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Chapter 108: Looting Corpses and Unexpected Surprises
"Magic Energy Bolt."
Brandon gritted his teeth, twisting his body just enough to let the fiery projectile graze past his chest. The skin there burned as though scorched, a sharp pain flaring from the dark elemental corruption. Still, he knew it was far preferable to having two ribs shattered. He exhaled sharply, cursing himself for forgetting how skilled Dark Priests were at weaving spells under the guise of invisibility. Even with his vigilance, he hadn’t managed to fully evade the attack. In past games, such blows would have been absorbed by tank classes like knights or inquisitors. But Brandon trusted his reflexes—and they hadn’t failed him this time. Had he taken the full brunt of that strike, he’d likely have been caught in a devastating chain of spells. While it wouldn’t have killed him outright, it would certainly have left him incapacitated for days.
More importantly, if opportunities like this arose again, he doubted Tiger Finch and the others would allow him to take them alone.
Fortunately, things had unfolded as expected. With the Dark Priest’s gambit thwarted, it was now Brandon’s turn to press the attack. He darted forward, circling around behind the dark priest with practiced ease.
Another swing—
The Dark Priest of the Blackfire, swept his hand backward. The obsidian shield that had once guarded his front spun in a wide arc to intercept Brandon’s blade. Simultaneously, a sphere of black flame coalesced in the dark priest’s left hand. Brandon snorted inwardly. So predictable. The "Light-Devouring Shield" of a low-tier Dark Priest only boasted 10 points of hardness. His previous strike had already eroded at least a third of its durability. Yet the fool still seemed convinced it would take three strikes to break through.
Brandon wasn’t in a rush. He leapt back, dodging the second Magic Energy Bolt flung his way. All of this—their exchanges, their feints—had unfolded in the blink of an eye. Meanwhile, the encircling lizardfolk warriors only now realized they had lost track of Brandon. They hesitated, turning their heads in confusion, only to witness the following scene:
The young man retreated a step, narrowly avoiding a gout of black flame, before lunging forward once more—
His sword glowed.
In that brief moment of retreat, Brandon had pulled up his attribute panel, upgrading his newly acquired skill to level five. At this level, "Frontal Breakthrough" reduced damage mitigation by a full 10 points—a nightmare for heavily armored fighters and domain wizards alike, let alone some minor dark elementalist relying on a flimsy Light-Devouring Shield. As the blade vibrated at high frequency, its edge refracted the moonlight, giving it the appearance of being coated in an ethereal luminescence.
The sword surged forward.
Strength Surge. Frontal Breakthrough. Brandon felt as though half his strength poured into that single strike.
And the results did not disappoint. The Dark Priest stared in disbelief as his prized Light-Devouring Shield shattered into fragments of darkness. The unassuming sword slid effortlessly into his abdomen. Brandon immediately released the hilt, darting behind the dark priest. No sooner had he moved than the dark priest let out a blood-curdling scream—his eyes, nostrils, mouth, and wound erupting with torrents of black flame far grander than any mere Magic Energy Bolt. Even from behind, Brandon could feel the searing sting of dark elemental energy saturating the air.
Burning half their life force to activate elemental infusion—an instant cast, the last desperate gambit of any elementalist. Only a Dark Priest of Blackfire would dare employ such madness, knowing full well he’d already lost over half his vitality. If Brandon hadn’t been burned by this trick before, he might have fallen for it again. Even so, he’d have survived—but not without shedding a layer of skin.
Still, his decent-quality longsword was beyond salvageable. Unless imbued with magic, few mundane objects could withstand such elemental fury. Brandon didn’t even bother checking what remained of the weapon.
He turned to face the lizardfolk warriors who were now cautiously circling him.
Brandon thought his smile was friendly enough, but to the lizardfolk, it appeared demonic. They had witnessed the Dark Priest’s power moments ago, only for him to be felled in the blink of an eye. What chance did these lackeys stand? Exchanging uneasy glances, they turned tail and fled. For a band of disorganized brigands, this reaction was entirely natural.
From their perspective, the sole silver lining was that the young man didn’t seem intent on pursuing them.
Of course, they were unaware that Brandon was currently drained of strength. That final blow had consumed both Strength Surge and Frontal Breakthrough simultaneously. Skill costs multiplied rather than added, meaning that single strike had burned through fifteen times his normal stamina. Though not enough to completely sap him, the aftermath left him momentarily weakened.
But the battle was nearly over.
He first checked his experience points. Killing the Dark Priest had netted him a tidy 4,200 XP. Freshly leveled, his total now read 5,645/13,600—and the numbers continued to climb rapidly. He looked up to see the Silver Elves’ contingent driving the remaining lizardfolk into narrow, treacherous terrain. With the Dark Priest dead, the lizardfolk could barely muster a coherent counterattack. Their formations dissolved into chaos, devolving into a full-scale rout.
All that remained was the cleanup.
Brandon plopped down beside the Dark Priest’s corpse, making no move to disturb the body. He knew better than to attempt looting the corpse himself; he’d wait for the elemental sisters to handle it. Pulling a glowing crystal from his pocket, he lit it and tossed it skyward—a signal. There was no need for the mercenaries to continue their ranged support; they could descend now. As he waited, boredom crept in. To pass the time, he reviewed his stats. Strength and Constitution had both surpassed 25 units, while Agility had increased by 3. Clenching his right hand experimentally, he muttered to himself, “This is the power of silver rank.”
Though still low-tier.
In terms of actual combat prowess, however, he was approaching upper-tier status.
“Just two months, Brandon. Do you believe it? You’ve gone from an unremarkable militiaman to a knight wielding silver-rank strength. Those guards you once admired? They’re nothing now. Trust me, our journey is far from over.” A faint smile tugged at his lips as he pressed a hand to his chest, speaking silently to himself. He felt a swell of emotion, a product of his connection to this world.
For Su Fei, level twenty-five meant little.
Looking up, he saw the mercenaries emerging from the forest. The Gray Wolves were particularly animated, their understanding of their lord still shallow compared to veterans like Tiger Finch. Though Brandon had promised victory, the ease of this triumph astonished them. Thirty-odd men against over two hundred foes—including Blackfire cultists, a silver-rank demon, and the Dark Priest who had haunted their nightmares. Yet here they stood, unscathed.
Even Sanford, running up to Brandon, couldn’t contain his excitement. “My lord,” he blurted, somewhat impolitely, “you’ve broken through?”
Brandon nodded.
“Silver rank at twenty years old,” Sanford murmured, exchanging awestruck glances with the other Gray Wolves. “We are truly fortunate—to bear witness to the rise of two prodigies.”
“Two?” Brandon asked.
“The other was once part of our company—a man named Aiko.”
“Aiko, eh?” Brandon raised an eyebrow. But his attention shifted elsewhere. Scanning the group, his gaze landed on the two wild elf elementalists bringing up the rear. He waved them over. “Come, Red-Handed Softie. Help me loot this corpse.”
The entire assembly froze.
Eyes followed Brandon’s gesture, lingering uncertainly until they settled on the elder of the two wild elf sisters. The girl blinked, looking around before tentatively pointing at herself. “Me?”
“Of course,” Brandon replied, gesturing to the Dark Priest’s body behind him. “You’re frisking the corpse… I mean, organizing the spoils.”
Furrowing her delicate brows, the wild elf bit her lip, glaring at Brandon. “My lord, my name is Fleur, not some… some Red-Handed Softie.” She stumbled over the words, unused to the human tongue, and shot him a cold glare, thinking this man delighted in vexing her.
Brandon coughed, maintaining a straight face. “Fleur, then. Where I come from, ‘Red-Handed Softie’ is a compliment.”
Doubt clouded her expression.
“My lord,” Sanford chimed in quietly, “I’ve been to Karasu, and I don’t recall hearing that phrase…”
“It’s wizard slang,” Brandon interjected smoothly.
“What does it mean?”
“It means someone’s lucky, soft-spoken, and female.”
Though unsure about the ‘soft’ part, the elder sister understood the ‘female’ implication all too well. She glanced at her lord, inwardly scoffing at human frivolity. Still, considering her position—and especially her younger sister’s—Fleur refrained from showing displeasure. Nodding curtly, she prepared to comply.
But just then, a series of muffled booms echoed from the eastern valley. The sound began as a deep rumble, then evolved into sharp cracks, as if something were shattering from within. The ground trembled beneath their feet, stones dancing as if infused with magic.
Brandon glanced down instinctively, then froze. The noise—it was familiar. It reminded him of the crystalline detonations from the early stages of the Second Black Rose War. He hadn’t heard anything like it in decades, not since the games.
Wait…
His expression darkened. Spinning around, he confirmed his fears: the eastern cliffs were crumbling amidst rising clouds of smoke and dust.
Everyone stood stunned—
…
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