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Chapter 100: The Perfect Plotline
Perhaps it should be said this way: The battle had ended before it even began.
In the face of the Phoenix Guard, the elite heavy infantry of the Silver Elves, the upper-tier silver-rank Blackfire cultists were as helpless as newborn chicks. The Silver Elves, a race that had long revered the art of combat, were not merely renowned for their physical prowess or superior equipment. When you stood before warriors who had honed their skills in slaughter for centuries, you could fully comprehend the futility of resistance. A glance, a subtle movement—these were enough for the sharpest eyes among the Silver Elves to discern your every intention. Brandon couldn’t help but chuckle when he saw some high-ranking Blackfire cultists attempting to flaunt their meager combat techniques before these elven soldiers. Even with his experience, he wouldn’t dare to act rashly before these true fighting machines. For the Silver Elves, combat was an art, a pursuit of the highest form of beauty.
How crude, so utterly crude.
The Silver Elves were astounded. After centuries, they had not expected the servants of darkness to wield such rudimentary and inelegant fighting techniques. Seven centuries ago, during the era of the Dragon of Darkness, Minarian, and other ancient adversaries, the forces of darkness had represented the pinnacle of civilization, wielding the most advanced magic and awe-inspiring combat skills. They had never been enemies of progress; rather, their brutal reign had embodied the most sophisticated civilization of its time.
The martial prowess of the dark legions had once been so mesmerizing that many had willingly embraced the shadows. Yet, in just a few centuries, they had regressed to this pitiful state. No, this could hardly even be called skill. It was unbearable.
The Blackfire cultists had not anticipated that their desperate final stand would only enrage the Silver Elves further. Not only them, but everyone present—save for Brandon—would have felt shame at the disdainful glances of the elves. Indeed, after the Holy War, civilization had not advanced but regressed. The supreme power once wielded by both sides in those ancient conflicts had long since become the stuff of myth and legend.
But regardless of what others thought, the battle had already concluded in the blink of an eye, before it truly began. In an instant, the Blackfire cultists lay lifeless on the ground, their bodies headless and cold, black blood pooling around them like sprawling veins across the uneven forest floor.
The white-haired youth stood frozen, as if pinned in place by an unseen force. His mouth hung open, and though he tried to speak, only a rasping sound escaped his throat.
After a long silence, a sharp clang echoed through the clearing. Everyone instinctively turned to see the burly man from the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company drop his massive sword with a clatter. He seemed unaware of his own actions, his face pale with shock as he stared at the Elven Royal Guard reforming their ranks. Twenty Temple Knights who had awakened their elemental affinity—by Marsha’s grace, even Eruin’s full might could scarcely rival this.
The Gray Wolves exchanged glances, their minds reeling. What kind of person could command twenty Temple Knights as personal guards? Could this young man be a prince of Cruze, merely passing through by chance? Though the thought seemed absurd, it was somehow easier to accept than the reality of twenty living Temple Knights standing before them.
But while everyone was still stunned, the red-haired maiden stepped forward with a flourish, lowering her halberd between the Silver Elf warriors and the white-haired youth. Her meaning was clear: she would not allow the elves to kill Radi.
The girl raised her head, lips pressed tightly together, her expression grim. She knew she was no match for even one of these elven warriors, yet that knowledge did nothing to diminish the fiery resolve in her eyes. Sinking her stance slightly, she leaned forward, ready to fight—a crouching panther moments from springing into action.
“Cinnabar?”
Her movements were so familiar that Sanford and the others felt as though they were witnessing a ghost from the past—the Cinnabar who had once fought for anyone in the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company.
“Cinnabar, that man is a traitor. Why are you protecting him?” the burly man shouted, unable to contain himself.
“Just this once—” the red-haired girl gritted her teeth, then shook her head as if to banish the thought. “Only this one last time. I can’t let him die here.”
“Cinnabar?” Radi blinked, even he seeing shades of the old Cinnabar in the girl’s silhouette.
“Get out of here!” the red-haired maiden snapped. “Go find Lord Conrad.”
Radi hesitated for a moment before scrambling backward as fast as he could.
But Brandon, watching the scene unfold, felt a flicker of surprise. With his vast experience, he instantly recognized the struggle within this “Scarlet Knight.” The signs of rejection indicated that the girl’s original consciousness had not been entirely consumed. Her earlier words had clearly stemmed from her own will. Otherwise, how could a Divine Messenger—an emotionless being—act to protect someone? This meant that the Divine Messenger was still in its nascent form.
Realizing this, Brandon suddenly understood why Milphit, the scarlet knight, had transformed into a ghost knight. He couldn’t help but mentally commend her—what courage! To risk her very existence to resist the intrusion of the blood of gods… this girl truly had spirit. Despite himself, Brandon felt a surge of respect.
Respect aside, however, the arrogant fool could not be allowed to escape. Brandon was not one to let a tiger return to the wild. This Radi clearly intended to make his life difficult—who knew what tricks he might pull next, perhaps even transforming into some sort of towering hero to cause trouble again? Even without the protection of a protagonist’s blessing, if Radi harmed Roma or anyone else close to him, the regret would be unbearable.
He decisively signaled with a gesture, its meaning clear: knock out the girl and eliminate the wretch behind her.
The elven commander beside Brandon hesitated momentarily, casting a rare glance at the young lord. The gesture Brandon had used was no trivial matter—it was one of the ancient hand signals employed by commanders during the Holy War, a system that had evolved significantly over the centuries. Few in this age remembered the meanings of those gestures from seven centuries ago.
Still, the commander remained professional, swiftly relaying the order with a cold expression.
There was no doubt about it—escaping under the watchful eyes of twenty Temple Knights was a ludicrous notion. Even with a gold-rank presence assisting, the outcome would remain unchanged.
---
Balrogan, a relic from the era of the Great Retreat of the Silver Elves before the Year of Radiance—
Hjúkigr, the lizardfolk commander, occupied the largest hall within the ruins. In the past, this hall had likely served the Silver Elves for worship and important ceremonies. Like the rest of the structures, centuries of neglect had left it in disrepair. Driven perhaps by instinct or an incomplete evolution, the lizardfolk retained habits of their kin. Hjúkigr, in particular, maintained a strong territorial instinct, treating the hall as his personal domain. Anyone who dared to lay a finger on it were as good as challenging his authority among these lizardfolk brigands.
Yet Hjúkigr prided himself on his sense of aesthetics. Compared to his foul-smelling kin, he fancied himself a civilized being, keeping the hall meticulously clean. A red carpet stretched across the center, much like it had centuries ago, surrounded by mismatched furniture looted from various places. These pieces were haphazardly piled together, a chaotic arrangement that Hjúkigr adored and had ordered his subordinates to create.
It was his daily pleasure to admire it.
When Conrad and the Dark Priest of the Blackfire cult pushed open the doors to this hall, all three emitted a cold snort. The former resented the sight of the two irritating faces, while Conrad and the Dark Priest dismissed the crude aesthetics of this limb- and brain-deficient reptile. To them, the hall resembled nothing more than a garbage dump.
“Donald, I heard—Matris—you were dead there,” Hjúkigr adjusted the collar of his stolen nobleman’s coat, his craggy face wrinkling in mock sorrow. “What a pity. False news, eh?”
“For the last time, my name is Conrad,” the mercenary captain replied curtly, too weary to correct the lizard’s bizarre Cruzean pronunciation or his deliberate rolling of the tongue.
“Same thing,” Hjúkigr waved dismissively, glancing at the Dark Priest behind Conrad. “I thought—you wouldn’t come.”
Conrad sneered. “You claim to investigate the tomb of the Silver Elf king, but it seems you’ve grown quite comfortable playing bandit.” He surveyed the room. “These spoils must be worth quite a bit, yes?”
Hjúkigr’s face wrinkled further as he shook his head. “No, no. I’m on official business.”
“And what have you discovered?”
“A little, but—not much progress.” Hjúkigr shook his head vigorously. “We can’t approach—the temple nearby—but this—help me.” He held up a necklace, dangling it by a bony claw. “Wizard, I need assistance.”
Conrad and the Dark Priest exchanged glances. This lizard had been assumed to be ruling like a petty tyrant under the guise of investigating the royal tomb. Yet it seemed he was genuinely pursuing something. Still, now was not the time to dwell on that. The mercenary captain composed himself and spoke. “That’s not an issue, but we need your help with something.”
“I’ve helped you once already,” Hjúkigr grumbled, referring to the message he’d sent to lure the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company, which had drawn the attention of other adventurers nearby.
“There’s something in it for you,” the Dark Priest murmured.
“What kind of benefit?”
“A big fish,” Conrad replied gravely.
---
A dull thud echoed.
Brandon grabbed the young man by his white hair and slammed his head into the dirt, eliciting a muffled cry. From the information Radi had divulged, the truth was painfully clear. Though it was the last thing Brandon wanted to accept, he had no choice but to admit that the plotline had shifted.
He had been targeted.
Brandon should have seen it coming. By altering the steps to complete his mission, he had inadvertently reversed the entire narrative. The previous strategy guide had made no mention of the scarlet ghost knight or Radi’s betrayal, nor had it mentioned Conrad of the Card Mercenary Company heading to the Balrogan ruins ahead of schedule. This meant the opposing side had completely abandoned tracking Buga and Macaro, focusing instead on hunting him down.
All of this was a carefully crafted illusion by that damned cunning fox. Though Brandon seethed with anger, he had to acknowledge the brilliance of the ploy—and the significant trouble it had caused him. The consequences were dire.
Antietta listened silently to Radi’s account, offering a suggestion after a long pause. “Should we retreat temporarily, Sir Brandon?”
But Brandon waved her off.
If they wanted to meddle with him, they had better be prepared to pay the price. Fine, this appeared to be the so-called 100% completion route. Oddly, he felt calm now, curious to see just how formidable these accursed Blackfire cultists were. So what if it was the highest completion rate storyline? Brandon thought bitterly. He’d faced such challenges before. Let’s see what rewards Lady Marsha has in store for this completion.
While he raged internally, Sanford approached cautiously, whispering, “My lord, what about Cinnabar?”
Brandon turned to see the future ghost knight lying unconscious, guarded by several elven warriors. Killing her? Out of the question. Aside from the thoughts of the newly allied Gray Wolves, even he wouldn’t agree to such an act. Cinnabar had already formed a connection with the Eternal Song card deck. If her fate was unavoidable, the best outcome would mirror Metissa’s.
However, given that she was a nascent Divine Messenger and, according to Radi, sealed by a low-ranking Dark Priest, there might still be hope. Brandon wasn’t the type to seal every individual he encountered into a card. If this spirited young woman could be saved, he was willing to try. Besides, imagine gaining a subordinate with gold-rank strength out of thin air.
Without hesitation, he replied, “Take her with us. She’s your comrade, after all. There may still be a chance.”
“Truly?” Sanford gasped, excitement coloring his voice.
Brandon nodded. “I can only try.”
The young man quickly assented, understanding that Cinnabar’s current state was far from normal.
“What about this one?” Antietta asked, eyeing Radi with distaste as he lay face-down in the mud.
At her words, the white-haired youth seemed to regain his strength. He struggled to lift his head, tears mingling with dirt on his face, and shouted with all his might, “You promised—if I told you everything, you wouldn’t kill me!”
“I keep my word,” Brandon affirmed with a nod.
He clapped his hands and stood, addressing the Silver Elves beside him. “Commander, if you would handle this for me?”
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