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Chapter 115: The Final Battle Part 4
As Brandon clashed with Conrad, Hjúkigr had already driven his lizardfolk warriors in two directions, skirting the central battlefield to assault the ruins from both flanks. But the Silver Elves were prepared. Minnis split his forces into two groups, leading one himself and entrusting the other to Tiger Finch. They secured the side entrances of the elven ruins, soon colliding with the lizardfolk fighters emerging from the forest.
The brutish, simple-minded creatures screeched as they charged from the trees, their movements swift as they scrambled over the collapsed remnants of ancient elven architecture. Yet awaiting them was a flash of silver light. From their elevated positions, the elven warriors drove their double-ended swords downward, piercing the throats of these crawling beasts with precision. A mere elbow push sent the lifeless bodies tumbling back into the ruins. At the edge of the elven site—where the dark green tide met the gleaming silver line—seven or eight lizardfolk were hurled backward, crashing into their own ranks and toppling others in the process.
The lizardfolk’s momentum faltered. Sensing the opportunity, Rubis and the Gray Wolves mercenaries loosed volleys of arrows and bolts from behind cover. The air filled with sharp twangs as white streaks arced through the battlefield, converging on the lizardfolk formation like an invisible wall. Row after row of the slender, green-skinned warriors collapsed.
In Vonder, a trained human crossbowman could fire six shots per minute. But these seasoned mercenaries—possessing agility and strength surpassing ordinary humans by tenfold, even nearing twentyfold—could unleash fifteen to twenty heavy quarrels in the same time. For the lizardfolk, it was nothing short of calamity. As steel rained down upon them, it felt as though a grim reaper cloaked in black swept across their lines, swinging its scythe to carve through their ranks. Death came swiftly, one after another.
The lizardfolk captains and company officers attempted to rally their archers for counterattacks. However, most of their ranged units hadn’t yet reached iron rank (following the universal rule that ranged combatants among monsters lagged behind melee counterparts), or if they had, lacked proper training. Moreover, at the onset of battle, Metissa had already dispersed the nearest squad of lizardfolk crossbowmen.
Though a princess of royal blood, Metissa hailed from one of Vonder’s most tumultuous eras. Her instincts for battlefield dynamics had long since become second nature.
Without ranged support or cover, the lizardfolk began to falter, then retreat.
The golden-helmed elven commander surveyed the scene briefly before raising a dragonhorn to his lips, blowing a resonant call. This horn’s melody, unchanged for seven centuries, carried but one meaning: charge. With a unified clang, the Silver Elves raised their gleaming double-ended swords to their right chests.
“Who are we?”
“The Swords of Ahalaran.”
Minnis nodded, lowering his commander’s blade. With a thunderous roar, the Silver Elves surged forward. Like liquid mercury spilling downhill, a true silver tide cascaded downward. The lizardfolk stood no chance. They faced not only a group of silver-ranked warriors moving in perfect harmony but also eleven masters of martial skill.
Meanwhile, the mercenaries’ ranged attacks extended further. In just one volley, they destroyed seven heavy crossbows. When the last spare was taken, Sanford switched to a shortbow. Even so, the young man’s blood burned with exhilaration.
Less than seventy paces ahead stretched an endless sea of dark green—a tide that reached all the way to the forest’s edge. Yet no matter how fiercely the barbaric creatures charged, they could not breach the silver line. Not only that, but the Silver Elves now launched their own countercharge:
Ten against hundreds.
This was true warfare. Listening to the elves sing their ancient battle hymns, Sanford felt his very marrow ignite. A shiver coursed through him, as though he’d been transported to an age-old battlefield where all races united against encroaching darkness.
It was a grand conflict—an epic struggle for freedom and honor, where every nation and race poured forth their might. Sanford alternated between firing his shortbow and marveling at the sensation flooding his veins. It wasn’t merely the thrill of being a mercenary; something deeper stirred within him.
---
When the dragonhorn’s cry echoed across the battlefield like a distant dragon’s roar, nearly everyone paused, regardless of distance.
It was the war horn of the Silver Elves.
Conrad’s expression shifted repeatedly. From his vantage point, blocked by dense forest, he couldn’t see what transpired on the flanks. But the sound of the dragonhorn told no lies. After nearly three centuries of seclusion, the Silver Elves had returned. Conrad, leader of the Card Mercenary Company, blamed the arrogant, dimwitted lizardfolk chieftain Hjúkigr for ruining everything. Yet his thoughts weren’t on punishing the reckless fool—he wanted to survive. The dragonhorn signaled only one thing: the appearance of one of the Silver Elves’ premier combat units—the Phoenix Guard.
He wondered whether the elite cavalry and the Knights of Sacred Hymn, also known as the Unicorn Knights—the legendary order famed for charging into a Minarian phalanx of ten thousand while singing ancient imperial ballads—had also arrived. If so, he’d have nowhere left to cry.
Realizing this, Conrad lost all will to fight. Casting a venomous glance at Brandon nearby, he turned and fled. Agile as any wizard hunter, Conrad’s figure darted away like a dead leaf vanishing into the forest’s embrace.
Brandon froze, fearing Conrad would slip past them to wreak havoc elsewhere. While the Silver Elves could handle the lizardfolk, adding a lower-tier gold-ranked wizard hunter to the mix tipped the scales dangerously. He immediately shouted to the approaching elven princess, “Metissa! Stop him!”
No reminder was necessary; Metissa had already anticipated the move. She leveled her spear, activating her charge ability. Already terrifyingly fast, her unicorn-mounted form became a streak of silver comet-light, tracing an elegant arc along the forest’s edge. In moments, she and her steed blocked Conrad’s path.
“Human,” she declared in a clear voice, turning her mount to face the man cloaked in red and black. “You’ve done enough evil. Stay here, along with your companions. Those who trample the dignity of the living and desecrate the peace of the dead must pay the price.”
Conrad ground his teeth, unwilling to waste words with the elven knight. Brandon’s command deepened his suspicion—the enemy seemed confident, determined to trap them. This was an ambush. Though unclear about the connection between these foes, the Gray Wolves, and Aiko, Conrad grew increasingly wary.
“Tch, you wretched harpy of the Unicorn Knights.”
Cursing inwardly, he spun and bolted in another direction. But his speed paled compared to the unicorn’s. Each time he turned, Metissa awaited him coldly on his new path.
After three failed attempts, panic began to creep in. Her audacity suggested she held some trump card. His mind raced through possibilities, briefly considering the ancient empire. But while the Treeminders might have stood a chance against these proud elves, he knew he could not. And as for deceiving this elven maiden, it was out of the question; she was no Cinnabar, easily misled. Before him stood one of the continent’s most formidable warrior races, and only a fool would expect such an opponent to falter.
If there was a way out, it lay in one desperate gambit.
---
While Metissa detained Conrad, Brandon—who had just yanked Cinnabar’s arm to retreat violently—felt a sudden chill. A frigid, menacing presence washed over him. Without hesitation, he identified it: the Divine Messenger of Earth, Ackerman.
Only Ackerman could match his charging speed.
The colossal monster raised its forelimb, towering thrice the height of an adult and blotting out the sunlight. It let out a deafening shriek, bringing its limb down in a crushing vertical strike. Air rippled, and Brandon sensed the ground beneath his feet buckle and explode upward.
Elemental power—Stone Power.
Without thought for grace, Brandon grabbed Cinnabar and dove headlong into the forest, rolling several times. Behind them, Ackerman slammed its palm into the earth with a thunderous boom. Dirt erupted, and jagged stone spikes shot upward, forming a cage-like structure around its hand.
To onlookers, it appeared as though the massive beast had pressed its palm into the ground, forcing rock to rise and coalesce into five claw-like protrusions. But as soon as its hand lifted, the stones crumbled, dissolving into dust that returned to the forest floor.
Rising shakily, Brandon stared at the spectacle, drawing in a sharp breath. Though the guidebook had outlined Ackerman’s abilities and favored tactics, experiencing them firsthand was entirely different.
For a moment, he felt as though he’d been transported back to his days as a mid-level player. Back then, Torrential Rain had released a new version called Temple Knight. Alongside his guildmates and senior guild leader, he’d ventured into uncharted maps for the first raid. The encounter with the awakened elemental boss had left an indelible impression—it marked players’ first introduction to Temple Knights and the concept of ‘elemental affinity.’
Now, it seemed, he would need to relearn that lesson anew.
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