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Chapter 91: The Dead and the King Part 7
In the dream.
The royal court of the Silver Elves still shimmered with that same sacred white glow as it did in her memory—the white spires, the arched walls, the winding corridors, and the railings all gleamed like moonlight on untouched snow.
How long ago had that vision been…?
“Sister.”
“You should address Her Highness properly.” The voice in the dream sharpened, just as it always had.
“I, I’m sorry.”
In the dream…
She remembered her mother saying that if she pressed her palm gently against her chest, she could feel the thud of something called a ‘heart’ and the lingering warmth of life. Only by touching it would one find peace.
And yet, because of that, the childhood scenery of Charlote Village came flooding back into focus. She wished so desperately to return to those days…
“Forgive me, Sister.”
“Forgive me, Father.”
“It’s all my fault…”
---
Brandon realised another possibility. Perhaps it wasn’t simply that the girl had too much health left; perhaps there was another explanation altogether. It was the nature of the quest itself—the guide hadn’t mentioned how to activate the altar, but Brandon trusted his experience would lead him to the right method.
But now, it seemed the answer had been staring them in the face all along.
Still, if this was indeed a quest, then surely the girl would awaken soon. After all, games rarely left players waiting for long. Brandon tilted his head upward, gazing at the star-speckled night sky, wondering if this world followed similar rules.
The mercenaries whispered among themselves. Antietta clutched Roma’s hand tightly, her eyes darting nervously toward the young Silver Elf lying unconscious on the ground. No one dared approach too closely—not with the spirit of the unicorn still standing guard beside her. Its earlier display of power lingered in their minds. Who knew when it might lash out again?
But as Brandon predicted, it wasn’t long before the girl’s eyelashes twitched, and then fluttered open.
Her eyes were clouded with confusion.
Their irises shimmered silver, hollow and distant.
Yet within that emptiness, something stirred—a flood of memories, emotions, and complexities beyond comprehension. After a brief pause, the girl shifted slightly, turning her head to take in the faces of everyone present, including Brandon.
Recognition flickered across her features, followed swiftly by pain. She grimaced, curling into herself as a fit of violent coughs wracked her body. When she finally unclenched her fist, her palm was smeared with silvery blood.
With trembling hands, she began groping blindly at the ground, gritting her teeth as she reached for her fallen lance—a weapon forged from the same radiant silver as her blood.
The mercenaries tensed, drawing their weapons instinctively. One or two looked ready to intervene, but Antietta turned sharply and hissed under her breath, “Sir Brandon, she’s no longer capable of fighting.” Something about the elf girl’s plight had struck a chord deep within the noblewoman. She, too, had known what it felt like to be broken, and the sight of the girl tugged at the most vulnerable corner of her heart.
She truly couldn’t fight anymore.
Brandon nodded silently. This ghost was entering the final stages of dissolution. Even if he stood still and let her strike, she wouldn’t have the strength. Ghosts remained tethered to the mortal plane through an unyielding wish—a fragment of Soul energy that bound them to existence. But once that energy dissipated, their last connection to the world unraveled entirely.
When this happened, the meaning and essence of the elf girl would vanish completely, leaving no trace behind.
Sure enough, after a moment of searching, the elf girl froze. Her gaze fixed on her own hand, which hovered faintly above the ground, translucent and fading like mist in the morning sun.
Brandon raised a hand, signaling the others to halt. He needn’t have bothered; the mercenaries had already stopped moving. If the ghostly knight they’d faced earlier inspired terror, this fragile elf girl evoked nothing but a fierce desire to protect her.
“Human…” the girl murmured, her voice soft and trembling. “Am I… disappearing?”
Her voice was like the song of a nightingale echoing through a silent forest—so beautiful it almost defied belief.
Even the younger sister of the wild elves couldn’t help but gasp quietly. Wild elves were renowned musicians, yet even they paled in comparison to the nobility of the Silver Elves.
Of the golden-blooded lineages passed down since Vonder’s time, only two branches of the purest Silver Lineage remained: the Silver Elves and the Mist Elves. With the Golden Lineage long gone, these two branches became the inherent royalty of elvenkind.
Brandon gave a silent nod.
The quest had arrived, yet he found himself unable to summon any joy. In games, such scenes rarely affected him—he knew they were merely NPCs, after all. But here, in this moment, he couldn’t bring himself to remain cold-hearted.
“You…” Antietta ventured hesitantly. “Was that knight… you?”
The elf girl didn’t answer immediately, choosing instead to nod silently. Her arms and legs were beginning to turn transparent. Yet she managed a weak smile as she lifted her head. “I… killed so many people. Lady Marsha must have abandoned me already…”
“That wasn’t your fault,” Brandon replied firmly. Historically, the incident had been orchestrated by the Temple of Flames, whose actions had provoked Marsha’s wrath. Since then, Eruin’s fortunes had steadily declined.
Besides, Brandon had pieced together the events leading up to this tragedy. The Temple’s monks had sought to alter the ancient pact between the Silver Elves’ forebears and Marsha, the goddess Shayae. Changing divine contracts wasn’t difficult, and Brandon had done it before, It was risky, yes, but not impossible. As a player, Brandon understood the stakes, though he doubted the humans of Eruin possessed the audacity to attempt such a thing. Regardless, their failure allowed malevolent spirits to slip through.
The result had been catastrophic.
No doubt the dark spirits had controlled more than just this girl, but the high-ranking monks of the Temple weren’t powerless either. An unrecorded battle of unimaginable ferocity had ensued, erasing the shrine from official history books forever. It had lain in ruins ever since.
“What is your name?”
Even now, Roma’s question carried its usual practicality.
“I am Metissa, daughter of Crescent,” the elf girl replied softly.
“You’re not of the royal family?” Both Brandon and Antietta blurted out simultaneously. The surname of the Silver Elves’ royal line matched the empire’s name—Hayaran royalty was the purest branch of the Silver Lineage. Non-royals weren’t permitted entry into this tomb.
“No, I am the daughter of a craftsman.”
“But this is the burial ground of the Silver Elves’ kings!” Antietta pressed.
The question caused the elf girl to pause. Her lower body was nearly transparent now. “There were… special circumstances,” she said slowly.
“Special circumstances?” Antietta frowned. “I’ve heard the Silver Elves bury their greatest heroes alongside their ancient kings.”
The noblewoman recited the line from memory, but her skeptical gaze lingered on the frail girl before her. She hardly looked like the kind of hero worthy of such an honor.
The elf girl stroked her unicorn tenderly, her expression softening. “It wasn’t like that. I’m here in someone else’s place.”
What?
Brandon nearly choked a second time. He’d heard of proxy exams, but never of proxy burials. Was this some kind of queue-jumping scheme?
Antietta, however, proved sharper. “A substitute death? Or a sacrifice?”
Brandon blinked. A stand-in? He inwardly groaned at the melodrama. He’d never imagined the supposedly elegant Silver Elves stooping to such human-like schemes.
But the elf girl shook her head. “I volunteered.”
“You volunteered?” Brandon was incredulous.
A faint smile touched the girl’s lips, pride flickering in her eyes. “I took my sister’s place… no, I came here for Her Highness the Princess.”
By now, her lower half was nearly invisible.
“Wait,” Brandon interjected. “Sister? Princess? What does that mean?”
“My mother was an elven artisan from Charlote Village. But my father…” She hesitated. “…was the Emperor of the Hayaran Empire. I suppose that makes me a half-princess.”
“So your sister is the princess of the Silver Elves’ empire?”
The girl nodded.
“How did this happen?”
“In battle, Her Highness fell victim to Minarian’s curse. The court mage told Father that unless someone of blood relation sacrificed themselves in her stead, she would grow weaker with each passing day until she perished.” The girl’s voice trembled as she spoke. “But Her Highness is our empire’s finest general. Neither dwarves nor human allies, nor our own people, could bear to lose her…”
“So Father chose me.”
Antietta scowled. “How could he do such a thing? He’s your father!”
But Brandon placed a hand on the noblewoman’s shoulder. She didn’t understand the magnitude of the Dragon of Darkness that the Four Saints faced during the Year of Chaos. Every race had paid dearly to resist its threat. For Metissa’s father, ruler of the Hayaran Empire, this decision must have been agonizing yet necessary.
He studied the elf girl in silence before asking, “Why are you telling us all this?”
“Because…” Her voice wavered. “…I need your help.”
Of course, Brandon thought bitterly.
“What kind of help?”
“The lizardfolk from the forest stole Her Highness’s necklace from my tomb. I don’t know what they intend to do with it, but without it, the curse won’t bind to me. I fear…”
Antietta cut her off, exasperated. “You’re about to disappear entirely, and you’re worried about others?”
The elf girl glanced at the noblewoman and smiled faintly.
“Precisely because of that… I want my disappearance… to mean something.”
Antietta faltered.
“This is your problem. We have the right to refuse, don’t we?” Brandon asked pointedly. Though logic urged him to accept the request, he couldn’t shake his irritation at seeing this seemingly innocent girl burdened with such weight.
The girl raised her head, mischief glinting faintly in her eyes. “Human… you seek the aid of the ancient kings’ souls, correct?”
Her form was almost entirely transparent now.
“You know?”
“A whisper of wind in the valley reaches my ears…” She closed her eyes and answered softly. “But to gain the approval of the ancient kings, you must first earn mine…”
“So, I propose a deal.”
Brandon bristled. Threatened—by a child, no less. Could he really refuse? He glanced over his shoulder at Antietta, Roma, and even Tiger Finch. They all nodded silently.
“Fine,” Brandon conceded. “But I have one condition. I require the aid of the ancient kings’ souls first. Without it, facing the lizardfolk brigands in the forest would be suicide.”
The girl nodded.
“I agree.”
Brandon blinked. “You’re not afraid I’ll renege?”
“Of course… I’m afraid.” The elf girl paused, her voice barely audible.
“Then why—”
Suddenly, she began coughing violently.
When she looked up again, tears streamed down her face. “I… I’m scared. But I also… don’t want to disappear. I still have… things to finish. Please… can you help me?”
A gust of wind swept through the treetops, carrying with it a mournful wail that seemed to echo from afar.
At that moment, everyone froze. Though the elf girl had vanished without a trace, her final plea lingered hauntingly in their ears. Brandon turned to look at the others, finding himself utterly speechless.
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