Meanwhile, Brandon’s charge allowed him to close the distance with the Chain Lord—a crimson demon standing alongside its master, a man clad in a robe trimmed with red.
The Chain Lord resembled an oversized, more menacing version of the lesser bound demons. Its massive leathery wings and twin sets of horns evoked images of medieval tales about classic devils. And then there were the spiked iron chains coiled around its body.
This particular demon was clearly injured, missing both an arm and a wing. Brandon wasn’t surprised. While the Ring of the Wind Sovereign was merely a 10-oz artifact, its power was devastating against non-defensive creatures below level thirty. That was why it was considered a minor divine relic. Its only drawback in-game had been its lengthy cooldown.
As for demonic entities, aside from blade fiends among mid-tier units, few possessed significant defenses.
Brandon glanced at the robed man, narrowing his eyes slightly. “A high-ranking member of the Blackfire cultists.”
His form twisted mid-air, and a longsword materialized in his hand. Unlike his earlier battle with Buga, he held nothing back. Though the high-ranking cultist was only level twenty-one, the Chain Lord beside him was a genuine level-twenty-nine demon.
“The Sword of the White Crow.”
With a downward slash, Strength Surge activated, unleashing a crescent of wind from the blade. The cultist, still inspecting his bound demon’s injuries, didn’t expect the attack to come so swiftly. By the time he looked up, the transparent wave of energy had already pierced through his chest.
Brandon was no longer the frail youth he’d been a month ago. A level-twenty-one foe might have once been a formidable boss to him, but now this Blackfire cultist couldn’t withstand his full assault.
The cultist screamed, blood spraying as he was sent flying.
According to the rules of the game, when the contract holder of a bound demon died, the demon would regain its freedom—but the backlash of the broken contract would drive it into a mindless frenzy. Brandon now faced precisely that situation.
Barely landing, he ducked just in time as a spiked chain whistled past his back.
“Hiss…” Brandon felt a burning sting across his spine. “At least twenty percent faster. Berserk mode. Looks like the cultist is dead.” He grimaced inwardly, realizing his skin had likely been peeled away in strips.
Cursing under his breath, Brandon ignored the pain and grabbed the spiked chain with his bare hand. Ignoring the agony shooting up his arm, he used the demon’s own pull to launch himself forward.
Though the Chain Lord was an advanced type of bound demon, it was still a low-tier creation within Yhaggoroth’s hierarchy—lacking a complete soul and thus intelligence. Add to that its current frenzied state, and it never expected its tug on the chain to bring death itself hurtling toward it.
Brandon simply extended his sword, using the momentum to drive it straight into the demon’s eye socket. His movements were fluid, practiced, as if he’d performed this action hundreds of times before.
And indeed, he had—in the game.
The Chain Lord reared back, howling in agony. The deep roar reverberated through the forest.
Brandon frowned, landing lightly on the beast’s shoulder. He reversed his grip on the sword and slashed it across the creature’s neck.
A fountain of blue blood erupted, and the demon’s cries abruptly cut off, replaced by gurgling sounds. It thrashed violently before collapsing with a thunderous crash.
Only then did Brandon exhale in relief. He quickly collected his experience points, not bothering to check for loot. The Blackfire cultists were notoriously poor, which was one reason he hated tangling with them. Looking up, he saw that his men had successfully dealt with the others.
But this didn’t mean the danger had passed. Movement stirred in the distant forest—both toward the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company’s camp and in the opposite direction.
“Damn it,” he muttered, issuing mental commands to his summoned allies: “Prepare to retreat. Take those two and move out.”
Lowering his gaze, he studied the massive, crimson monster lying on the ground. It was barely alive, its resilience legendary even in-game. Demons, undead, and plant-based monsters were universally despised by players, and Brandon suddenly realized how unlucky he’d been.
Since arriving in this world, every enemy he’d encountered fell into one of those categories: skeletons, Golden Magic Trees, and now demons. It was as though he’d hit the trifecta of player hatred. And his primary adversary? Madara and his army of undead skeletons.
Was Marsha, goddess of the heavens, playing some cosmic joke on him?
He smirked bitterly at the thought.
But just then, rows of tiny, emerald-green text appeared on his retinal display:
“Target creature’s contract has been nullified.”
“Target creature is in an extremely weakened state—”
“Conditions met.”
“Will you form a contract with me?”
“Yes/No.”
Brandon stared at the prompts, shuddering involuntarily before shaking his head firmly.
Absolutely not.
---
When Radi and his companion were dumped onto the ground, the white-haired youth lifted his head defiantly, glaring at everyone present with unyielding ferocity. But when he recognized Brandon’s group, his pupils contracted, and he struggled to stand.
However, ‘Tiger Finch’ pressed a hand on his shoulder and another on his neck, forcing him to bow his body despite his resistance. Still, Radi glared up at Brandon with fierce, silvery-gray eyes.
Like a wolf that refused to be tamed.
Struggling, he growled, “I knew it was you. I knew you had ill intentions—ugh, cough, cough…”
But Brandon had no patience for banter. Without hesitation, he punched Radi squarely in the face, the force of the blow sending the youth reeling backward, spitting blood.
Antietta gasped softly.
Roma blinked, thinking that Brandon must truly be angry—just as he had been with Freya back in the Valley of the Golden Magic Tree. But her concern was more focused on his bloody hands, wounded during his fight with the Chain Lord. She wanted to tend to his injuries, but he brushed her off.
The spikes on the Chain Lord’s chains were venomous. Brandon knew his constitution could handle the toxin, but little Roma was different. He wasn’t about to accidentally give her the “Yandere” debuff. After all, the venom sapped vitality.
On the other side, Radi wiped the blood from his lips, glaring at Brandon with pure hatred.
Brandon stared back at him, his expression hard. The skirmish moments ago had drawn the attention of both sides, and the nearby woods were now in chaos. Had he not acted swiftly, they would have been cornered with no way out.
But even now, their safety was far from guaranteed.
This was why Brandon’s temper simmered just beneath the surface.
"Your enemy is not us," he said coldly, fixing Radi with a steely gaze. "If you value your life, don’t make any sudden moves."
Radi clenched his teeth, his mind racing. He’d already pieced together that Brandon’s group wasn’t aligned with the figures lurking deeper in the forest. Still, resentment burned within him. This man—this insolent brute—had struck first and explained later, clearly intending it as a lesson.
Yet, despite his anger, Radi couldn’t shake the feeling that Brandon was exaggerating the danger. Others might be unaware, but he knew better. The Gray Wolves Mercenary Company wasn’t merely some run-of-the-mill band of sellswords. While the prospect of clashing with the Cards Mercenary Company might unsettle others, Radi felt no such unease.
What infuriated him most was that those bastards had dared to strike preemptively.
Radi spat inwardly, dismissing Brandon as an overcautious bumpkin who didn’t understand the true nature of things. With disdain curling his lips, he shot Brandon another scornful glance.
Brandon turned his attention to the other captive and froze. It was a girl.
Her eyes were closed, her black hair framing a pale face illuminated by moonlight. What startled Brandon was her calm demeanor despite their dire circumstances.
Who was she?
Before he could dwell on it, ‘Tiger Finch’ asked, “Blackfire cultists, Sir Brandon. What do we do next?”
“Blackfire cultists?” Radi’s heart skipped a beat.
Brandon glanced northward, then lowered his gaze. “We head east.”
Radi couldn’t help but chuckle softly. Born into a family of noble soldiers, he prided himself on his knowledge. If the Cards Mercenary Group had advanced this far, it meant the sentries posted on the northern hill had already been neutralized. Clearly, the south was safer.
This amateurish leader was pretending to know what he was doing. Radi scoffed inwardly, pitying the seasoned mercenaries following such a greenhorn. Yet, he had to admit, ‘Tiger Finch’s swift capture of him had left a lasting impression.
Still smirking, Radi secretly worried about the mention of the Blackfire cultists. He stole a glance at the mercenary standing beside Brandon, suspecting the man wouldn’t lie.
Extracting information from their captives might prove difficult, but perhaps he could pry something useful from this naive lordling. With that thought, he glanced at Brandon again.
But ‘Tiger Finch’ regarded Brandon’s instructions with genuine interest. “Sir Brandon, have you dealt with the Blackfire cultists before?”
“More or less,” Brandon replied casually. “I’ve encountered their upper priest division in the northern mountains.” In the game, he added mentally.
“Oh?” ‘Tiger Finch’s eyes lit up. “Their upper priest division?”
“Ha…cough, cough…ha! Why don’t you claim you’ve met the Twelve Patriarchs of the Treeminders?” Radi sneered. “Even the lowest-ranking priests of the Blackfire cultists are at least silver-rank. If memory serves, even Eruin’s Royal Guard wouldn’t dare guarantee victory against their upper priests. So tell me, sir, which army did you supposedly serve in to face them?”
Finishing his taunt, Radi sneered openly at Brandon. “Your lies need work. Truly laughable. And if you’re heading south, leave me here. I’d rather not die alongside fools like you.”
Radi was proving to be as stubborn as he was obnoxious.
Listening to his mockery, Brandon found himself torn between amusement and irritation. He’d not only met one of the Twelve Patriarchs but had slain one. Not that Radi would believe him. Besides, what were the Twelve Patriarchs compared to his peak strength? At his best, he rivaled knights of the Divine Messenger caliber. Within the vast organizations of the Treeminders and Ouroboros Society, only a handful could match him.
After all, in any game, players only grew stronger.
But Brandon had no intention of explaining this to Radi. Instead, he flashed a dangerous smile, revealing his white teeth. “It seems you’re still unclear about your position?”
Radi faltered, remembering that he had no room to speak. Regardless of whether this detestable man was bluffing or not, he had the upper hand. With a cold snort, Radi fell silent.
Brandon didn’t mind his silence. Turning his attention to the girl, he asked, “Who are you?”
Radi glanced sideways, averting his gaze.
“My name is Yura, Sir Knight,” the girl responded on her own.
“You know I’m not a merchant?” Brandon blinked in surprise.
“I know more. I know our mercenary group is in grave danger, and that you can help us, correct?” Yura nodded affirmatively, then continued.
“Yura?” The white-haired youth was astonished. “They’re just…”
“Who are they?” Yura interrupted.
Brandon’s curiosity piqued. He studied her anew. “How do you know?”
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