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Chapter 121: The Final Battle Part 10
Hjúkigr had barely escaped the battlefield when it received word from another contingent of its forces. Conrad, it turned out, had already fled. Enraged, Hjúkigr unleashed a torrent of curses, but beneath the anger was a flicker of smug satisfaction. If it had been the one to retreat first, abandoning Conrad behind, there would have been no escaping harsh reprimands—or even punishment.
But with the secret of the Elven King’s tomb in its possession, Hjúkigr dared not abandon its troops lightly. That would have been reckless, bordering on suicidal. Yet now, since Conrad had left before him, the entire situation shifted. Conrad became the scapegoat, while Hjúkigr emerged as an exemplar of valiant resistance. Had those Silver Elves not tracked his movements so meticulously, this single fact alone might have given him leverage to deal a significant blow to that detested individual.
Even so, the thought brought immense satisfaction to Hjúkigr. And besides, wasn’t it holding other cards as well?
“Those accursed elves.”
The mere thought soured its mood again, and it muttered another curse under its breath. Over the years, all the wealth it had plundered was stored within the ceremonial hall of Balrogan’s Great Temple. To lose it all felt like nails scraping against stone. Yet just as it brooded over this loss, it collided headlong with its second-in-command, who was leading the way.
Hjúkigr, brimming with frustration, found an outlet for its fury: “You brainless fool! What in the—”
But the lizardfolk chieftain suddenly froze. Its diamond-shaped pupils widened as they locked onto a towering figure ahead. No, more accurately, it was a knight mounted atop a pristine white unicorn. He was clad in heavy silver chainmail, his face obscured by a winged spired helmet crowned with a flowing white plume that cascaded down past his shoulders.
Behind him stood rows of identical knights, each as tall and imposing as the next. These elven cavalrymen seemed carved from the same mold, their uniformity striking.
They stood silently amidst the forest, the air eerily still—
The knight gazed down at Hjúkigr, his silver eyes calm yet chilling. Then he spoke, his voice low and measured: “If I’m not mistaken, you are Hjúkigr Lizel, correct?”
Hjúkigr opened its mouth to deny it, but under the weight of the knight’s presence, no words came forth.
“Good,” the knight nodded. “My companions and I have been searching for you for quite some time.”
Hjúkigr’s vision went dark.
There was only one army in the world that referred to its comrades as “companions.”
They were the Silver Elves, the Knights of the Sacred Hymn.
---
Ten minutes earlier.
Brandon tossed the fading Fate Card into the dirt. The card, emblazoned with the image of his platinum steed, burst into flames and vanished without a trace. Another card added to the graveyard—a frustrating development. His deck was thin enough as it was, and this constant attrition only made matters worse.
He scanned the forest. Ackerman’s sense of smell was poor, but its hearing and vision were extraordinarily keen. With auditory organs on all six limbs, it could detect over seven hundred thousand distinct sounds in nature, across a frequency range three times wider than that of humans. At a distance of around two miles, unless Brandon made some noise, Ackerman would struggle to locate him.
Brandon considered waiting longer, but feared the creature might grow impatient and return to harass Cinnabar. If that happened, the consequences would be dire. By now, the red-haired girl was likely too weak to fend off even an ordinary opponent.
So, raising his right hand, he activated the Ring of the Wind Sovereign, sending a blast toward the forest.
The ring’s effects were negligible against the creatures that had the awakened elemental affinity, but it served perfectly as a loud distraction. No sooner had Brandon lowered his arm than the forest erupted with the sound of crashing trees. Ackerman reacted instantly, charging toward the source of the disturbance.
But Brandon remained calm. He took a deep breath and retrieved a ruby from his pocket. Clutching it tightly, he began counting silently in his mind—
Ten, nine, eight…
The sound of splintering wood grew rapidly closer, transforming from a distant echo into an impending reality.
Five, four, three…
It was here. Brandon positioned the gem between his thumb and forefinger, centering it within the triangular region witches called the “magic energy nexus.” Silently, he uttered the activation phrase. A flash of red light pulsed from the ruby, and within a ten-meter radius, all sound ceased—wind, rustling leaves, heartbeats, breaths, even the thrumming of blood vessels. Everything fell silent.
On Brandon’s retinas appeared a faint green number: 6/10.
Ackerman, the insect-like behemoth, ground to a halt. Confused, it scanned its surroundings, only to realize it had lost track of the faint heartbeat it had been pursuing. As its simple mind debated whether to turn back, a graceful white stag emerged from the forest, strolling leisurely before the enraged monster.
For Ackerman, already in a berserk state, this display was nothing short of outright provocation. It growled low and charged after the stag. But Brandon’s soul-crafted illusion was faster and more agile than any physical entity, leaving Ackerman flailing helplessly as it chased shadows.
Hidden beneath an ancient tree, Brandon manipulated the soul-stag figurine like a child playing a game, taunting the once-terrifying foe. Peering out, he couldn’t help but chuckle silently—though such laughter existed only in his mind, as the silence spell muted all sound. Each casting lasted five minutes, and with six charges remaining, he was guaranteed thirty minutes of peace. Combined with the ten minutes bought by the platinum steed, he had secured forty minutes for Minnis.
And even after the silence spells ran out, he could rely on his indomitable talent to suppress his heartbeat and breathing for another five minutes, followed by a quick bandage application for additional recovery time. Fifty minutes should suffice; Brandon was confident the Silver Elves would arrive by then, crawling if necessary.
He wasn’t about to gamble recklessly with his life. Without sufficient assurance, Brandon wouldn’t place himself among the stakes.
Time ticked away—
But as Brandon prepared to cast the fourth silence spell, his heart skipped a beat. Ackerman had stopped abruptly, its attention no longer fixed on the elusive white stag. Instead, the creature emitted a series of low, rumbling growls—sounds Brandon recognized immediately.
A warning.
Someone was approaching.
Who?
Minnis?
Dozens of thoughts raced through Brandon’s mind, but he didn’t hesitate. He cast the fourth silence spell, reducing the ruby’s remaining charges to three. Yet something felt off. Ackerman wasn’t looking northward—it was staring directly at him.
Brandon’s stomach tightened. “What’s going on?” he thought, running through his actions repeatedly in his mind. There was no mistake—he hadn’t overlooked anything.
And then—
With a rustle, the dense foliage in front of Brandon parted, revealing a familiar face. A young man stepped forward—not just any young man, but Aiko, whom Brandon had encountered in Chablis. The very person at the center of this chain of events.
Brandon remembered the name clearly: Aiko Lantonilan Ophelia. The sole heir of the Rhun duke and future successor of the Lantonilan duchy.
None of that mattered now.
What mattered was that Aiko’s sudden appearance rendered the scene surreal. Positioned directly opposite Brandon, Aiko could see him hiding behind the tree—and beyond it, the monstrous Ackerman. Meanwhile, Brandon could see Aiko but couldn’t gauge the creature’s reaction behind him. Still, he could guess.
As expected, Ackerman turned its compound eyes—fourteen thousand pairs of them—toward the intruder, unaware of the second target lurking nearby.
Facing this bizarre tableau, Aiko hesitated. His gaze swept over Ackerman’s rocky exoskeleton and petrified forelimbs—visible signs of the awakened elemental affinity. His face paled slightly, but then his eyes met Brandon’s, whose expression was unreadable.
At that moment, Brandon harbored half a mind to strangle the young man. Of all the misfortunes fate could conjure, he hadn’t anticipated this complication.
After a pause, Aiko redirected his focus to the monster. Drawing his sword, he shouted, “You big brute, want to fight me?” Without waiting for a response, he bolted in the opposite direction.
What was happening?
Brandon watched, dumbfounded, as the youthful Aiko deliberately lured the beast away—a selfless act for a stranger he’d met only once (or twice). In that instant, a thousand thoughts swirled in Brandon’s mind, coalescing into a single exclamation:
“Holy shit. This young man is practically a saint.”
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