Round Thirteen: Pursuit

Only four people remained in the spacious hall of the stronghold: Forty-Seven, Josen, Milia, and an elf.
“Why take on such a task? Our goal is…” Milia glanced at the silent elf sitting by the table. “And why did this guy stay too? It’s absurd!”
“Fres also entrusted me with this task before leaving last night, but I’m just curious.” The patrol leader had almost admitted that the war between the Agus Empire and the Dark Elves wasn’t just a rumor. If they went straight to Agus and barged into the battlefield between Agus and the Sleeping Forest, it would cause trouble. “And I won’t be joining you either…”
The elf stood up, removing his pale purple robe. His pale golden shoulder guards and greaves shone brightly, while his pure silver armors connected to brown bracers gave him a sharp appearance. A wisteria-long bow behind him was almost as tall as he was, with each arrow in its quiver exquisitely crafted—no subtle differences between them. At his waist hung two short swords, one long and one short; their scabbards alone showed they were finely made weapons. His long golden hair hung down, tied into two small braids on either side, looking playful and cute, but his womanly beautiful face remained expressionless. His eyes emitted a faint white glow, leaving short trails of light even in slightly dark areas.
“You can’t act alone. I must follow you, help you, and keep an eye on you!” The elf named Kastor spoke quite frankly.
Forty-Seven didn’t respond. He was staring at the elf’s pointed ears, thinking of that half-elf Kastor whose head he had cut off in Rain City. Wait—their names were the same! Could they be relatives?
“Let him come. We can complete the task on our own!” Josen said to Milia. “Your trial requires such trials. A divine knight shouldn’t just complain—get your gear ready!”
Forty-Seven had no interest in joining these holy warriors on some glorious or great mission. He didn’t want anything to do with such rigid people. It reminded him of a cult group he had been ordered to eradicate long ago. They released poison gas in public places, caused explosions, and harmed innocent people, claiming they were eliminating societal ills, purifying the human environment, or elevating their followers’ status. Whatever their excuses, they were all nonsense.
Holy Dawn Knights? Divine fools—where is your god?
Compared to that, Forty-Seven was more concerned about the ash-like substance he had seen earlier. Its texture was subtle, but he couldn’t quite describe it.
Forty-Seven stood up from the roof. The scorching sun displayed its heat, as if it couldn’t gain people’s reverence otherwise—but perhaps it really did.
“Hey! Whatever you are, come down. We need to set off!” The elf was still full of energy in the morning—was he just impatient?

Forty-Seven stood on the roof, leaning forward as he considered killing those guys below. Suddenly, he spotted Milia emerging from under the eaves, staring at his Divine Knight with utter disgust, which filled him with contempt and hatred. He abruptly stretched out his curled body like a high jumper, crushing the roof beams beneath him. At the peak of his jump, his steel wings spread wide, and he circled in the air. He actually loved flying, ever since he used the jet thrusters back then. The continent seen from above in the early morning seemed even more beautiful than up close; the green vegetation displayed remarkable vitality, though it appeared merely as patches of yellow-green. Those tiny black dots below weren’t even worth killing. Shaking off his irritability, Forty-Seven began searching for the place Fres had mentioned the previous night. “To the south of this stronghold is the Sleeping Forest, the homeland of the Night Elves. Those who attack the stronghold surely aren’t stupid enough to walk straight into a trap. To the east is the Supreme Mountain Range, which only the Snow Elves can climb. To the northeast is the Noisy Desert we came through, and to the southwest is the Golden Road. Those thieves wouldn’t take that route after a heist. So, I think they must have returned to their lair—the Desolate Wasteland!” Last night, when Fres said this to Forty-Seven and Josen, he jabbed his finger hard at a large light-green area north of the stronghold on the map, as if he wanted to break his finger. “Lair?” Forty-Seven asked, sounding puzzled, as if Fres was quite certain about this. “That’s right. Almost all the thief gangs eyeing the Golden Road have their bases in the Desolate Wasteland,” Fres continued, rubbing his finger. “But none of the thieves before had the strength to attack the stronghold. I don’t know what’s different this time.” “Why are you sure it was a thief gang?” Josen still habitually supported his chin with his hand, standing on the other side of the table. “Also, why didn’t he go to the Sleeping Forest with you? Following us will only complicate things.” Forty-Seven sneered in response. “My holy knight sir…” Fres almost knelt down. “Won’t following those arrogant Night Elves cause trouble? Compared to that, it’s better to let trouble follow you.” “It’s obvious you have no idea either. Not only that, but you also have to be constantly on guard against blades coming from behind—unless you want me to kneel and thank you for your tolerance.” The dust raised by the so-called Divine Knight’s feet wouldn’t become fragrant just because of her title. Forty-Seven was obviously referring to Milia. If the sword strike to her waist had carried even a hint of divine power or intent to kill, there would be no such discussion now. Josen pondered for a moment. “Although I’m reluctant to do this, I still want to apologize to you…” It’s enough to say sorry after killing someone—knights really know how to behave. No wonder there are no police in this world.

Forty-seven descended in a spiral, flapping his wings mechanically a few times. Though reluctant, flying such a long distance had reached its limit; the rest of the journey would have to be done on foot. Forty-seven took out a small cloth bag from the inner pocket of his cloak and slowly opened it. Inside were some grayish-white ashes, resembling the bones of some creature or the unremarkable remnants left after something else burned. Yet Forty-seven had deliberately collected them at the stronghold and carried them with him. He picked up a small handful with his fingers, twisting them slowly with his thumb and index finger. The high heat generated by friction between the fingers reignited the ashes, which released their last traces of energy before turning into even finer gray dust that fell through his fingers and was instantly swept away by the relentless winds across the wasteland. A familiar scent. Forty-seven packed up the cloth bag and put it back. He couldn’t recall where this sense of familiarity came from. Given his memory, he shouldn’t forget—whether it was the transistor memory from before or whatever material made up his brain now. Forty-seven had no choice but to set aside what concerned him most for now and start tracking the thieves’ trail, if there were any clues to follow. The vast wasteland was a semi-desert-like plain, mostly flat, with occasional gentle hills, bare rock formations, and clusters of shrubs spaced apart. On this desolate land, anything moving would quickly draw attention. Forty-seven looked around but saw no direction worth pursuing, except for the solitary merchant stronghold behind him. Forty-seven pulled up his hood and headed straight into the depths of the wasteland. The sun had completely sunk below the horizon, but its afterglow still colored the sky bright red, as if a battle as fierce as one in hell was raging there. Kastor crouched on the ground, his palm resting on a withered plant of the wasteland. His half-closed eyes seemed to be in some unknown state, his lips moving, but no sound came out. Josen, Milia, and the night elf Kastor had been walking across the Cold Wasteland for three full days. During the day, Kastor wrapped himself tightly in his purple robe and followed Josen and Milia silently, step for step. At night, he would take off the robe, revealing his true form, and become more active and talkative. Of course, this talkativeness was only relative to other proud night elves. Still, the two holy warriors were quite impressed by Kastor’s tracking skills: on the first night, Kastor found traces of a campsite and measured them to determine the number of people there; on the second night, he found a patch of camel dung that wasn’t very fresh but hadn’t decomposed yet, and by sniffing it, he determined the distance between them and the campers; on the third night, he found the withered plant and seemed to begin communicating with it. Although Kastor’s behavior grew increasingly strange overall, Josen and Milia felt these were still relatively credible clues.

Kastor opened his eyes, as if two white gems had been thrown into the darkness.
“There are sixty to seventy of them, at most five days’ journey from us, heading due north, slightly west…”
“We already know that. So, what else did it tell you… after you talked to it?” Milia didn’t know how to describe the relationship between Kastor and that plant, so she became a bit speechless, but at least she spoke up without Forty-Seven around.
“I don’t know…” Kastor stood up, gazing into the dark expanse of the wasteland. “But I think that’s probably why they were able to capture the stronghold…”
Sixty to seventy people, along with captives—such a force could almost instantly take over the stronghold.
Josen and Milia exchanged a glance, seemingly realizing the severity of the problem.