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Chapter 119: The Final Battle Part 8
The orcs had a saying: Ors atrzz ma sok, which roughly translated to "Even a cornered beast has one last fight left in it." In the common tongue, it was akin to the phrase "A cornered rabbit will bite." Brandon found the sentiment apt for his current predicament—though only the first half of it. The difference was that now, even if he wanted to bite back, he lacked the strength. His warhorse still had vigor to spare, but Brandon himself was spent.
There was another old adage: "He who digs his own grave shall surely lie in it." Earlier, when Brandon had unleashed the full fury of his steed in a reckless charge, he hadn’t considered the delicate balance between stamina and the limits of agility and endurance—both his own and the horse’s. To be fair, this wasn’t entirely his fault. In most games, low-level players rarely acquired pets far stronger than themselves. But here, when the warhorse surged forward with an agility rating of 1320 units, their combined velocity eclipsed twenty-five times the speed of sound in an instant. Breaking through the conical shockwave, Brandon felt as though he were a fly smashing into tempered glass at ten kilometers per second.
Though Brandon’s heightened perception—five times sharper than that of an ordinary man—allowed him to recognize his mistake within a fraction of a second, it was too late. The mount leapt nearly five miles in a single bound, leaving behind a trail of unnatural, shimmering silver light across the forest. But Brandon saw his life force plummet dangerously close to its threshold. Blood seeped from his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth; his internal organs were battered beyond recognition. Once his health dipped below critical levels, he slipped into a weakened state, coughing up blood. The only consolation was that he hadn’t died outright.
This was thanks to his constitution, nearly twenty times greater than that of a normal person, along with his body’s remarkable regenerative abilities and protective resilience, which prevented catastrophic organ failure. Had this happened when he’d first arrived in this world, he would have been dead many times over. But relying on his robust physical fortitude, he believed that given time to recover after the battle, he'd heal completely.
However, there were two problems.
First, he didn’t have time to rest.
Second, the Divine Messenger of Earth likely wouldn’t give him any such luxury.
The battle raged on. Though the Divine Messenger was massive and lumbering, slow even among creatures of level sixty, it moved with the ponderous certainty of a dragon—one stride covering what might take a human ten. Despite its bulk, it possessed nearly two hundred units of base agility. The distance of more than three miles separating them would take mere seconds—eight or nine at most—for the creature to close.
In desperation, Brandon devised a plan so flawed it bordered on madness. He decided to send his steed to lure the Messenger away, knowing full well it could mean sacrificing the card-bound creature to the graveyard. Raising his head to gauge the sun’s position, he realized they were perilously close to their intended destination. Though the journey had seemed interminable earlier, that was because they’d traveled at a leisurely pace, accommodating Antietta and Roma, who were unaccustomed to such speeds. Compared to his frenzied escape with Ackerman, this trek southward into the hilly terrain—a distance of fifteen or twenty miles—had taken mere minutes, zigzagging wildly all the while. Reflecting on it now, Brandon shuddered.
For the Silver Elven Royal Guard, retracing those fifteen or twenty miles meant regaining half their strength, elevating them to mid-tier gold-level combatants. Twenty warriors of such caliber would be more than enough to contend with a level-sixty boss. Thus, Brandon’s sole objective now was to buy time. Minnis, having concluded her skirmish elsewhere, would arrive shortly, her reinforcements needing approximately ten minutes to reach this location via direct route.
Which meant Brandon had to hold out for at least thirty minutes longer.
After spending a couple of seconds reviewing his hastily assembled plan, Brandon dismounted. He patted the long metallic cheek of his steed—the mechanical marvel crafted by divine hands, precise and indestructible, seemingly tireless despite bearing the brunt of the Divine Messenger’s attacks. It was the perfect instrument for executing his gambit.
But abandoning his mount also meant relinquishing his ability to flee further. This decision felt like drinking poison to quench thirst. Unlike decisions made in past gaming sessions, this wager came with real stakes. His heart thundered uncontrollably in his chest.
Still, with grim determination, he issued the command: “BMW Silver, advance!” Calling the name he’d temporarily bestowed upon his steed, he gestured toward the path they’d come from. As for the specifics of the order, summoned beings could intuitively fill in the gaps. The warhorse, devoid of fear as any natural creature might feel, turned its ruby-red gaze on Brandon—not for reassurance, but merely for confirmation. With a flick of its mane, it wheeled around and vanished into the jungle.
Only then did Brandon press a hand to his chest, exhaling sharply against the pain. He retrieved the steed’s card from his inventory while straining his ears toward the forest. Moments later, the enraged roar of the Divine Messenger echoed from the same direction, scattering birds in its wake.
---
Unless one was truly lost to madness, there was always a moment when the chill crept into one’s limbs.
Hjúkigr, red-eyed and desperate, hurled wave after wave of its minions into the fray within the ruins of Balrogan’s Great Temple. Yet the battlefield devoured them whole, an insatiable abyss. Initially, it seemed fortune favored Hjúkigr when it split its forces to flank the enemy rear. For a brief span, the tide turned. Without ranged support, the Silver Elves faltered, retreating deeper into the temple’s labyrinthine streets and alleys as lizardfolk crossbowmen regrouped. Momentum shifted in Hjúkigr’s favor.
But good fortune is fleeting.
The Silver Elves launched a countercharge, then withdrew just as swiftly. They lost a comrade, but what struck terror into Hjúkigr’s heart was not the death itself—it was the transformation that followed. As the fallen elf dissolved into a pillar of radiant light, it soared skyward, heading southward toward a destination Hjúkigr knew far too well: the Tomb of the Elven King.
For the first time, the lizardfolk commander questioned the origins of these Silver Elves. Yet before it could dwell on the thought, reality intervened. A detachment sent to reinforce the rear remained ominously silent, while a banner rose high above the ceremonial hall. Morale plummeted among Hjúkigr’s ranks, and the once-fluid assault ground to a halt. Seizing the opportunity, the Silver Elves counterattacked, reclaiming an outer wall. Hjúkigr spat curses, powerless to stop them, though it took solace in having spread its forces thin—a numerical advantage that slowly began to assert itself.
Yet when it turned to call upon its reserves, it discovered none remained. The sensation was akin to a gambler reaching for chips only to find their purse empty. All that remained were scattered pieces on the board, yet the scales of war tilted inexorably against them.
Twenty Silver Elves stood firm, an unyielding bastion of steel amidst the verdant tide.
Hjúkigr felt the cold creep into its bones.
But compared to its less-evolved kin, Hjúkigr prided itself on being somewhat cleverer. After weighing the situation, it grasped the implications—and consequences—with clarity. Summoning its second-in-command, it issued orders: “Push our captains closer to the front lines. Extend the line further.”
“Are we launching a final assault?” asked the gaunt, sharp-toothed underling.
“No,” Hjúkigr replied, shaking its head. “We’re retreating. Just us.”
“What about the others?”
“Forget them. We can’t afford to think about them now.” The brigand leader clutched a gleaming necklace in its bony fingers. “With this artifact, we can seek refuge with the Treeminders and return to this region later. I believe I understand where those elves came from. Next time, I’ll prepare better.”
“And Conrad? Shouldn’t we inform him?”
Hjúkigr hesitated but ultimately shook its head. “Leave him. He’s an envoy. Even without us, he can fend for himself.” Privately, it added with venom: If something goes wrong, so be it. Still, should Conrad perish in this territory, Hjúkigr would bear the blame. Such thoughts gnawed at its resolve.
Glancing back at the battlefield, Hjúkigr noted that while its forces maintained the appearance of aggression, casualties hovered just below twenty percent. Yet the Silver Elves showed no signs of faltering. On the contrary, they steadily inflicted losses upon the disorganized bandits. Hjúkigr estimated that once casualties exceeded thirty percent—or the battle dragged on past twenty minutes—the rabble would break.
By then, retreat would depend entirely on the enemy’s mercy.
Hjúkigr’s seasoned judgment stemmed from centuries of resistance against the Cruzean Empire. In its homeland, lizardfolk slaves waged sporadic rebellions for generations. Hjúkigr was one such rebel—albeit one whose methods leaned heavily toward thievery. But perhaps it was precisely this outlaw nature that sharpened its instincts for danger.
---
In truth, the battle lasted only thirty-two minutes.
When Minnis detected a peculiar unease rippling through the lizardfolk ranks, undermining their resolve, the veteran elven commander seized the moment. He raised his dragon-horn trumpet once more, rallying his warriors for a final charge. Arrows fired by the lizardfolk clattered harmlessly off the elves’ armor as twenty figures advanced shoulder to shoulder, forming an impenetrable wall of steel.
The lizardfolk broke.
What began as a retreat cascaded into chaos as command structures crumbled. When they realized Hjúkigr had already fled, panic engulfed the remaining troops. Pursued by the elves for mere hundreds of meters, the lizardfolk screamed and trampled each other in their haste to flee toward the forest.
From the vantage point of the ruins, the scene resembled nothing so much as a swarm of green cockroaches scattering in all directions, leaving behind only corpses. Had Brandon been present, he might have quipped:
"The enemy’s withdrawal was so swift, our forces couldn’t hope to keep pace."
TNL: Within the Treeminders, members coordinating with and commanding the Divine Messengers were referred to as ‘envoys.’ Those carrying the blood of gods were called ‘cultivators’ or ‘experimenters.’
Project Update: Volume 2 is now fully translated! However, as I'm currently focusing on stacking chapters for Volume 3, the release of the remaining chapters in Volume 2 will slow down a bit.
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