Round Eleven: Prayer

Jason and Milia stopped a little further away. Even though it wasn’t a half-pyrefield creature, the evil scent emanating from it was almost unbearable for them, especially for Milia.
Forty-Seven clapped his hands and stood up, smiling with a mouth split all the way to his ears. His interlocking fangs made it understandable why others might consider him a half-pyrefield creature—after all, in a sense, he indeed was one.
“Interesting stuff… Yes, I know you don’t want to meet me again, Mr. Merchant, including those two holy warriors.” Forty-Seven even raised his hand to greet Jason and Milia. Jason froze for a moment before nodding slightly in return, while Milia turned her head away with a sigh.
“Please, don’t get angry with them anymore. I’ve already had enough misfortunes… It’s a tragedy. Did you discover anything else when you arrived here? Any clues from this ash? It seems like there’s burning ash and ruined corpses everywhere. I don’t know when it will be able to thrive again.” Freys crouched down with a worried expression, unable to see any difference between this pile of ashes and the rest of the area.
“The opponent ended the battle in a short time, killing and capturing enemies at the same time. There must be a proper method to do that so quickly. Your people, and those elves? Yes, they didn’t even get a chance to put up any proper resistance… I advise you not to sniff around that stuff too closely.”
Freyes sneezed loudly. He picked up a handful of ash and brought it to his nose, only for a strong, irritating smell to almost make him spit out his heart.
Freyes began to suspect it might be the ashes of elves or some other monster.
“You mean…”
“Call me Forty-Seven.” Forty-Seven glanced at Jason, who had already walked over. He never had much fondness for this holy warrior—though not exactly disgust either, aside from the pure, noble scent emanating from him.
“Very well, Forty-Seven, sir. Please forgive my rudeness.” Jason saw no reason to doubt the judgment of a brass dragon. Although they often acted recklessly, Jason was convinced the person standing before him wasn’t an evil half-pyrefield creature. Yet, he still felt an indescribable awkwardness in talking calmly with Forty-Seven. “You mean the attackers didn’t leave a single corpse, killed so many people, and took even more captives?”
“That’s nothing. I could do the same.” Forty-Seven grinned again, unsure whether it was meant to show friendliness or was simply a display of dominance.
“You’re saying there are more filthy, evil half-pyrefield creatures in the area?” Jason placed his hand on the hilt of his sword at his waist, and Milia moved closer as well. Clearly, they interpreted Forty-Seven’s actions as the latter.
“Of course, there are other possibilities too, but I don’t know yet…” Forty-Seven looked down at the ground, where there was nothing but ash, blood-stained debris, and soil.
Freyes watched the two of them with trepidation.

“At least they didn’t take all the food and water. Let’s rest properly today… Go search the cellar! Anyway, we definitely won’t make it to the next stronghold, everyone!” Freys said to 47, Josen, and Milia, almost in tears after receiving a report from a mercenary.
“Mr. Freys? What about the corpses?” the mercenary asked further.
“Move them outside the city and leave them there. Remember, keep them far away!” Freys waved his hand impatiently.
“How can you desecrate the souls of the dead like this? Put them in the main hall of the castle—let me pray for them!” Milia said, then regretted it. Unable to eliminate her own evil nature, could she only atone by comforting their souls?
“My lady, don’t be so serious in a situation like this!” Freys was exasperated by Milia’s ignorance and stubbornness. “Besides, piling up corpses might lead to an outbreak of plague soon. You holy knights might not mind, but I, an old man, can’t take any more of this…”
“Hmph, hmph!” 47 looked up at the sky, unsure to whom he was humming at.
“Hmph! Hmph…” Milia turned away, clearly unable to tolerate being in the same place as 47 any longer.
Josen sighed slightly and then left that garden-like area behind the main castle with Milia.
“It might rain tonight…” Freys watched the two leave and also looked up at the sky. The sole sun was about to set, with thick clouds gradually covering half of the sky.
Indeed, it rained that night—softly and intermittently, seemingly without any sign of stopping soon.
Outside the stronghold, corpses were neatly arranged in an open field. The rain washed away the bloodstains on them but couldn’t revive bodies that had already lost their souls. A flash of lightning illuminated the faces of the sleeping dead for a moment, but after the thunder, everything fell back into silence, except for the soft sound of rain, faint yet profound, echoing across the world.
A group of humanoid creatures clad in light purple robes and carrying wooden longbows moved swiftly through the rainy night. When they reached this makeshift graveyard, they stopped.
The person at the front of the group knelt down. Beside her was the corpse of a night elf. She placed her hand on the swollen, rotting body, seemingly comforting the dead’s soul or trying to hear something through it. She stood up, her hood concealing eyes that emitted white light, gazing toward the direction of the merchant stronghold.
Although the hall inside the main castle wasn’t filled with laughter, the mercenaries, including Freys, had eaten a proper meal for the first time in a long time. They devoured their food eagerly. Though Freys strictly forbade drinking, the mercenaries still managed to get a small cup of mead each. After all, it had been checked by the holy warriors and was poison-free.
47 was still nowhere to be seen. He didn’t need to eat.

Jorson ate only a little black bread and drank plain water. Looking at these numb people with little trace of sorrow, he felt an inexplicable annoyance—were they worthy of his help and protection? He didn’t want to stay any longer.

As soon as the banquet began, Milia left the hall; she needed to go look around.

Jorson stepped out through the main gate of the fortress. The rain had stopped, and the wet ground outside had been cleaned thoroughly. The damaged city gates had also been repaired, making it impossible to tell that this place had once been a brutal battlefield—actually, “slaughterhouse” might be a more appropriate term.

Jorson climbed up to the not-so-tall watchtower.

“Hey, Mr. Jorson,” greeted the two mercenaries guarding there.

Jorson gazed into the distance. This merchant’s stronghold was built on a flat plain. Though not very tall, it was quite sturdy and well-structured. All around, there were only sparse trees and low hills. Even at night, under the light of the stars, one could see far away. After inspecting the fortress during the day, they found no signs of battle or use of secret passages leading outside. The fortress gates had been forced open, suggesting that the enemies had entered by force, not through betrayal or deception. But according to Jorson’s understanding, to achieve such a goal, the attackers would need to be several times more numerous than the defenders—let alone the fact that there were at least four more night elves in the stronghold, famous for their archery and assassination skills!

But now…

Jorson shook his head slightly, sensing a shadow of bloodshed in the air.

“Have you seen Miss Milia?”

“Hmm… She was in the courtyard a while ago… Then she seemed to go behind the main fortress.”

Milia’s armor and greatsword were placed on a rock nearby. She was wearing only a single garment, which was already soaked through.

Although she wouldn’t get sick from the cold and damp, her instinctive reaction still made her slender body tremble.

Yet she persisted in drawing up the last bucket of water, pouring it over her head, then praying facing east.

“O Lord of Glory, please guide me… I humbly await the dawn, begging you to take away my cold and all the sins and evils in my heart… I cleanse my body, mind, and soul here, admitting my doubts and weaknesses, awaiting your just punishment…”

Women really waste water, thought Forty-Seven as he watched Milia from the top of the main fortress.

He didn’t know whether Milia hadn’t noticed him or simply didn’t care to pay him any attention. She just kept pouring water on herself, praying, then pouring more water, praying again…

Forty-Seven lay down, watching the stars in the sky. Compared to the stars, the full moon, hanging eternally in the sky, gradually appeared as the night deepened. Its light was dim under the glow of the stars, giving it a hazy and unreal appearance.

The nights here were somewhat similar to those in Rain City… Forty-Seven threw off his cloak, allowing the starlight and moonlight to fall on his steel body, feeling a rare sense of coolness. He lay there, even somewhat lost in thought.

Jorson turned away from the main fortress and also watched Milia from afar, not disturbing her.

For a moment, the three of them created a strange yet peaceful atmosphere, with only the occasional sound of water and Milia’s soft prayers echoing in the small courtyard. Suddenly, Forty-Seven’s body lurched upright—as if a wooden post were being pulled by some external force—while Josen also drew his sword with a swift motion. Both sensed something unusual around them; the air trembled slightly, as if stirred by something invisible, and a fresh yet strangely subtle scent filled the air. Only Milia, who was concentrating all her mental energy on her prayers, failed to notice the changes around her. The watchtower was now empty.