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Chapter 81: The Tale of Turmoil and Fish, Part 4
“Cinnabar.”
The call rang through the woods like the chiming of a silver bell, accompanied by hurried, uneven footsteps that suggested pursuit. A young woman with hair as red as late autumn leaves turned her head sharply, one hand instinctively brushing against the end of her braid. Her lashes—thick and dark—fluttered once, revealing eyes so translucent they seemed to hold the deep hue of aged wine. They caught the flickering light of a distant fire, reflecting it in glimmers that danced as sparks leapt from the flames.
She looked puzzled.
"By the sound of it, it’s Selia and her group. Weren’t they supposed to be searching for Yura and Radi? Why have they returned? Did they find them, or has something gone awry?"
Cinnabar raised her halberd—a weapon more commonly called a war-scythe—with practiced vigilance. Had Brandon been present, he would have recognized the weapon at once. Its most striking feature was not its near-foot-long obsidian blade but the spindle-shaped axe-head that gleamed along its golden edge, sharp and deadly in its beauty.
Yet beauty often masks danger.
This weapon, known as Logos, Halberd of Thunder, had long been one of the most sought-after drops in the Chablis region. Though classified as merely a level twenty-five halberd, its price on trade sites remained exorbitant. The reason? A mere one percent chance, upon striking, to imbue the wielder with the lingering aura of Lightning's Whisper.
This effect, derived from the Elementalists’ spell of the same name, granted the attacker an additional ten percent lightning damage, effectively amplifying their offensive prowess. Among mercenaries who specialized in polearms, a favored tactic emerged: activating Logos's effect before switching to their primary weapons using the mercenary-exclusive skill Instant Readiness. Paired with wind-element potions and attribute-enhancing crystals, this became known as the “Elemental Damage Build.”
But how had Logos come into the hands of this girl? Rumor held that the weapon belonged to a spectral knight cloaked in crimson soulfire, haunting the northern forests of Chablis. If Brandon were here now, even he might raise an eyebrow. The first recorded appearance of Logos dated back to the Year of Swallows (377), two years after the Year of Blossoms and Summer Leaves (375), when lizardfolk brigands still claimed those woods.
Cinnabar lifted her gaze, watching as several figures burst through the trees toward her. She frowned.
To her, the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company meant far more than coin. Taken in as an orphan by Cabot, she viewed the group as a family. Each battle she fought wasn’t for wealth but to protect those she loved. Yet beyond combat, she often felt adrift, unsure of what else life might offer.
Only battle remained.
For eleven years, the Gray Wolves had tasted nothing but victory, their confidence swelling into pride. But tonight, that pride had been dealt a bitter blow. These foes—they were unlike any other, relentless and terrifyingly skilled. Unease churned within her chest, and her heart pounded fiercely beneath her ribs.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Cinnabar, Yura has been found.”
A soft sigh escaped her lips, almost imperceptible. Lowering her halberd, she shook out her hair and pressed a hand to the nape of her neck. “And? What does the commander say? Do we press on, or do we retreat?”
Laughter rippled through the group. It was no secret among the mercenaries that Cinnabar harbored feelings for Aiko, though both parties remained blissfully unaware. Complicating matters further, Yura—Aiko’s betrothed—was a Star Seer, brilliant and favored by the commander.
“She’s clever,” someone teased. “Surely the commander values her above all.”
Cinnabar feigned indifference, letting out a dismissive hum. Then, narrowing her eyes, she shot them a glare. “Mind your tongues, lest they rot.”
The laughter grew louder, mingled with good-natured ribbing. “Cinnabar,” another voice piped up, “the commander has decided to advance northeast. You, Radi, and Rolore are to lead scouting parties. Shall we join yours?”
A sly grin spread across her face. “Why my group? Are you scheming something?”
“Of course not!” the accused stammered, waving their hands defensively.
She fixed her gaze on one of the younger men, who quickly averted his eyes. Fools, she thought, suppressing a scoff.
“As you wish,” she replied, turning away.
Behind her, the youths exchanged glances, unaware of the storm brewing in her mind. The strength of the Cards Mercenary Group far exceeded expectations. Why, then, had Commander Macaro not ordered a retreat? Was he confident, or was there another motive?
Pressing a hand to her chest, Cinnabar felt her pulse race. Orders were orders, and disobedience was not an option. Her fate—and perhaps that of her comrades—now rested on the halberd in her hands. Logos had been a gift from Aiko on her fifteenth birthday, purchased from a traveling merchant. She had vowed to fight alongside it until her last breath.
In many ways, it defined her very existence.
After walking a short distance, she paused, tilting her head. “I recall that merchant camped nearby. Where is he now?”
“Perhaps... separated?” came the hesitant reply.
The youths trailed behind her, uncertain. They were not privy to Macaro’s secrets, nor did most know Brandon’s true identity. To them, the alliance between the Gray Wolves and the merchant’s group was temporary at best.
Frowning, Cinnabar said, “Then let us search this way.”
“Is that wise?” someone ventured.
“Why wouldn’t it be? The Gray Wolves cannot afford to be seen as oathbreakers.” Her tone left no room for argument.
More chuckles followed. Beneath her stern exterior lay a softer heart, though she masked it well. Many of the youths followed her simply to witness her contradictions, their amusement tinged with affection.
No sooner had the words left her lips than another laugh echoed through the forest. Harsh and grating, it bore an eerie resemblance to the creaking of scarecrows in the flatlands of eastern Jandel—hollow, mechanical, and chilling.
Cinnabar’s expression hardened as she looked up.
There, perched atop a tree, stood a figure clad in a black robe trimmed with crimson. Beside him, coiled around another pine, loomed a monstrous creature with the head of a ram and massive, leathery wings bound by chains of spiked metal.
“When did they arrive?” she muttered, her brow furrowing. Though unfamiliar with the beings before her, she recognized the danger they posed.
“Little girl,” the robed man sneered, his voice high-pitched and mocking. “You say some of your companions wandered off?”
“It’s none of your concern,” Cinnabar snapped, raising Logos defiantly.
Earlier that night, the Gray Wolves had lost a squad of sentries, including a sister-like figure to Cinnabar. Though mercenaries were no strangers to death, that didn’t mean she could forgive those responsible. Enemies were enemies, plain and simple.
“No matter,” the cultist crooned. “One of my comrades fell to your people. I’ll take my frustrations out on you instead. Abakethis!”
With a clang, a chain whipped through the air toward her. Cinnabar grunted, deflecting it with her halberd. The force reverberated up her arm, leaving her right side tingling. Yet her display clearly surprised the high-ranking Blackfire Cultist. “Silver-rank strength? Truly, Macaro’s ranks hide many talents. A mere girl wielding such power—it’s unexpected.”
“There’s much you don’t understand,” she growled, spinning Logos in a wide arc. Lightning crackled along its edge, forming a jagged bolt that streaked across the clearing toward the cultist.
But the attack struck an invisible barrier, dissipating in a shower of sparks. The bark of a nearby pine blackened and curled, yet the cultist stood unharmed, his robes unmoved by even the slightest breeze.
“A magical weapon in its second-tier form. Rare indeed,” he remarked after a moment.
Cinnabar’s resolve chilled. Drawing a breath, she steadied herself despite the icy grip of fear creeping through her limbs. Anger soon replaced dread, and turning to her companions, who were drawing their own weapons, she shouted, “Run! What are you waiting for?”
“Cinnabar…”
“Captain, what about you?” the youths exclaimed, stunned.
“Go! I can’t defeat him alone. Fetch reinforcements from the commander!”
“Clever plan,” the cultist sneered, raising a hand. At his command, the beast unleashed another chain, this time targeting the youths.
“Damn it!”
Cinnabar gritted her teeth, hurling Logos at the chain. The collision sent both weapons flying in opposite directions. Swiftly, she raised her hand, and a flash of lightning bridged the gap between her and the returning halberd, which flew back into her grasp as if drawn by an unseen bond.
“Elemental Resonance!” the cultist shrieked.
…
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