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Chapter 113: The Final Battle Part 2
"Metissa," Brandon gestured to the Silver Elf maiden beside him.
The princess of the Hayaran Empire lifted her winged silver helm with both hands, securing it firmly before mounting her steed. With a deft motion, she lowered the visor that concealed the upper half of her face and crisply replied, "At your command." Her gauntleted hands—encased in gleaming chainmail—tightened around the slender silver spear, its tip pointing skyward. Beneath the visor, her small lips pressed together into a determined line; in an instant, the girl’s demeanor transformed from serene to resolute.
The unicorn beneath her stomped its hooves restlessly, clad in armor as intricate and fine as the elven chainmail Metissa wore. The craftsmanship was unparalleled, offering incredible protection against slashing and piercing attacks. Over this metallic brilliance, a pristine white surcoat bore the emblem of the lily—the heraldic symbol of the Elven Empire. Metissa herself cut a striking figure, her entire form radiating light, as though a mythic White Knight had stepped out of legend and into reality before their very eyes.
"Let us proceed."
The young knight nodded. The unicorn surged forward under her command, galloping past crumbled walls onto a wide-open avenue. This path, once sacred for ceremonial processions, had seen countless rituals where noble priests carried relics of Lady Shayae through these streets alongside chanting monks. Centuries had passed since then, and now grass grew thick over the ancient marble paving stones, swallowing history whole without uttering a word. Yet as Metissa rode by, it seemed as though time reversed itself, and the solemn cavalry of old returned, bearing the will of their goddess across the land—
The Silver Elves.
Far behind the lizardfolk lines, Conrad's eyes narrowed sharply. He spun around and seized Hjúkigr by the collar, roaring, "You fool! What have you done? Those are the Silver Elves—the Silver Elves of Hayaran! What did you do to provoke them?"
Hjúkigr flinched visibly. For years, he had plotted his schemes near the royal tombs of the Silver Elves, initially treading cautiously, fearful that the legendary warriors who dared charge into armies of darkness while singing hymns might one day descend upon him. But as days turned into months, nothing happened. It seemed the reclusive Silver Elves truly kept their vow to remain hidden from the world. In fact, Hjúkigr had even begun to suspect that the proud race might have gone extinct due to some unknown calamity. Perhaps the tales of their great retreat were mere fabrications.
But just when he’d let his guard down, growing bolder each day and venturing closer to the tomb grounds, the Silver Elves emerged once more. Though his vision wasn’t as keen as Conrad’s (who possessed gold-rank strength), Hjúkigr could still recognize the unmistakable sight of white helms and silver armor, adorned with artfully crafted battle skirts so exquisite they appeared almost otherworldly. On all of Vonder Continent, only the Silver Elves could boast such ostentatious warriors.
He sucked in a sharp breath as Conrad continued to shake him by the collar, shouting, "Donald, young man—look there!"
Conrad whipped his head around—
And saw Brandon and Cinnabar appear on either side of the elven knight, splitting apart like twin flames—one silver, one crimson. After a brief pause, the two streaked into the battlefield with blinding speed, leaving trails of bloodied lizardfolk heads in their wake. "Damn it…" Conrad muttered, releasing Hjúkigr. His discerning gaze immediately recognized that Metissa and Cinnabar surpassed him in power, and though the young man wielding the silver sword was only at the first tier of silver rank, his skill was undeniable. While Conrad couldn’t fathom where these formidable foes had come from, he did recognize the fiery-haired girl with the ponytail—it was Cinnabar, whom he had personally slain that night. Though a Dark Priest had revived her using the blood of gods, shouldn’t she have become a Divine Messenger?
Yet Conrad exhaled slowly, calming himself. At least he was now certain that the incompetent Blackfire Priest was likely dead—or worse. Uncertainty was what he feared most, not inevitability.
"Leave that side to me. You’d best reclaim your stronghold before I finish dealing with this mess," Conrad said coldly, glancing at Hjúkigr before pulling on a pair of blackened steel gloves. The lizardfolk brigand leader stammered nervously, knowing better than to provoke Conrad further. Though he often challenged the man, he knew better than to test his patience now.
As Conrad turned to leave, Hjúkigr managed to stutter, "S-silver… the Silver Elves?"
"Handle it yourself."
Conrad snorted dismissively, not bothering to look back. If the Silver Elves were indeed the result of this brainless lizard’s folly, he had no intention of involving himself in such trouble. Though the Treeminders were a vast organization, they weren’t necessarily afraid of the long-forgotten Silver Elves of Hayaran. Still, provoking those sacred warriors was something no sane person would willingly do.
This foolish lizard was expendable—a pawn easily discarded. Compared to Hjúkigr’s incompetence, Conrad was far more concerned about explaining the loss of a low-ranking Dark Priest within the organization. Such losses hadn’t occurred in decades, and the repercussions would be severe. The high-ranking members of the Blackfire Cultists held considerable sway, especially Lord of the Cursed Swarm Mayad, one of the twelve Patriarchs and among the four Great Powers. Losing dozens of elite followers could be covered up given the scale of their operation, which involved targeting a duke’s heir. But losing a Dark Priest? That was another matter entirely.
Conrad raised his icy gaze, locking onto Brandon, Metissa, and Cinnabar. For now, his plan was simple: locate the heir of Duke Rhun and take things step by step.
---
"Drive these lizardfolk away from the central battlefield," Brandon shouted as he cleaved through an approaching lizardfolk warrior. Turning to Cinnabar, he added, "Take care of it."
The red-haired girl nodded, her fiery ponytail whipping behind her as she swung her halberd in an arc. A bolt of lightning crackled outward, sending the lizardfolk scrambling backward. Those too slow to retreat were instantly reduced to ash, crumbling into nothingness.
"Well done," Brandon praised without hesitation.
Though the lizardfolk were only level 20 or so individually, their sheer numbers posed a significant threat. His forces consisted of barely twenty-one mid-tier silver-ranked elven guards led by Minnis, along with seventeen iron-ranked mercenaries. Against nearly six hundred lizardfolk—not counting Conrad’s hundred-odd dark mercenaries—the odds were grim if they allowed themselves to be overwhelmed.
Thus, his strategy was clear: minimize the lizardfolk’s numerical advantage by focusing their offense on a narrow front, leveraging the superior individual prowess of his allies.
The method was straightforward—Brandon, Metissa, and Cinnabar would hold the center of the battlefield steadfastly.
What surprised Brandon, however, was how quickly Cinnabar seemed to grasp his intentions without explanation. Such tactical insight didn’t align with someone trained solely in mercenary work. Still, his praise elicited a puzzled glance from the redhead.
"Why are you praising me?" she asked bluntly. "Are you trying to win me over?"
"Hah—good work speaks for itself. Do I need another reason?" Brandon countered, deflecting a thrust from a lizardfolk spear and slicing downward with his blade. Catching his breath, he added, "Suit yourself."
Cinnabar gave him a fleeting look before turning away. She had fought for the Gray Wolves Mercenary Company, her comrades her only family. Now that her home was gone, all that remained was vengeance. Quiet and reserved, she preferred action over words, believing that acknowledgment wasn’t necessary. Everyone’s focus had always been on Aiko—the company commander, the others, even herself.
But Brandon thought differently. He disliked overcomplicating matters. He knew Cinnabar wielded gold-rank strength, and with the Gray Wolves disbanded, recruiting her made perfect sense. He had principles but wasn’t rigidly bound by them. Coincidentally, both Cinnabar and Metissa—and even himself—had mastered ranged attacks before awakening their elemental affinities. Together, despite being at silver, gold, and gold ranks respectively, their combined lethality on the battlefield was terrifying.
Cinnabar relied primarily on the Elemental Resonance of her Halberd of Thunder, unleashing devastating thunder strikes. Metissa, transformed into a ghost knight, commanded skills like Charge, Soul Lance, and Thousand-Man Strike, making her a walking engine of destruction. And Brandon? Even at the initial stages of silver rank, his arsenal of techniques—Charge, Strength Surge, White Crow Swordsmanship, and Frontal Breakthrough—was enviable. Add to that the protective Aura of Resilience from his badge, the Wind Blast from his Ring of the Wind Sovereign, and the Fireball spell from his Ring of Flame, and his capabilities bordered on absurd.
With these three fighting together, their team’s effectiveness skyrocketed exponentially. Moreover, luck favored them: neither Metissa nor Cinnabar, despite their immense power, were seasoned veterans. They were still young, inexperienced maidens. Brandon, having spent years assembling teams and honing his persuasive skills, found it almost laughably easy to bring them into his fold.
Still, one question nagged at him. Why hadn’t Conrad shown up yet? By now, the lizardfolk forces had been pushed to the flanks, allowing the Silver Elves’ superior individual might to control the narrow chokepoints effectively. Shouldn’t Conrad see this obvious tactic?
Just as Brandon pondered this, Metissa’s voice rang out from the left flank:
"Watch out!"
A gust of wind rushed toward them from behind.
They were attacking from below!
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