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Chapter 116: The Final Battle Part 5
The Earth Element encompassed several subcategories, and though the Divine Messenger of Earth bore the title of "Earth," Ackerman had wielded a specific branch of its power: the force of shaping and shattering stone, known as Stone Power.
Stone Power was considered one of the lower-tier elemental forces in the hierarchy of magical disciplines. In its early stages, it boasted devastating destructive potential, yet its growth stagnated sharply as practitioners advanced. Nevertheless, even this rudimentary form of magic was enough to give Brandon pause.
His thoughts were interrupted when his fingers brushed against something soft beneath him. Startled, he glanced down to find Cinnabar lying flat on her back, amber eyes gazing up at him with an unsettling calm.
"I'm sorry," Brandon apologized immediately.
"It's fine," she replied, her tone flat and devoid of feeling.
Pulling away quickly, he rolled onto his side and retrieved the spare short sword strapped to his calf. Just then, Ackerman—the hulking monstrosity known as the Divine Messenger of Earth—turned toward them, its massive frame lumbering awkwardly through the clearing. As a high-offense, high-defense foe, Ackerman lacked agility—a drawback compounded by its size. Its movements were sluggish, granting the two young warriors a fleeting opportunity.
“Can you move?” Brandon asked, gripping his weapon tightly. In response, Cinnabar pushed herself into a seated position, brushing dust from her chest plate. She offered no words, only a slight nod.
“Be careful,” Brandon warned. “That creature commands Stone Power. Watch for its shaping attacks—they’re lethal.”
As if on cue, Ackerman let out a guttural roar. It raised its right forelimb skyward, the limb transforming instantly into solid rock. The stony appendage swelled grotesquely, morphing into what resembled a colossal stone sword nearly ten meters long. With a deafening crash, the beast brought the makeshift weapon slamming downward toward the pair.
“Move!” Brandon shouted.
The two darted in opposite directions just as the ground erupted where they had stood moments before. A shockwave rippled outward, shaking the forest floor like thunder. Cinnabar grunted under the force of the impact, while Brandon coughed violently, blood spilling from his lips. Glancing at his status display, he saw that the attack had drained over thirty points of health—comparable to the damage dealt by the Ring of the Wind Sovereign. Given his current silver-rank strength, such an injury spoke volumes about Ackerman’s terrifying power.
“Are you alright?” came Cinnabar’s voice from within the swirling dust.
“I’m fine,” Brandon rasped, though his senses were now razor-sharp. Ackerman’s divine lineage traced back to Gaia, the goddess of the earth, granting it the innate ability to merge with stone. In this dense woodland environment, the monster could easily vanish underground, ready to ambush them at any moment. What troubled Brandon most was how swiftly Ackerman seemed to have recovered; the cooldown for its stone-fusion ability should have been ten minutes, yet here it was, scarcely a minute later, already preparing another assault.
But before either combatant could act, a cry from beyond the battlefield froze them both.
“Metissa!”
Brandon’s heart sank.
---
The lilting wail of a horn echoed across the battlefield, stirring conflicting emotions in Hjúkigr, leader of the lizardfolk brigands. Unlike Conrad, who possessed a wealth of knowledge, Hjúkigr couldn’t identify the approaching force solely by the sound. Still, ignorance mattered little when he could plainly see the gleaming ranks of silver-armored elves emerging from the ruins. Their polished double ended swords and distinctive hairstyles left no doubt as to their identity: the famed Silver Elves.
Hjúkigr’s forces faltered almost immediately. No, “falter” was too kind a word—it was a rout. The Silver Elves moved like liquid steel, carving through the lizardfolk with horrifying efficiency. Only the timely intervention of Conrad’s dark mercenaries prevented total collapse. Even so, the elves retreated tactically after deploying some manner of crystalline explosive, leaving behind minimal casualties despite the chaos they had wrought.
By the end of the skirmish, Hjúkigr realized with mounting fury that nearly a tenth of his left flank had been obliterated. The lizardfolk chieftain hurled his dagger to the ground in frustration. Defeat only fueled his recklessness. While Conrad cowered at the mere mention of the Silver Elves, Hjúkigr felt no such fear. So what if these elves wielded silver-rank power? He’d faced similar foes during his days as a fugitive from the Cruze Empire. Surely, they weren’t invincible.
Observing closely, Hjúkigr noticed something peculiar. Summoning his second-in-command, he ordered a detachment to circle around the ruins and strike from behind. Though dividing forces mid-battle was risky, Hjúkigr reasoned that the elves’ numbers appeared limited—they hadn’t seemed to exceed forty fighters thus far.
Unbeknownst to him, however, his supposed ally Conrad was already plotting his escape.
---
Lizardfolk archers assembled atop a nearby hill, adjusting their range before unleashing volleys of arrows into the fray. Indiscriminate and poorly aimed, the projectiles rained down upon friend and foe alike. Minnis, commander of the Silver Elves, signaled a retreat. Mercenaries obeyed without hesitation, withdrawing in orderly fashion while the elves formed a rearguard.
Casualties mounted on both sides. Several mercenaries fell to arrow wounds, and Sanford suffered a grievous injury during close combat—a blade piercing his femoral artery. Had Minnis not acted swiftly to staunch the bleeding, Sanford would have surely perished. Now, carried on a makeshift stretcher, the young man gritted his teeth against the pain, refusing to cry out. Death held no terror for mercenaries, but abandoning comrades did.
From the corner of his eye, Sanford spotted a familiar figure running toward them. “Isn’t that one of Tiger Finch’s men?” he thought.
“Minnis!” the newcomer called out. “Tiger Finch reports seeing lizardfolk maneuvering behind the ruins. What are your orders?”
The announcement sent a ripple of unease through the group. Encirclement—the very scenario Brandon had feared most. His earlier advice echoed in their minds: always prepare for the worst. Yet skepticism lingered among the mercenaries, many of whom placed their faith in fate rather than strategy.
And yet, the prophecy had come true.
“Human, what does Tiger Finch suggest?” Minnis asked curtly.
“He says unless we split our forces, we’ll face attacks from both front and rear,” the messenger replied.
“That’s manageable,” Minnis said, nodding. “But who will lead?”
“Tiger Finch believes Sanford is capable…” The speaker trailed off, glancing at the lone stretcher bearing the wounded Sanford.
With Tiger Finch occupied elsewhere and Sanford incapacitated, leadership options were slim. Among those remaining, none inspired confidence save perhaps Roma, whose fiery determination burned bright despite her lack of experience.
“I’ll go,” Roma declared, stepping forward with her sword dragging behind her. Her hazel eyes challenged anyone to object.
“No,” Minnis said firmly. After yesterday's antics, he dared not entrust her with command.
“Then allow me, Commander.” Antietta emerged from the shadows, pressing a hand to her shawl to steady it. Meeting Minnis’s gaze, she added, “I’ve studied Von Harman’s Light Infantry Manual. Besides, isn’t this my duty?”
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