Otaku Translation: The Amber Sword V3C95

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Chapter 95: The Maiden’s Thread, Part 2

A long corridor stretched toward a room on the southwestern side of the castle. Chael had settled Cinnabar there, a chamber adorned in soft green hues. Beyond the windows, the gnarled branches of an ancient red tree reached skyward, framing the distant vista of Tonygel—Black Forest and the jagged peaks of mountains that seemed to cascade down from the heavens like shadows piercing the earth.

When Fleur led Brandon to the room, the young wizard was already waiting outside, having been informed of his lord’s return.

“How is she?” Brandon asked immediately upon seeing Chael.

“Not good,” Chael replied. “Lady Roma, Antietta, and Metissa are inside.”

Brandon nodded silently and pushed open the door. The room bore none of the oppressive atmosphere of a sickroom; instead, it exuded a serene calm. As he entered, the curtains opposite him fluttered gently, revealing a sliver of Cold Fir Castle’s landscape beyond. The breeze stirred by Brandon’s entry rippled through the layered drapes of the grand four-poster bed at the room’s center.

The bed’s original owner was long forgotten, but now it cradled Cinnabar beneath its translucent veils. Her pale face was framed by cascading crimson hair, untied for the first time Brandon could recall. She lay still, her features delicate and fragile, as though the weight of her illness had stripped her of vitality.

She was quiet—not the stubborn silence she often carried, but a profound stillness, as if lost in some deep dream. Yet Brandon knew it was no pleasant reverie. Her faintly furrowed brows spoke of torment, her expression etched with pain.

As Metissa and Antietta noticed Brandon’s arrival, they rose simultaneously. The princess of the Silver Elves gave a slight bow, while Antietta fixed her gaze on him, concern flickering in her eyes. Though she did not fully understand what had transpired beneath Shafrend, she had gleaned enough from Chael to know that Cinnabar’s condition was dire. His cryptic advice—"Wait for the lord’s return"—had only deepened her unease.

Antietta prided herself on maintaining composure, striving to be a capable advisor. But beneath her calm exterior lay a heart unwilling to see harm come to anyone within their company. Just as she had blamed herself when the wild elf sister fell in the mountains of Chablis, so too did she ache now. Though she knew such feelings were naive, perhaps even foolish, she clung to them nonetheless.

"Cold but not unfeeling"—that was a lesson Brandon himself had taught her.

"My lord," Antietta whispered softly.

Brandon nodded, though his attention quickly shifted to the small figure sprawled across the foot of the bed. Roma slept soundly, oblivious to the world around her. A thin trail of drool glistened at the corner of her mouth, trailing onto Cinnabar’s blanket. Watching the girl’s animated eyebrows twitch in her dreams, Brandon guessed she was likely envisioning herself cutting through hordes of enemies, leading Cinnabar to victory against impossible odds. Of course, these were mere fantasies, offering no real aid to the ailing redhead.

Still, Brandon couldn’t bring himself to scold her. Roma’s intentions were pure, untouched by ulterior motives—except, perhaps, in matters of commerce. With a resigned sigh, he turned back to Cinnabar.

“What is she doing?” he asked.

“Telling her stories,” Metissa replied.

“Stories?”

“When Lady Roma was ill as a child, her aunt would tell her tales. Afterward, she always felt better,” the Silver Elf added quietly.

“And…?”

The faint smiles exchanged between Metissa and Antietta told Brandon all he needed to know. Roma’s aunt must have been a Witch, using Holy Words—a form of spellcraft among Witches—to heal. But such magic required more than simple imitation, something Roma likely didn’t grasp.

He chose not to wake her, instead focusing on Cinnabar. In just over a week, the once-vibrant girl had transformed entirely. Gone was her usual vigor; her cheeks were ghostly white, her body frail and sunken into the mattress. Her skin had grown translucent, veins visible beneath its crystalline surface. Stark against this fragility were the ominous black markings creeping up her neck, tendrils spreading toward her face.

Seeing her like this weighed heavily on Brandon. The blood of gods was advancing, despite Chael’s best efforts. It surged relentlessly toward her brain. If left unchecked, by morning, the world might lose this fiery-haired maiden forever.

Metissa and Antietta exchanged glances, understanding dawning in their expressions. Though the Silver Elf struggled to express emotion, she ventured softly, “My lord?”

Brandon merely shook his head.

Those markings originated from her chest—the site where the blood of gods had been injected, near her heart. This method was among the most perilous ways to introduce the divine essence. Whoever orchestrated it was clearly experienced, employing a technique that killed the host before reviving them. Against such measures, neither Chael nor Brandon could intervene effectively.

To save Cinnabar meant destroying the blood of gods—but that same force now sustained her life. Even if they found a way to extinguish it, doing so would cost Cinnabar hers as well. And currently, no solution presented itself.

Another potential path existed: erasing the will driving the possession. But here too, Brandon found himself stymied. The blood of gods lacked consciousness, acting purely on instinct. This avenue, too, was closed to him.

He watched helplessly as the markings crept upward, draining her life like parasitic vines or slow-acting poison. Time was running out, yet Brandon stood frozen, unable to act.

There was one desperate measure—a bitter draught that might buy time but at great risk. He frowned deeply.

Just then, a voice echoed in his mind. “Young one?”

“Hmm?” Brandon tilted his head slightly, recognizing the mature, measured tone of Otaris. The Heroic Spirit rarely contacted him unless prompted by questions of swordsmanship. “Lady Kayah?” he responded.

If it was before, hearing from Otaris might have sparked hope. A warrior from the Holy War era, she hailed from a time when darkness and chaos reigned supreme. Terms like the blood of gods and Treeminders were familiar to her, perhaps even more so than to Brandon.

But Brandon’s sharp mind had already considered this. On the journey here, he’d reached out to Otaris, seeking guidance. Unfortunately, the problem was as daunting for her as it was for him. Cinnabar’s life force was irreparably damaged, sustained only by the blood of gods. Otaris offered two theoretical solutions, both impractical.

The first involved Holy Words’ Miracle, a spell capable of reversing causality. Restoring Metissa to her pre-possession state might be possible—but since the Holy War, only Saint Fainzan was known to wield such power.

The second option bordered on myth: the Marsha Accord. An agreement between mortals and Marsha, mother of creation, it granted nearly limitless wishes—a supercharged version of the miracle spell. If a miracle could save Cinnabar, surely this could too.

Yet the likelihood of finding the Marsha Accord was infinitesimal. Despite Otaris confirming its existence, Brandon knew of no record or player testimony from the game’s history suggesting it had ever surfaced. If countless players had scoured this world without uncovering a trace, how could he hope to succeed?

With both paths dismissed, even Otaris struggled to propose alternatives.

Still, her reappearance now kindled a flicker of hope. She wouldn’t contact him lightly.

“I’ve assessed her,” Otaris said. “This girl won’t survive twelve hours. Her condition is terminal.”

Twelve hours—precisely what Brandon had anticipated. Yet hearing it confirmed by Otaris made the weight of reality press harder.

“Have you thought of anything?” the Heroic Spirit asked.

“No permanent solution,” Brandon admitted.

Her pause was telling. “You mean… temporary measures?”

Brandon nodded grimly. Even prolonging Cinnabar’s life by a day would demand immense effort, especially given Otaris’s current limitations. Operating in the material plane taxed her severely; she was far weaker here than in her sanctum, the liminal space between fantasy and reality.

“There’s a crude method,” Brandon finally said.

“A crude method?” Otaris echoed, intrigued despite herself.

...

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