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Chapter 94: The Sacred Covenant
Within the temple of Shayae, the Elven Goddess, the long-dormant altar stirred once more after nearly two centuries of silence. As Brandon watched, his breath caught in his throat. One by one, tall and statuesque elves descended from the obsidian altar, their silver hair tied back with precision, their faces cold and unyielding. Each wore a winged helm atop their heads, carried double-edged swords, and donned gleaming suits of interlocking silver-plated chainmail that clinked softly with every step. Their presence was overwhelming—these were no ordinary soldiers. These were the Silver Elves, renowned as the mightiest heavy infantry on the continent.
The Elven Royal Guard.
Twenty of them emerged in succession, each nodding curtly to Brandon before taking their places in perfect formation along either side of the altar. Finally, a faint shadow materialized in the center of the chamber, like a wisp coalescing into form. The sound of steel scraping against scabbards filled the air as the mercenaries behind Brandon drew their weapons. But Brandon himself remained calm. He had an inkling of what—or rather, who—this might be. Bowing his head slightly, he waited.
As the shadow solidified into a figure, features began to take shape. A tall elf stood before them, draped in flowing silver robes, his silver hair cascading down his back, his eyes shimmering like molten moonlight. Even among the imposing Silver Elves, this man was a giant, towering over everyone present. His gaze swept across the room with an authority that made even Tiger Finch instinctively lower his head. Though only a projection, the sheer weight of his presence was suffocating. There could be no doubt—this was one of the ancient kings of the Silver Elves.
The regal elf paused, studying the group before him. "You are humans?" he asked, his voice carrying the weight of ages.
Everyone nodded, including Brandon.
"Who is that?" Antietta whispered nervously behind Brandon's shoulder.
"It looks like one of the early Silver Elven Kings," Brandon replied quietly. "Probably Aesothan, the first Silver Elven King. I've seen his likeness in engravings." Of course, Brandon knew better than to admit he'd seen holographic depictions of all eleven generations of Silver Elven monarchs online. That kind of knowledge would raise too many questions about his true identity.
Before he could say anything further, the towering figure turned his piercing gaze directly onto Brandon. "You know me?"
Brandon froze for a moment but then nodded. What else could he do? This was no ordinary spirit—it was Aesothan, a king who had lived through the Holy War, a time of chaos when golden bloodlines still walked the earth, and beings of unimaginable power were commonplace. Back then, someone like Metissa—a child who possessed the gold-rank strength before coming of age—would have been considered laughably weak compared to the titans of that era. Historical estimates placed the Four Saints at levels exceeding 180, while leaders of the dwarves, humans, and elves were likely above 150. Awakening the elemental affinity was merely the baseline for warriors; anyone below upper-tier gold rank was little more than cannon fodder. It was an age of legends, myths brought to life.
Though those numbers were speculative, based on fragmented records, Brandon doubted they were far off. Standing here now, under the oppressive aura of Aesothan's mere projection, he felt as though his lungs might collapse under the pressure. And yet, Brandon wasn't just any casual observer—he possessed the insight of a level 130 warrior, leagues beyond the likes of Roma or Antietta.
Aesothan's spectral form hesitated briefly before speaking again. "Thank you for aiding young Metissa."
"But your presence here suggests you seek something as well," he continued, his tone measured.
Brandon nodded.
"Very well, then. What do you seek, allies of old?" The Elven King's voice was deep and measured, as though the modern Cruzean tongue felt foreign to him, causing him to speak with deliberate slowness. Yet, the meaning behind his words was clear enough to all present. For a moment, everyone was taken aback—was this ancient king truly so agreeable?
But Brandon knew better. This was no simple matter. Still, he chose to answer plainly. "I intend to deal with the lizardfolk brigands plaguing the forest. In part, this is also to honor Metissa’s wishes. I hope for your assistance in this endeavor."
"This is a conflict between the living," Aesothan replied coolly. "Why should the dead intervene?"
Cunning old fox. Brandon bit back a curse and said, "Because it concerns you, Your Majesty."
"How so?" Aesothan's brow furrowed slightly.
Brandon took a deep breath, meeting the ancient king's gaze for the first time. "Those lizardfolk—they’re connected to the Treeminders."
"The Treeminders?" Aesothan repeated, his voice low and dangerous.
"After the Holy War ended, the Dragon of Darkness was sealed away forever. Minarian, its servant, was driven north by our ancestor, Geert, the King of Flames. Many believe they vanished entirely, but that’s not true. They’ve dispersed, blending into human society under names like the Treeminders and the Silver Celestial Serpent. Their goal remains unchanged: to prepare for the return of the Dragon of Darkness."
Antietta gasped audibly. She stared at Brandon, her mind racing. She knew of Minarian, of course—but she’d never imagined the Treeminders were descendants of the dark ones. And how did Brandon know all this? Wasn’t such information perilous? If Brandon knew, surely the higher nobility must too. Why hadn’t they acted decisively to eradicate these groups?
She didn’t doubt Brandon’s words—it was unthinkable to lie to an elven king—but if Minarian still existed…what of the Dragon of Darkness itself? Could it truly be nearing another awakening?
The last age of darkness—the seven-century-long Holy War—was a nightmare etched into history. The thought of reliving such chaos terrified her. Worse still, the golden bloodlines that once opposed the Dragon of Darkness were long gone, and the Silver Lineage was fading. How could people like her—mere bronze and iron ranks—hope to save the world this time?
Her face paled visibly.
Aesothan listened intently, his silver brows rising slightly. "So the remnants of darkness still linger?" He sighed heavily. "Geert was always too merciful. Even in my time, I warned him of this. Perhaps...perhaps that is why he became known as a king worthy of remembrance."
Brandon remained silent, but the others—Roma, Tiger Finch, Antietta—were stunned into silence. Finally, one of the Elementalist sisters stammered, "Y-Your Majesty, you speak of Geert the King of Flames as...merciful?"
Brandon glanced at them knowingly. History remembered Geert as ruthless and cold-hearted, the founder of the human empire and one of the Four Saints. Tales of his cruelty were legendary. Yet Brandon knew better. True players of the game understood the nuances of history, but now wasn’t the time to delve deeper.
To steer the conversation elsewhere, Brandon interjected. "The lizardfolk aren’t here merely to raid—they’re also searching for the royal tombs. From what Metissa told us, they’ve visited the temple grounds multiple times already. Surely, Your Majesty, your eternal vigilance hasn’t failed to notice such disturbances?"
Aesothan finally nodded. His gaze flickered toward the two wild elf girls standing nearby. Though he recognized their lineage, the scattering of the silver bloodline eons ago left him unable to determine which branch of the family tree they belonged to.
"And thus—" Brandon began, a confident smile spreading across his face.
For the first time, Aesothan’s stern expression softened into a faint smile. But the warmth quickly faded, replaced by his usual aloof demeanor. "Though creatures of darkness rarely breach Lady Marsha’s sacred domain, the ancient pact endures. In the fight against darkness, we stand united—as allies, humans."
"Thank you sincerely," Brandon said, placing a hand over his heart and bowing deeply. Years of navigating high-level NPCs in games had taught him the proper etiquette.
"What must we do next?" Antietta ventured, gathering her courage to speak.
She glanced at Brandon, finding encouragement in his eyes.
"My guards—I lend them to you," Aesothan declared. "In life, they were the bravest warriors of the Silver Elves. In death, they swore eternal enmity to darkness. They will accompany you, aid you in cleansing the shadows. However, the altar grows weaker with time. They cannot leave this region, nor can they maintain their projections indefinitely. Lastly..." He paused, his voice softening. "Take care of Metissa. She is a child burdened by sorrow."
Antietta, Brandon, and Roma nodded solemnly.
But Antietta leaned closer to whisper to Brandon. "He trusts us so easily?"
"Of course," Brandon murmured solemnly. "You don’t understand the context of the covenants forged during their time. The Sacred Covenant wasn’t about interests—it was a bond made purely for survival. Back then, all races resisting the Dragon of Darkness were brothers-in-arms. Without that unity, the Holy War would have been unwinnable."
"You mean the Holy War?" Antietta whispered.
Brandon nodded.
But suddenly, his brow furrowed, and he turned sharply toward one direction. His eyes met Tiger Finch’s, whose expression mirrored his own unease. Without uttering a word, the mercenary captain communicated silently: "Card resonance—"
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