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Chapter 112: The Final Battle Part 1
Cinnabar, Minnis, Tiger Finch, and Sanford stood silently behind him, their presence a quiet reassurance in the tense atmosphere. Brandon held a rough-hewn stone tablet in his hand, its surface etched with an ancient rune. His gaze pierced through the broken walls of the elven ruins, settling on the valley beyond. From that direction came the lizardfolk—small, fleeting shadows darting between the gaps in the forest. Their half-evolved forms flickered in and out of sight, but Brandon’s sharp eyes quickly estimated their numbers. At least two companies strong, no fewer than three hundred, and likely more to follow. It seemed Hjúkigr and Conrad had joined forces. Wary devils, he thought, confirming the situation.
He tilted his head upward. Another clear day stretched above, the sky a deep blue verging on violet. The sunlight spilled lazily over the forest canopy, bathing the distant treetops in a vivid green so bright it almost hurt to look at. Brandon squinted against the glare.
The air carried a faint tang of blood, a lingering reminder of the battle that had taken place here despite the cleanup efforts. In his hand, the Philosopher’s Tablet felt heavy with purpose. Roughly the size of a fist, its surface bore a single rune that whispered "Eaam"—an ancient word meaning earth, the foundation of life and wisdom. With the tablet secured, at least half of his mission was complete. All that remained was retrieving Metissa’s necklace—from the claws of the lizardfolk.
But as he mulled this over, a soft rustling drew his attention. Turning, he saw Princess Metissa fastening her silver hair into a neat braid. She wore armor of pristine white, its intricate design so breathtaking that for a moment Brandon mistook it for a gown adorned with silver plates. Her unicorn followed obediently at her side. She met his gaze with eyes as clear as glass, offering a small smile before speaking directly into his mind: “Thank you, Lord Brandon.”
“An agreement,” he replied curtly, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from her regal figure.
Metissa’s cheeks flushed slightly, reminded of the events that had led them here. She had never felt such fear, nor had she ever abandoned her royal poise so completely, breaking down in tears before countless witnesses. Shaking off the memory, she glanced toward the edge of the group where Cinnabar stood alone beneath the shadow of a tree. The red-haired girl leaned against her Halberd of Thunder, her amber-like eyes glowing softly in the dim light. Brandon had explained everything to her—the divine blood coursing through her veins, the dissolution of the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company—and since then, she had remained eerily still, neither grieving nor angry.
“That girl… what will become of her?” Metissa asked softly, turning back to Brandon.
“The divine blood within her is a curse that cannot be purged, only suppressed by sheer willpower. Should she lose control, she will inevitably transform into a Divine Messenger—a monstrous title masked by pretty words.” Brandon paused, considering another option. If Cinnabar agreed, he could seal her essence into a card, binding her fate through the existing rules of magic. But to reduce a living being to a mere card? Such a fate would be cruel for anyone who valued freedom. He resolved not to suggest it unless absolutely necessary.
Metissa frowned, her heart aching for the other girl, yet her innate elven composure kept her silent.
Brandon said nothing further, his focus shifting to the mercenaries scattered among the ruins. These warriors hid amidst the ancient craftsmanship of the Silver Elves, crossbows trained on the approaching lizardfolk to prevent a hasty retreat. Hours earlier, Brandon had launched a surprise attack on the lizardfolk brigands’ stronghold. With the combined strength of Cinnabar and Metissa—both gold-rank fighters—and twenty mid-tier silver-rank Elven Royal Guards, they had annihilated over two hundred defenders, leaving little more than experience points in their wake. Now, the remaining lizardfolk served as bait, a diversion to mask their true intentions.
“Brandon,” came a familiar voice tinged with smug satisfaction.
Without looking, Brandon recognized Roma’s tone. He extended his hand backward without turning around. “Already?”
Roma approached alongside Antietta, placing three thumb-sized, translucent crystals into his palm. “Of course. Efficiency is my specialty. Everyone has been supplied according to your instructions. We’re ready whenever you give the command.”
“Pity we ran out of materials,” Antietta added, exhaustion evident on her face but a wry smile tugging at her lips. “Otherwise, I could’ve made more. I used every last scrap of material I had, even dismantling the prototype energy conduit per your instructions.”
Brandon nodded, carefully slotting the disintegration crystals into his belt. Then, taking the sword offered by Tiger Finch, he gestured toward the forest. “They’re cautious. Our deception won’t hold forever. Once they’re close enough, I’ll draw their attention. Metissa, Cinnabar, you’re with me. Our objective is Conrad and the Earthbound Divine Messenger. As for the rest, Minnis and his men can handle them.”
The commander of the Silver Elves gave a curt nod.
“Don’t just nod, Commander,” Brandon chided lightly. “Remember your promise.”
Minnis smirked. “We shall see.”
Metissa watched the exchange, unable to suppress a small laugh.
“Cinnabar, any objections?” Brandon asked next.
The redhead shook her head. “Understood.”
“To you, Tiger Finch—you’ll stay behind the Silver Elves and provide cover.” His voice was calm and clear as he gave the order, but in his mind, he added a silent caveat: “And keep an eye on the Gray Wolves. Unlike you, they don’t have the luxury of resurrection.” Sensing Tiger Finch’s acknowledgment, Brandon turned to Sanford. “Same goes for you. Survive first, celebrate later.”
“Of course, my lord,” Sanford replied with a respectful bow.
Satisfied, Brandon surveyed the group once more. Aside from Minnis, nearly everyone here was part of his core team. Retto might still command some forces elsewhere, but those mercenaries were different. In truth, Brandon knew that among them, Retto held greater prestige than he did. Yet these individuals before him—Tiger Finch, Metissa, Antietta, the remnants of the Gray Wolves—they were loyal to him and him alone.
Not that he doubted Retto entirely, but trust was earned over time. Betrayal was far too common in both games and reality, and Brandon wasn’t about to reveal all his secrets prematurely.
With assignments settled, he returned his attention to the forest, observing the lizardfolk’s movements. Conrad and Hjúkigr hadn’t noticed anything amiss yet, but Brandon didn’t expect to fool them for long. One decisive strike would suffice.
The nearest lizardfolk were now less than half a mile away, their shadows flitting through the trees. Strangely, they hadn’t sent out dragon-hunting cavalry as scouts—an oversight that filled Brandon with grim satisfaction. The enemy was complacent, making them vulnerable to a devastating opening blow.
Seven hundred meters.
Brandon read the distance from his interface. The vast horde of lizardfolk moved through the forest like water flowing between stones or ants swarming across the ground. He could see the mercenaries stationed at the front line reaching for the disintegration crystals tucked into their belts. Small though they were, each crystal packed a punch equivalent to 15 Oz, rivaling the destructive power of low-tier elemental spells.
Five hundred meters.
Now the lizardfolk were visible even to those without heightened senses. Fatigue marked their faces after a night of marching, and none suspected an ambush awaited them at their doorstep. Cinnabar crouched, plucking a blade of grass and chewing it absently as she scanned the forest for Conrad’s distinctive silhouette. Her grip tightened on the Halberd of Thunder until it creaked under the pressure.
Still, the lizardfolk pressed forward, oblivious to the unnatural silence enveloping the ruins. Only inertia drove them onward until, suddenly, a dozen dragon-hunting cavalry broke formation, weaving through the ranks. Wherever they passed, the lizardfolk halted. They’d been discovered.
Brandon cursed inwardly. Conrad and Hjúkigr had yet to appear, their caution exceeding his expectations. No matter—there was no time to dwell on it. Raising his arm, he aligned the ruby ring on his index finger with the forest ahead. A flash of crimson light momentarily dimmed the sun itself. A massive fireball erupted from the woods, sending leaves spiraling skyward. Moments later, a deafening explosion rocked the area, a wave of heat rippling across the forest floor, lifting hair and stirring dust.
Warm wind buffeted his face.
Data streamed across Brandon’s vision: at least twenty lizardfolk had perished in that initial blast—a fortunate miscalculation on the enemy’s part, given how tightly packed their ranks had been. But this was merely the opening salvo. Immediately, the mercenaries hurled their disintegration crystals toward the fiery epicenter. Three hundred meters was no great distance for iron-rank combatants. The crystals arced gracefully through the air, shimmering like stars before raining down upon the woodland below.
Silence fell.
It was the calm before the storm. A single flash of white light illuminated the forest, followed by another, then another, until the entire expanse pulsed with brilliance. Explosions thundered relentlessly, shaking the earth for nearly a minute. When the dust finally settled, the landscape had transformed irrevocably. Trees lay uprooted or bent askew, while the central clearing resembled a scene from the abyss. Over a hundred lizardfolk had been obliterated, their mutilated remains strewn about like macabre ornaments. Blood-soaked entrails hung from branches, painting the forest in shades of crimson.
Even Brandon gagged momentarily, suppressing his revulsion as he recalculated the odds.
Yesterday, Hjúkigr had marched out with at least four hundred warriors. Arrogant beast that he was, Brandon doubted the lizardfolk leader would willingly share troops with Conrad and the Dark Priest unless absolutely necessary. After all, Blackfire cultists and dark mercenaries provided ample protection. Assuming, of course, they believed Brandon traveled with only a handful of silver-rank guards.
Adding Conrad’s forces and the dark mercenaries, their total enemy count likely exceeded seven hundred—a formidable number indeed. Though the recent assault had eliminated roughly ten percent, the remainder posed a significant challenge.
Another strike was needed.
And so, Brandon signaled to Metissa and Cinnabar, preparing them for their charge. It was time for him to take center stage.
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Root Swamp
(Barren IV)
Basic Land – Swamp
Generates 1 Dark Element weekly into the mana pool.
Place horizontally: Creates swamp terrain (generates 1 Dark Element weekly).
"Rot, decay, desolation—this is a land forsaken."
Roshar's Market
(Alliance of City-States XX)
Special Land – City
Produces 2 Wealth daily and 1 Earth Element weekly into the mana pool.
Place horizontally, pay 2 Prestige: Gain 6 Wealth.
"Through trade, fame, fortune, and power—the people of Roshar have claimed all they desire."
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