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Chapter 97: The Fall Part 3
It could indeed be said that time was short. But that was only relative. The presence of the Blackfire cultists in this forest meant danger could erupt at any moment, from anywhere.
Still, Brandon found solace in one fact: he knew the Blackfire cultists were currently preoccupied with Macaro and Buga, leaving his group to deal with nothing more than the poorly defended lizardfolk stronghold. Though a battle was inevitable—Brandon well understood that the lizardfolk, while appearing to be mere bandits, were in truth a hidden pawn of the Treeminders—the overall scheme was laid out plainly in the guide. This entire affair was a trap, and even some officials in Chablis had been bribed by the Treeminders to dig the pit into which Macaro would inevitably fall. Of course, the sly fox Macaro lived up to his reputation; even under these dire circumstances, he managed to send Rhun’s only heir to safety through sheer instinct. Yet for himself? Well, Brandon suspected Macaro would soon find himself in deep trouble.
But what did any of that have to do with Brandon? According to the guide, the Blackfire cultists never joined forces with the lizardfolk because their storyline ended long before that point. Which meant the only foes they truly faced were the still-evolving reptilian brutes. And as Brandon glanced back at the twenty-odd Elven Royal Guards behind him—each clad in gleaming silver plate armor, their winged helmets leaving only pale silver eyes visible—he felt an overwhelming surge of confidence. These warriors, known as the Phoenix Guard, had once been the backbone of the Holy Alliance's land forces. Granted, their commander—the lone elf wearing a golden helmet—had warned Brandon that their strength was waning the farther they moved from the altar. But Brandon wasn’t concerned. The lizardfolk stronghold lay within two days’ travel from the altar—well within the half-life of the guards' power.
Even if their strength diminished by half after reaching that threshold, each of these elven soldiers would still rival a level thirty elite fighter. Wiping out the lizardfolk would be child’s play. As for the Blackfire cultists, who were currently playing cat-and-mouse with Buga, Brandon doubted they’d catch wind of his actions in time. By then, he planned to have already claimed the Philosopher’s Tablet and Metissa’s Necklace, disappearing far beyond their reach. Perhaps he’d leave them a pile of lizardfolk corpses as a parting gift.
Treasure, quest items, experience—not a single one could be overlooked. Especially not by veteran players like him.
In fact, Brandon had even entertained thoughts of devising a plan to use the “resources” at his disposal to take down the possible level fifty boss, the Divine Messenger. Using high-level NPCs to defeat a boss was about as thrilling as gaming got. As for Conrad, leader of the Card Mercenaries? He could serve as a side dish to the main course.
Of course, amidst all this scheming, Brandon still had headaches to contend with.
Most of the Silver Elves were silent and haughty, trailing far behind the group. They didn’t need to stay close—they merely ensured no one could slip past them to attack Brandon. While humans were technically their allies, the Silver Elves held themselves in such high regard that mingling with human mercenaries seemed beneath them. Predictably, this attitude rankled Brandon’s Rubis mercenaries, who hadn’t taken kindly to being treated so dismissively.
Tiger Finch cast a glance back at the elven soldiers, his brow furrowing slightly. He knew full well how formidable those warriors were but chose not to comment further. Instead, he said, “My lord, the Unicorn Knight card is the core of the ‘Eternal Song’ deck. It resonates only with the secondary cards in the same set—”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Brandon thought, cutting off the older man mid-sentence. “You’ve said it six times already. The primary card is silver-tier, so the two secondary cards must also be silver-tier. Got it. I care deeply about this, but don’t you notice that the card is drawing closer? Something strange is afoot. Why don’t we wait patiently and let our enemies come to us?”
Tiger Finch smiled faintly. He knew Brandon wasn’t wrong, but his lord often seemed indifferent to crucial matters. After all, the stronger a Planeswalker grew, the more powerful their summoned creatures became. Tiger Finch had hinted repeatedly that Brandon should focus on cultivating his abilities as a Planeswalker and collecting cards. Yet Brandon remained stubbornly set in his ways, proceeding methodically according to his own plans.
For all his worldly experience, Tiger Finch couldn’t fathom Brandon’s true intentions. Was he simply aiming to carve out a petty kingdom for himself? To Tiger Finch, that seemed utterly meaningless, especially after glimpsing the vast possibilities of the Planeswalker world. Mortals were mortals, but the ultimate goal of a Planeswalker was to uncover the secrets of existence and ascend to higher planes of being. Compared to that, did mortal concerns hold any real allure? Tiger Finch stroked his scruffy chin, perplexed by Brandon’s motivations.
What Tiger Finch didn’t realize, however, was that Brandon’s thoughts were far simpler—and perhaps more predictable—than he imagined. At that very moment, Brandon was drooling over the prospect of nonexistent loot drops. The allure of a boss fight was eternal, especially when you knew there was a chance to slay it and claim its gear. But just as Brandon was lost in his fantasies, he felt a sudden tap on his shoulder.
The shock nearly sent him leaping out of his skin. Whirling around, heart pounding, he came face-to-face with a golden helmet and a pair of silvery-gray eyes beneath it.
The elven commander.
Brandon recognized him instantly and cursed inwardly. Couldn’t the man make some noise when he walked? Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Brandon asked, “What is it?”
To be fair, the elven commander wasn’t entirely to blame. Though the Phoenix Guard was renowned as the strongest heavy infantry on the continent—albeit seven centuries ago—their prowess lay in combat skills and equipment, not stealth. Brandon’s fright was entirely due to his own distraction.
The elven commander showed no remorse for startling the leader of the group. If anything, his face remained completely expressionless, though Brandon suspected removing that helmet would reveal a visage so striking it might incite jealousy. Instead, the commander made a curt gesture and whispered, “A group of people is fleeing toward us.”
“Fleeing?” Brandon blinked at the word. Who would be running in this direction? According to the guide, Buga’s group should be southward. The guide had been clear on this point, and Brandon trusted it implicitly; history had never deviated from its predictions since he arrived in this world.
The elven commander’s silver-gray eyes flicked toward him, a hint of irritation in their depths, but he nodded nonetheless.
Brandon knew the stoic elf wouldn’t joke around—assuming humor existed in his vocabulary at all. Raising his hand, he signaled for everyone to halt. By now, he had established enough authority among the group (excluding the Silver Elves) that the mercenaries stopped immediately upon seeing his gesture.
Even Antietta and Roma, who had been dozing off, snapped to attention. Roma tilted her head curiously. “What’s going on, Brandon?”
Brandon motioned for silence. Moments later, he heard the unmistakable rustle of footsteps crashing through the underbrush. The sounds were chaotic, panicked—a group of people desperately trying to escape. Glancing at the elves beside him, Brandon couldn’t help but admire their vigilance. Truly, these NPCs were leagues above ordinary players.
He’d seen countless adventurers traipse through the wilderness with all the caution of a spring picnic—it was almost painful to watch. Then again, some players were so powerful that ambushes often ended in their favor. Different strokes for different folks.
Straining his ears, Brandon detected another sound source farther away—the pursuers, mounted on beasts.
His expression darkened. Only two factions in this region used mounts effectively: the lizardfolk with their traditional dragon-hunting cavalry, and the Blackfire cultists with their demons. Horses struggled in forests, especially in hilly terrain like this. He’d never seen anyone foolish enough to gallop through dense woodland hills.
Quickly, he ordered everyone to spread out and prepare for battle.
Moments later, the fleeing group came into view. Six individuals, three men and three women, all ragged and wounded but still armed. Their weapons alone spoke volumes—they hadn’t given up the fight. From their attire, Brandon identified them immediately: mercenaries from the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company.
No, not just any mercenaries. These were Jadran mercenaries, some of the few heavy infantry within the Gray Wolves. Brandon had encountered them briefly before.
But something didn’t add up. According to the guide, neither the Blackfire cultists nor the Gray Wolves should appear in this direction. Could they be stragglers separated from Buga’s group? It seemed unlikely, but Brandon preferred this explanation over the alternative.
The mercenaries spotted Brandon’s group and froze, despair etched on their faces. But then one of them recognized Brandon—and Brandon recognized him too. It was Sanford, the young man who had exchanged a few words with him alongside Radi that afternoon. Unlike the hotheaded white-haired youth, Sanford had left a better impression.
“Sir Brandon, help us!” Sanford cried, collapsing to his knees as if all strength had abandoned him.
Though Brandon disliked meddling in others’ affairs, he wasn’t heartless. Besides, with the Phoenix Guard backing him, this was the perfect opportunity to flex his newfound power. He knew the Gray Wolves were finished, and while Macaro had callously sacrificed these veterans, they were still seasoned fighters. Mercenaries had few options, and Brandon saw an opportunity to recruit them.
Jadrans—one of the finest breeds of mercenaries. With this realization, Brandon nodded and commanded his own mercenaries to shield the newcomers. Simultaneously, he asked the question foremost on his mind:
“How did you end up here?”
“We…” Sanford began, but before he could finish, the pursuing force answered for him.
From the nearby trees came a cacophony of movement. Leaves shook violently as several riders burst forth, mounted on creatures resembling wild boars—but Brandon, along with the wooden-faced elves, knew better. Those weren’t boars.
They were Lesser Fiends—low-ranking demons with mottled brown and green hides, four pairs of tusks, and eight bloodshot eyes. Common mounts for demonic cavalry, they suited the Blackfire cultists perfectly. But as Brandon studied the cultists’ attire, he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Sir Brandon, be careful… they’re… unusual,” Sanford murmured.
Unusual? That was putting it mildly. Brandon cursed inwardly. These were no ordinary cultists—they were high-ranking acolytes, the cream of the Blackfire cavalry. Why were they chasing these bedraggled mercenaries?
Wait…
Brandon drew his sword. A realization dawned on him. If the cultists were truly intent on capturing Sanford’s group, they wouldn’t have let them run this far. Which meant they were deliberately herding them—to this spot. But why? A show of force? He scrutinized the cultists, unsure whether they had targeted his group specifically. They didn’t seem connected… or did they?
Just then, the elven commander spoke from behind him. “There are more people in the forest.”
Brandon turned sharply toward the indicated direction. The forest appeared empty, save for the layered foliage casting dappled shadows. But in the next instant, he felt a pulse—a subtle twitch in the Unicorn Knight card clutched in his hand.
Ah, so it was another card reaction.
Now things were starting to make sense.
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