Under the cathedral, in the depths of endless darkness.
The Lord of the Black Tide stood at the edge of the teleportation circle. His black cloak draped down to the ground, and the face beneath his hood was concealed in shadow.
In the corner of the wall lay a pile of seven or eight similar shards; some were cracked, while others had completely lost their luster, their gray and ruined color resembling stone debris.
“My Lord,” a black-robed figure walked down from the stairwell, stopping a few paces away from him.
The Lord of the Black Tide did not turn around. He tilted his head slightly, revealing his pale jawline from beneath the edge of his hood.
“George... George has run away!”
“I know,” the Lord of the Black Tide replied, showing no panic.
“But My Lord—he took too much intelligence with him.”
“It doesn't matter; that intelligence is of no importance.” He turned around, his face still obscured beneath his hood.
The black-robed figure paused slightly, seemingly not expecting this answer. “...But My Lord, if that intelligence falls into the hands of the dragon clan—”
“The dragon clan.” The Lord of the Black Tide let out a soft chuckle, pacing slowly. “They are merely the remnants of a bygone era. They aren't the dragon kings; they won't amount to anything.”
“You sorcerers must learn to distinguish what is most important,” the Lord of the Black Tide said, stopping in his tracks and looking down at the black-robed figure.
“Y-Yes, My Lord!” The black-robed figure grew visibly flustered and stammered, “According to your... your expectations, that traitor Adele has already made contact with the remaining sorcerer tribes in the forest!”
“Excellent. We can finally wipe out all of your disobedient kin in one fell swoop!” The Lord of the Black Tide took a step forward, clasping his hands behind his back as he looked up into the dark shadows.
“With this, my plan is one step closer to completion!”
The black-robed figure spoke no more. He simply kept his head lowered, staring at the stone slab before his feet, his fists clenched tightly.
“By the way, the elves of the Yegati Empire haven't noticed this place, have they?”
The black-robed figure kept his head bowed.
“You can rest assured regarding the news about the elves.” He carefully chose his words. “The Yegati Empire has been focusing its energy on the Southern Realm lately. Their friction with the dwarves there is reaching a boiling point. This forest on the Eastern Border isn't even on their map.”
“Is that so? Why did I hear that the Empire's Third Prince assassinated the Little Princess?”
The black-robed figure's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. He felt as if his life were hanging by a thread.
“Your subordinate... truly does not know of this.”
“There are still many things you do not know.” The Lord of the Black Tide did not avert his gaze. “But that is only natural. How much could a mere sorcerer possibly know about the affairs of the Yegati imperial family?”
Evening in Cabin Village, with cooking smoke rising from the roofs of the households and blending into the twilight.
George had already recovered from his initial surprise. The village chiefs and administrators of more than a dozen surrounding villages had gathered in this single village.
The militia training outside the village was in full swing. He had already been here for three days.
Meanwhile, Leopold and Isabella had gone to meet some important guests and were nowhere to be found.
How boring...
Hector poked half his head over the courtyard wall. “Are you the knight from the town?”
“Yeah, that's me,” George said, lifting his eyes listlessly.
“A knight from the town looks like this?” Hector sized him up over the courtyard wall. “You don't look like much.”
George didn't bother to reply.
Hector squatted at the base of the wall, a blade of grass hanging from his mouth, squinting. “Can you even swing that greatsword of yours?”
George finally turned his head. He glanced at Hector, then at his greatsword resting by his feet. Without a word, he lifted the sword from the ground and held it straight out with one hand.
The blade of grass fell from Hector's mouth.
“How heavy... is that sword?”
“Around sixty jin.”
Hector opened his mouth, then closed it again. He sized George up once more, most of his previous nonchalance now gone.
George lowered his sword. He leaned back in his chair again, shifting his gaze away from Hector toward the fields outside the village shrouded in twilight.
“It gets uncomfortably quiet around here at night,” he said.
Hector snorted. “You'll get used to it.”
George didn't reply further. He sat for a moment, then stood up, lifted his greatsword, and hoisted it onto his shoulder. “I'm going for a walk.”
Hector leaned half his body over the wall. “Don't go too far. The forest isn't safe after dark.”
George waved his hand and walked out along the path between the fields.
It grew dark in the forest faster than outside. The canopy overhead filtered the last rays of the setting sun into fragmented, pale-purple shadows scattered across the forest vegetation.
George walked down the forest path with his greatsword on his shoulder, his pace unhurried.
“Strange, I could have sworn I just saw a figure...”
George muttered to himself. Just as he was planning to turn back the way he came, a tongue of fire suddenly erupted from the bushes behind him and surged toward him!
But George's reaction was far faster than the attacker had anticipated. The moment the fire burst from the bushes, he had already rolled to the side, though his greatsword slipped from his grip in the process.
“Show yourself!” George slowly rose from the ground, staring warily at the bushes.
The bushes remained quiet for a few seconds. Then, a slender figure emerged from the shadows of the trees. The hood was pulled down low, revealing only a sharp jawline and a lock of red hair resting on their shoulder.
“Well, well, I couldn't tell, but you're quite agile.”
A pursuer from Blackstone Town? No, that wasn't right.
George scrutinized the opponent. The youth before him was not one of the black-robed sorcerers from Blackstone Town...
George's right hand instantly drew the dagger at his waist. Pushing off the ground, he lunged fiercely at the figure.
George's dagger sliced through the air. The figure did not dodge or evade, only tilting his head slightly as a few strands of red hair were sliced off.
“That was close. As expected of someone who can take on the Demon Race alone.” He took half a step back, instantly chanting under his breath.
“Ignis Iaculor.”
(Fire! Shoot forth.)
The red-haired youth flicked his finger, and a fist-sized fireball shot straight toward George's face.
George hurriedly raised his dagger to block. The fireball exploded against the blade, and the splashing sparks landed on his cuffs, burning a few charred little holes.
“Nice reaction,” the red-haired youth said, standing his ground and shifting his stance. “Much better than those villagers who can't even draw a blade.”
Boom—
The red-haired youth kicked out. His seemingly slender body unleashed an unimaginable burst of power!
George had no time to recover his balance and could only turn his body to take the kick head-on. He was sent flying sideways, crashing hard into the trunk of an old tree.
Leaves rained down, and the impact kicked up a large cloud of dust, causing the red-haired youth to lose sight of George.
“Hey, are you dead?” The youth squinted, peering into the rising dust.
There was no response from the dust.
The red-haired youth took a step forward, a flame pooling in his right hand once more as he prepared to follow up with another attack—
But suddenly, the dust burst open!
A dark figure rushed out from the smoke and dust, moving so fast his trajectory was nearly impossible to track.
The red-haired youth's pupils contracted sharply. Before he could throw the fireball in his hand, George was already in front of him. His dagger was held horizontally at his side, a layer of dark-red light surfacing on the blade.
“Martial Skill: Windbreaker!”
The red-haired youth's reaction was also extremely swift. He leaned back sharply, and the tip of the blade scraped past the fabric of his chest, slicing through a leather cord tied at his collar.
He used the momentum to flip backward, landing five paces away.
“A Martial Skill?” He looked down at the shallow scratch on his chest, reaching out to touch it. His fingertips came away stained with a hint of blood.
“As I thought, you really are in league with Blackstone Town!” The youth's expression turned visibly furious.
Rate on N.U.
