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Chapter 114: The Final Battle Part 3
Brandon turned his head in an instant, but the first to act was none other than Princess Metissa of the Silver Elves, who had been the first to spot the enemy. She had been circling back from a distance of over a hundred and fifty paces, having just dispersed a cluster of lizardfolk crossbowmen. Several lizardfolk warriors were now trailing her, attempting to encircle the young elf. However, upon noticing the situation unfolding, Metissa immediately sounded the alarm to her companions and spurred her unicorn mount to rear up on its hind legs. With a swift motion, she raised her spear and thrust it forward as gravity pulled her downward.
"Soul Lance!"
The young princess cried out, and in that moment, the air pressure at the tip of her spear rippled outward like a blade slicing through the wind. The lizardfolk nearest to her were instantly vaporized, while those further away were swept aside as though they were mere leaves caught in a hurricane. Raising her spear high, Metissa forged an invisible path ahead of her. Leaves swirled, wind howled, and the towering trees before her exploded into splinters. The shadowy figure lunging toward Brandon darted backward in an instant.
A razor-sharp gust of wind sliced cleanly between them with a sharp whoosh.
Brandon stared at the deep gouge carved into the ground and couldn’t help but break into a cold sweat. Your Highness, he thought, could you perhaps be a little gentler? It was only an ambush by someone who had awakened their elemental affinity—hardly a threat he couldn’t handle. But if he’d taken a direct hit from that Soul Lance, even survival would have left him grievously wounded. Shuddering at the thought, he finally took a moment to size up his opponent. Though, truthfully, he already knew exactly what kind of monstrosity he was dealing with.
The towering creature stood three times the height of an average adult. Its elongated left hand clutched its right arm, blood seeping steadily from the wound below. The monster bore a resemblance to a humanoid insect, segmented into three distinct parts: head, thorax, and abdomen. Each section was encased in thick, grayish-yellow chitin armor that gleamed menacingly under the light. At a glance, it was clear this wasn’t mere decoration—Brandon estimated the plates to be at least three or four centimeters thick, reinforced with divine essence-hardened keratin tougher than steel.
Even a cursory glance told him this thing deserved an A+ rating for defense. If one were to calculate based on levels, such protection likely translated to a minimum of 15+ level —a tank-level barrier.
Brandon groaned inwardly, feeling a headache coming on.
The creature’s primary limbs resembled insectoid joints, though its hands were eerily human-like. Beneath its abdomen hung a pair of secondary appendages tipped with glinting, scythe-like blades. Its Z-shaped legs bristled with keratinous barbs; a single scrape would leave nothing but exposed bone. Its head was unmistakably insectile, crowned with antennae and flanked by pincer-like mandibles. Large compound eyes hinted at exceptional low-light vision and pinpoint accuracy.
Thankfully, there were no signs of wings—hard or soft—which meant it couldn’t fly. That, at least, was some good news.
As Brandon studied the beast, he realized with grim certainty that this was only the second true boss-level foe he’d faced since arriving in this world—the first being the Golden Magic Tree. Before him stood the Divine Messenger of Earth. Though still in its immature form (its final evolution destined to take on a humanoid shape), this 55th-level boss far surpassed the pitiful 30th-level challenge posed by the Golden Magic Tree. This wasn’t merely a difference of twenty-five levels—it was the gulf between awakened elemental power and raw, untapped potential.
Brandon exhaled deeply, steeling himself for what promised to be the toughest fight of his life. Without Cinnabar and Metissa by his side, he might have considered fleeing outright.
But just then, a thunderous bang echoed through the battlefield. Turning, he saw Cinnabar locked in combat with a stranger—a young man whose black steel gauntlets gripped her Halberd of Thunder. Lightning crackled along the weapon’s shaft, but the arcs fizzled harmlessly against the man’s defenses, unable to so much as scratch him.
The young man grinned mockingly. “Well, well, isn’t this our darling Cinnabar? So quick to betray the organization and find new allies, eh? Those so-called ‘bloodlines of gods’ are unreliable indeed. No matter—I’ll send your friends to meet you soon enough.”
Cinnabar’s crimson eyes blazed with fury as she clenched her teeth. She longed to impale him where he stood. Sensing her anger, the young man retreated slightly, luring her forward. But impulsiveness rarely won battles. As she pursued him, her feet suddenly sank into place—heavy chains of black mist coiled around her ankles, rooting her to the spot.
"Magic," Cinnabar realized too late. This man was a spellblade—a rare breed of warrior-mage.
Conrad had goaded her with words precisely to create this opening. Seizing the opportunity, he extended his clawed hand, aiming straight for her heart. Though the Divine Messenger possessed immense vitality, her heart was the core vessel of her divine essence. A fatal blow there would cripple her powers, leaving her vulnerable. Conrad knew full well he couldn’t afford to hold back against two gold-rank opponents. His target was clear: Cinnabar, despite her newfound strength, lacked battle experience. Her raw power might not make her the weakest among the trio, but in Conrad’s eyes, she was the most exploitable.
Had Brandon not intervened, Conrad’s plan might have succeeded. Piercing her heart would have sealed Cinnabar’s fate, no matter how potent her regenerative abilities. But just as the claw neared its mark, a sword materialized out of thin air, deflecting Conrad’s strike.
Without hesitation, Brandon had thrown his own blade.
“Ah, well,” he muttered to himself. “It was a cheap piece of junk anyway.”
From the start, Brandon had assessed the situation far more clearly than Cinnabar. Conrad’s attack wasn’t merely magic—it was a magical trap. To think the leader of the Card Mercenary Company was a wizard hunter! Such individuals were rare, especially at the gold rank. Yet here stood Conrad, wielding skills honed through painstaking effort. Wizard hunters were notorious for their grueling training regimens and devastating prowess in player-versus-player combat.
Conrad’s ability to set traps was unnervingly fast—even Brandon had barely registered the setup. Few could deceive his keen senses, let alone replicate such precision without innate talent. It seemed Conrad possessed some form of dexterous aptitude, possibly linked to his mastery of "Spiritual Chanting," which allowed him to bypass lengthy incantations. Whether his expertise extended beyond illusionary traps remained uncertain.
“This could get tricky,” Brandon mused briefly. Yet his body reacted faster than his thoughts, conditioned reflexes taking over. Even as Cinnabar felt herself immobilized, Brandon had already seized her arm and yanked her backward, narrowly avoiding Conrad’s steel claws as they grazed past her chest.
“Thanks…” she managed, breathless.
“No time for gratitude,” Brandon said sharply. He glanced up, meeting Conrad’s dark glare. The mercenary leader charged again, realizing Brandon had seen through his ruse from the beginning. Illusionary traps worked by planting subconscious suggestions in the victim’s mind, convincing them they were ensnared when others remained unaffected. But this secret, known primarily to wizard hunters, was evidently common knowledge to Brandon.
Of course, Brandon understood—it was basic logic to him. Yet to Conrad, it was anything but ordinary. Wizard hunters were scarce across Eruin and Vonder continents, and Conrad prided himself on achieving upper-tier status within their ranks, eventually ascending to gold-rank power. His familiarity with their techniques gave him a significant edge in battle. Until today, every encounter had ended in victory thanks to his unconventional tactics.
Now, for the first time, he faced an equal.
“He must die,” Conrad thought coldly, swiping his claws toward Brandon. The latter activated his charge skill, retreating explosively. Brandon’s recent advancement to level 26 granted him a mere 50 units of strength during Strength Surge—not nearly enough to match the explosive 100+ units bursts typical of gold-rank warriors. Even accounting for Conrad’s dual focus as a spellblade, his estimated strength hovered conservatively between 80 and 90 units. Against such odds, Brandon had no intention of testing his luck.
However, Brandon’s speed surged tenfold, granting him 132 units of agility. Not even the fastest lightning elementals among novice gold-rank fighters could match his speed. As he retreated, Conrad’s claw struck empty ground with a resounding boom, obliterating nearby foliage and cratering the earth. By the time Conrad looked up, Brandon was already thirty meters away.
“What speed is this?” Conrad froze momentarily, stunned by the display. Who was this young man? Though silver-rank talents occasionally surprised him, Conrad considered himself a prodigy and refused to underestimate anyone. After all, his current target—Aiko, sole heir of Duke Rhun—was rumored to be a genius herself. Compared to him, Brandon seemed unremarkable.
And yet...this silver-rank fighter’s performance bordered on absurd.
Conrad grew uneasy. Despite mastering countless combat techniques and boasting confidence against even high-tier gold-rank foes, he found himself matched blow-for-blow by a mere silver-rank opponent. Each exchange ended in stalemate, and Brandon’s earlier retreat hinted at elite training. Could he belong to the Sun Knights?
“Is this one of the Sun Knights?” Conrad wondered silently, narrowing his eyes.
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