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Chapter 90: The Dead and the King Part 6
“Guidance arrows.”
The voice that called out belonged to the Elementalist sisters, who had crafted the magical projectiles themselves and thus knew their effects better than anyone. These two shimmering silver arrows possessed a unique magical brilliance unmatched by any other enchanted missile—there could be no doubt they were guidance arrows.
Even if the sisters hadn’t spoken, the mercenaries would have recognized them for what they were. But confusion rippled through the group as their lord fired these arrows now. Guidance arrows, while magical, dealt no more damage than ordinary bolts; in fact, they were less potent than the steel-tipped quarrels shot by four-armed crossbows. Their only advantage was precision.
Did their lord know of some hidden weakness in the monster? That thought flickered through everyone’s minds. Yet reality dashed their expectations when the arrows struck not the ghost knight but instead embedded themselves into the trunks of two towering trees with soft thwacks, vanishing almost entirely save for their fletching.
“Wait… did he miss?”
This absurd notion surfaced in every mind. If sweat could speak, many of the mercenaries might have been drenched at the mere idea. Never in history had anyone heard of someone missing with a guidance arrow—it required extraordinary skill just to divert one from its magically guided course.
But this wasn’t the time to marvel at such power—
“Wait, what’s that—”
A few sharp-eyed mercenaries noticed something trailing behind the arrows: thin lines, no, ropes. Between the two massive trees, the guidance arrows stretched the rope taut at chest height, positioned less than three meters ahead of the galloping ghost knight.
A tripwire.
Realization dawned on the mercenaries. Yet there was little time to admire Brandon’s ingenuity, for another question loomed: ghost knights were ethereal beings. Physical restraints meant nothing unless they struck the core. Had their lord overlooked this?
The ghost knight certainly hoped so. Unfortunately, fate proved otherwise. In his past life, Brandon had slain more ghost knights than likely existed in this world combined. Such basic knowledge was impossible for him to forget.
As the ghost knight approached, the rope glimmered with an ominous black light. Rider and steed reared violently into the air. A physical warhorse might have snapped the slender cord effortlessly at such speed, but the soul energy imbued within the rope wreaked havoc upon the undead creature.
It felt as though it had collided with a steel cable, launching both rider and mount backward through the air.
Brandon had been waiting for this exact moment. The ghost knight’s agility made targeting it atop its steed nearly impossible. Now, however, things were different. Before awakening to this new world, he’d never heard of anyone turning mid-air without support—let alone performing acrobatic feats like stepping off their own feet to change direction.
Raising his hand, the ruby ring gifted by Freya gleamed brightly in the darkness. With a mental command, a laser-like red beam shot forth from the gemstone, striking the airborne ghost knight squarely in the chest.
“Flame.”
The activation word left his lips, and golden light erupted, racing along the crimson line toward its target. In the blink of an eye, it struck the ghost knight before it could hit the ground.
For a fleeting instant, the surrounding stars seemed to dim, drawn into the radiant explosion. Darkness enveloped the area, followed by a brilliant burst of fire erupting from the epicenter. A deafening roar tore through the air, sending shockwaves slicing outward like blades.
The sound traveled faster than expected, causing a disorienting delay. For a brief, eerie silence, Brandon stood still—then the thunderous boom crashed over him, overwhelming his senses.
Within a ten-meter radius of the blast, trees vaporized, soil crystallized. Beyond that, leaves blackened and curled under the scorching heatwave, which washed over the faces of everyone present.
Stunned silence reigned. One of the Wild Elf sisters murmured, “Fireball… Is our lord also a silver-rank Elementalist?”
Her elder sibling shielded her pale forehead with a hand, replying, “Just a magic item.” Even so, disbelief tinged her voice. She could scarcely believe they had won—and with virtually no casualties.
Indeed, they had triumphed.
Brandon received the notification of gained experience. He had reached level twenty-three, leaving only two levels until he unlocked his second talent. Unlike the first, which merely highlighted role distinctions, the second talent defined a character’s late-game development path. It was the most crucial ability one could possess.
“Shame fireballs still take too long to travel,” Brandon sighed, gazing at the crackling inferno consuming the forest. He knew the flames would soon die out. There was no true fire here; extreme heat existed only during the explosion itself. What remained was merely an illusion created by concentrated elemental energy. Otherwise, no sane adventurer would use fire spells—the destruction wrought by a single fireball could obliterate half the loot, an unacceptable outcome for any treasure hunter.
He exhaled deeply and took a swig from his waterskin. This battle hadn’t exhausted him physically—it paled compared to countless skirmishes from his gaming days, where sometimes even lifting a finger felt impossible after hours of relentless combat.
But this fight was different. Every second counted, every opportunity precious. Mistakes carried dire consequences, ones he couldn’t afford.
Thankfully, he realized he hadn’t lost all his old instincts.
Yet his musings were interrupted by what unfolded next amidst the flames. As the fire dissipated, Brandon saw that the ghost knight hadn’t disintegrated. Instead, it lay motionless on the ground, its fiendish steed standing beside it, gently nudging its master’s hand.
Both the glowing steed and the ghost knight exhibited signs of collapse. Their spectral armor fractured and dispersed like smoke, revealing the forms beneath. When the bone-like layer of soul energy faded from the steed, a magnificent body emerged—a powerful, majestic horse crowned with a long horn.
“A unicorn spirit…”
Brandon stared in disbelief. According to Vonder’s legends, unicorns served only the purest maidens. His gaze dropped instinctively—and he promptly spat out the mouthful of water he’d been drinking. Some of it went up his nose, triggering violent coughs.
Beneath the dissolved armor lay not a fearsome warrior but a serene elven maiden, seemingly asleep. No, her soul. Her silver mark, signifying immaturity among the Silver Elves, confirmed she was a child cut short.
An underage girl?
How was this possible?
Fortunately, the elven maiden’s soul remained draped in a delicate gown after her spectral armor dissolved, sparing Brandon further awkwardness.
The others gathered around, initially intending to congratulate their lord. Like Brandon, however, they froze upon seeing the figure lying before them.
“This is…” Tiger Finch struggled to find words, staring at the translucent ghost resting in the scorched clearing.
Antietta gasped. “Was… was that her?”
Brandon nodded.
Though unbelievable, the evidence spoke for itself. Besides, it wasn’t entirely implausible. Evil spirits didn’t materialize spontaneously; he’d suspected early on that the ghost knight might be a projection of royal souls from the Silver Elven King’s tomb. He just hadn’t anticipated… a loli.
Antietta furrowed her brow, reluctantly accepting the explanation.
“Did we kill her?” a voice asked.
Brandon turned to see the younger Wild Elf sister speaking. While her older sibling merely frowned, this girl clearly fretted over whether they had slain one of their kin.
Wild Elves differed markedly from Silver Elves. Though both races embodied beauty alongside the winged folk, Wild Elves radiated warmth akin to gentle afternoon sunlight—vibrant and approachable. They integrated well with humans, many living harmoniously within human society.
Silver Elves, on the other hand, appeared aloof and untouchable. Following ancient prophecies, they secluded themselves, leaving behind an aura of mystery and pride. Taller and more slender than humans, their elegance evoked cold, radiant moonlight.
The ghostly elven maiden contrasted sharply with the lively Wild Elf sisters.
Brandon’s gaze shifted to Roma, whose eyes mirrored similar concerns. However, unlike the elves, she seemed eager for reassurance.
Shaking his head, Brandon focused on the flickering form of the ghost. Its wavering presence indicated collapsing soul energy—the force sustaining the maiden’s existence waned precariously. Though she lingered momentarily, it wouldn’t last long.
“She died long ago,” Brandon explained. “Even now, she teeters on the brink of soul dispersal.”
Roma sighed regretfully.
Still, Brandon marveled inwardly. How much vitality did this girl possess? Hit by his Thousand-Man Strike, battered by mercenaries, and finally struck by a fireball—by rights, even a higher-level opponent should have perished. Yet here she lay, unscathed.
Sleeping like Snow White herself.
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