Round 31: Reunion

A thick, severed limb spun through the air before crashing to the ground, splashing mud and water—this was Iron Spider’s attempt to sever him just as it had done to the druid.
“Moriel,” Forty-Seven continued to call her name, but his fiery gaze turned icy as he raised his giant sword against the female mage’s slender neck. “You attacked me. Why?”
Moriel closed her eyes, seemingly unwilling to respond. Instead, it was the giant spider beneath her feet that acted—its lower half began to transform, with numerous chains bursting forth from its cracks, locking Forty-Seven like a web. It seemed this spider itself was a steel construct.
A thick stinger extended from the spider’s tail—like a spear, it dripped corrosive acid. After aiming carefully, it shot toward the trapped Forty-Seven like lightning.
“Moriel!” With a roar, the entire steel spider was lifted off its feet.
The refined gold chains snapped like paper ropes. Forty-Seven grabbed the stinger thrust at his face and pulled hard, trying to lift the spider into the air as well. The spider’s seven legs dug into the ground in desperate struggles. Unable to succeed immediately, Forty-Seven descended and smashed it with his chains, tore at it with his hands, kicked it with his feet—almost biting it too. In just a short while, he completely disassembled the creature.
When he calmed down from his anger and searched for Moriel, he found her standing at a distance, watching him with a clear gaze. In front of her lay a giant lycan, its grayish body lifeless, its head pierced by Moriel’s sword, turning it into a stone statue. Why hadn’t she used magic to attack then? Had she not had time?
Fado looked at the petrified Thaan with pain on her face. Her leg had been broken by Forty-Seven’s reckless charge, forcing her to withdraw from the battle. She had witnessed the entire fight between Thaan and the female mage—Thaan moved like lightning, launching a storm of attacks, but the mage always managed to dodge his claws just in time. Not because she was faster than Thaan, but as if she knew what he would do next, always avoiding his moves in advance. The moment Thaan’s attacks slowed, her sword would pierce him—then she would stand there, sword in hand, watching Forty-Seven fight against the construct spider.
The wall of flames ahead had gone out, and the yellow-green mist was gradually dissipating. The freed druids and warriors gathered together, supporting each other as they slowly retreated into the forest. Jolice struggled to stand with her companions’ help, looking toward the battlefield in the distance.
“Are we really retreating like this?” Jolice had fallen into a brief coma earlier. When she woke up, she was already in the forest. She stood on a tree branch, her hand severely injured, blood streaming down her arm and pooling on the ground. Her white eyes, piercing through the smoke and raindrops, fixed on several figures still fighting in the distance. “Have the warriors of the Zalidan tribe descended to the point of surviving by abandoning their comrades?”

“I’m sorry, captain…” said a elf warrior with blood streaming down his face, ashamed. “But we really can’t fight anymore… If we don’t retreat to the village quickly to rest, more will die…”
Joris said nothing. Instead, she leaped up to a higher and thicker branch, did a handstand, bent her left leg into a bow, and placed an arrow on her right foot using its big toe and second toe. Her body formed an arch as she raised her head forward—her posture steady and graceful, though her speed was almost the same as that of drawing a bow with her hands.
It was a long distance—Joris aimed carefully before shooting the arrow in a parabolic path.
“Morril!” Forty-seven giant swords also appeared as they stepped forward toward the female mage. “Are you helping Agus now?”
Morril opened her mouth but said nothing. A sharp sound of wind pierced the air as Joris’s arrow reached the top of the female mage’s head—
The female mage once again dodged to the side with premonition.
She turned to look at the arrow buried in the ground, then turned back to face Forty-Seven. By then, the light of portals was already shining around her.
“You filthy elves!” Forty-Seven shouted in frustration as he couldn’t catch up. “Do you know that commander Agus?”
“Do you know that commander Agus?” Fado asked, a mix of shock and anger in her voice. But Forty-Seven didn’t answer. Instead, he scanned the battlefield—charred land covered in smoke replaced the green grass, with corpses of mages or elves scattered around the ruins of steel war chariots. There were no more cries, battles, sounds of arrows piercing the air, or explosions from magical attacks. Only the sound of rain persisted over the silent battlefield, giving an unreal feeling, as if the bloody battle that had just taken place was merely a dream.
But it wasn’t a dream. What happened before Forty-Seven could never be considered a dream, because he never dreamed. Dreams were something humans invented to comfort themselves when faced with things they could never have. But now, as if back on the last night in Rain City, Forty-Seven felt the pain of “loss” once again. Watching the light of the portals vanish completely into nothingness, anger immediately filled his steel-like chest—perhaps along with other emotions like helplessness, confusion, resentment, and pain, but for Forty-Seven, there was only overwhelming anger with nowhere to vent it.
The elves had gradually withdrawn, leaving only Joris and a few who could still stand waiting for them.
“Where is Agus’s camp that’s attacking you?”
Forty-Seven broke off several branches and threw them in front of Joris. His eyes burned red intensely, seemingly a sign of his agitation.
“Southeast direction,” Joris replied briefly, showing no extra enthusiasm or gratitude toward Forty-Seven, who had single-handedly changed the course of the battle, as if he were still that strange guy following the caravan.
Forty-Seven turned and walked away.
“Wait!” Fado limped over with the help of her companion. The druid supporting her was bare-chested, with severe burns on his head and body. It was remarkable that he could remain silent.

“I don’t know what kind of grudge you have with that female mage…” Fado stopped Si Forty-Seven. “But the Night Elves are very grateful for your help, so I have some suggestions… No matter how powerful you are, it’s absolutely impossible to storm Agus’s command post alone. There are at least a hundred mages stationed there, and just one multicolored ball from each of them could deal a fatal blow to you… Even if those control and death spells can’t affect you, you surely can’t withstand the barrage of all those shaping spells, right?”
Si Forty-Seven glared at the druid standing on one foot before him, furious, but he had to admit she made a point—the strategy of a lone elite assault only worked in chaotic battlefields. Even the bravest general charging into enemy lines under a hail of arrows was just seeking death.
His gaze swept over the elves’ faces, and his anger gradually subsided.
Although the Night Elves were at a disadvantage against Agus’s Iron Army, judging from the recent battle, they might not be completely defenseless after all. If the elves really had some plan…
Fleeting moments from the past seemed to thread together like a line, as distinct as the trail left by fighter jets in the sky.
The Night Elves were plotting something, and it definitely had something to do with me. I might not have noticed before or simply chosen to ignore it, but it was all about using me as a pawn, just like how demons exploited others in bloody battles. In short, these pointed-eared guys were interested in me…
Si Forty-Seven glanced at Fado and the other elves again. Though he didn’t know why no one from Moriel recognized me, or if they recognized me but chose not to say anything, he had finally found her. Still, the situation was becoming increasingly unpredictable… Using such things was always a two-way street.
He turned and walked past Jolice, pushing her so hard that she stumbled: “Take me to Uther.”