Round Two: Night Attack

The edges of the Sleeping Forest had long lost their former tranquility; in fact, it could almost be said that the forest no longer had any edges at all.
Looking down at the entire battlefield, the towering construct towers were embedded in the forest like nails or like interlocking fangs biting into the woods. Around them lay circles of scorched land, some areas even featuring narrow, burning lines of fire—these were the results of Agus’s army clearing the peripheries of their controlled zones. The war’s damage to nature was like ugly scars on a maiden’s beautiful skin; it might heal, but it would never vanish.
Hunter stood on the barrier outside the construct towers, wielding a magic staff and keeping watch. Since this stronghold wasn’t located at the front lines, it likely wouldn’t even have been built here if it hadn’t also served as a temporary supply depot, field hospital, and storage facility all at once. The lighting devices powered by “Daylight Magic” kept the area illuminated all night long, making it impossible for Night Elf raiders to penetrate the defenses. To be precise, not a single Night Elf arrow had been seen since the camp was established, so the defenses here were always weak. Only four low-level mages patrolled the barriers every night. In fact, Hunter was just an apprentice mage—but what could he do? This was war.
“Hunter, come down and have a drink!” Thayes approached to greet him. He was a mage as burly as a bear, with a full beard, but kind-hearted. Even the largest mage robes seemed like shirts on him. Sometimes, Hunter thought Thayes resembled everything but a mage. Even Thayes himself admitted that he couldn’t remember any spells above level three—once he learned the back, he forgot the front. Even rubbing the ancestral gem pendant around his neck didn’t help. Though other mages often mocked Thayes for this, Hunter knew they were actually green with envy. Thayes also said that as a child, he preferred playing war games on horseback to studying how many ways a magic rune could be written. But his parents believed that in Agus, only becoming a mage would lead to a promising future. Since they were respected figures in Vatan, with considerable influence, Thayes eventually became a full-fledged mage by his thirties or forties—the only downside was that he was then conscripted into the army.
“Going to drink during guard duty? What if Lord Cleven catches you! A batch of strategic supplies just arrived today. I think it’s better to stay here and keep watch.”
“Relax! This damned war started before the time of our grandparents’ grandparents. Who knows if it’ll end by the time our great-grandchildren are born!” Thayes nonchalantly tapped his staff against the parapet, sticking his head out to look at the chaotic camp below. The laughter of low-ranking soldiers drinking and celebrating mixed with the painful cries of the wounded. These untrained militia, who would never be given advanced combat weapons, were merely pawns used by Agus in their large-scale offensive strategies to draw out Elf arrows. Since they didn’t even know if they’d have a tomorrow, who would care about them?

Sayers snorted, though Hunter was sure nothing else could be smelled here except for smoke: “Hurry up, kid! The damned empire doesn’t need you to be so diligent!”
“I can’t go down anymore. I’ll keep watch over the south for you—come back quickly!”
“What a brat. Then I’ll bring you a pot of fine wine as a thank you, haha—don’t give me that look! How can a man not drink?” Sayers hummed a tune as he carried his equally heirloom wine pot down from the rampart, quickly blending in with the soldiers illuminated by the beams of directed magic.
But aren’t we mages too… Hunter gave a bitter smile and focused his gaze into the distance. It was very dark that night—no moon, and even the starlight was fleeting. Another construct tower on the distant horizon emitted a faint glow like burning charcoal, blurred against the deep shadows.
Mages don’t keep watch at night. That was a famous saying from a great mage once, but it was clear that Lord Clive, the camp commander, practiced it himself without intending to spread it. On such a lonely night, gazing at the stars, Hunter even doubted whether he was really a mage. Someone like him could probably be replaced by a pair of magic glasses with Eagle Eye magic—especially since Hunter still didn’t know how to use Eagle Eye. Perhaps his only value lay in being a skilled worker who could fire two magic missiles and operate a control lever.
A cold wind mixed with the scent of ash blew by, snapping Hunter out of his thoughts. He tightened the collar of his standard mage robe and stood there solemnly—why hadn’t Sayers returned yet?
“Get lost! Do you think your trinket looks good under those magic beams?”
Amidst laughter, a drunken soldier made a vulgar gesture at “Bear Mage” Sayers and staggered toward the outside of the camp.
“Ugh…” The soldier burped, squinting in the glare of a sweeping beam of white light, and muttered some incoherent curse.
He found a half-trunk of tree and awkwardly hid behind it, avoiding those annoying scanning beams. The once-tall tree was now only six or seven feet high, its cut end charred and uneven—probably caused by some magic.
The sound of dripping water fell on the stump, flowing into the cooled ashes at his feet.
The soldier closed his eyes comfortably, his body beginning to sway rhythmically back and forth. Long ago, he had gone several days without eating because he hadn’t been chosen for the imperial army, but now it seemed better to be a supply soldier who stayed at home most of the time and was called up in times of war… He pulled up his pants, patted his already protruding belly from excessive drinking, rubbed his sleepy, drunken eyes, and prepared to go back for more drinks and get a good night’s sleep. He should be able to return to the rear by tomorrow—
Suddenly, he saw something red floating on the stump. An unusual chill instantly permeated the soldier’s entire body, turning all the alcohol into cold sweat that seeped out through his pores.
The soldier opened his mouth as if to shout something, but a bloodstained arrow tip emerged from his mouth, knocking out one of his front teeth and piercing his head into the tree trunk like two sheets of paper.

He suffered deathly convulsions, clutching the tree trunk desperately, his eyes turning white and bulging as they appeared at the top of the charred trunk. At the last moment, the soldier finally saw clearly—that wasn’t a flame but a beautiful, eerie eye.
The owner of the eye watched as the Agus soldier collapsed completely, like a piece of meat hung on a hook.
She turned her head toward the camp beneath the construction tower—her slender, muscular body enveloped in a dark mist, appearing merely as a darker silhouette against the already dark night.
“You bastard! You took too much!” Sayers angrily reached for his wine flask. After struggling a few times, the muscular veteran was overwhelmed by the mage’s brute force—the soldiers roasting meat by the fire burst into laughter.
“Damn… what a bear…” The warrior complained, rubbing his wrist. “How did you even think of becoming a mage?”
“Hmph!” Sayers took a swig of wine and waved his arm triumphantly. “See? Once I master the Power of the Bull—”
Sayers suddenly stopped, sniffing curiously.
“What’s that smell?”
The others were startled by Sayers’ strange behavior. If someone had a distinctive trait, it wouldn’t go unnoticed. Though they hadn’t known each other long, the mage’s astonishing physique, incredible strength, and nose far more sensitive than a dog’s were well-known. In the large camp of hundreds of people, Sayers could pinpoint the group roasting meat without error, let alone someone who had carelessly left their flask uncapped.
“What’s wrong?” The soldiers gathered around, looking around. They had chosen a secluded spot because, outside the camp, those annoying regular army soldiers and mages were rare—though Sayers was an exception.
“What smell… who was that? Where did he pee? Why isn’t he back yet?”
“Hm? Yeah, I’ll go check…” The warrior who had fought over the flask stood up, leaning on his long sword.
With a sharp, piercing sound, he staggered. Some warm liquid sprayed onto Sayers’ face, and then the warrior’s body pressed down on him—
There wasn’t even a scream, only the sound of arrows slicing through the air like the cold laugh of death, along with a brief hiss as they pierced flesh.
Black elves rushed into the camp like wandering spirits. They weren’t trying to hide their presence; it was just that they moved too fast. Their deadly arrows snuffed out lives as easily as crushing ants. It wasn’t until the last elf leaped over the fire where Sayers’ roasted meat still lay that screams of terror and sounds of battle filled the camp.
Hunter stood on the wall, forgetting to crouch down to avoid them. The attackers seemed to be night elves, yet they were clearly different. Even under the light of the fully activated lighting crystals, their figures retained a vague darkness. They moved recklessly among the panicked soldiers, bringing death and utter fear, yet they lacked the precise, orderly fighting style of ordinary night elves. They didn’t even bother shooting an arrow at an obvious target like Hunter.

Magic waves swept over Hunter’s head, spreading out in a radial pattern and covering the chaotic camp. The Agus militia members moved noticeably more slowly, while most of the black elves only paused briefly, seemingly unaffected at all. The construct towers flashed several more times—all casting large-scale negative spells. After all, those in the camp wouldn’t stand a chance even if they drank a barrel of agility potions; so what difference did status effects like slowness, blindness, or weakness make? “Cowards! Stop standing there! Aim at them—” A mage on night duty with Hunter, driven mad by some impulse, tried to prove himself in such a situation. Unfortunately, before he could draw the camp commander, Lord Cleven’s attention, an arrow through his skull ended his military career forever. Hunter retreated in terror, trembling against the cold tower wall, unable to utter a word. By the gods, this was his first time fighting! The Agus militia members, who had survived only by sheer luck due to the black elves’ carelessness or indifference, surprisingly didn’t curse those mages hiding in the construct towers and ignoring their fate. They were shocked to find that despite the regular swordsmen in silver armor wielding swords having joined the battle, the situation hadn’t changed much—the black elves defied the perception that elves were graceful and agile yet also fragile. They put away their bows and arrows, lunging at their enemies like ghosts and tearing them apart with their bare hands. Throughout centuries of conflict and war, the Agus people had never encountered such night elves. Although there were only a dozen of them, and the number of silver-armored swordsmen was several times greater, when those elves wrapped in shadows hissed and charged, a wave of terror surged within them, as if their throats were choked by a demon’s hand—especially those eyes glowing with a faint, mad, evil red light in the darkness. Shouldn’t night elves’ eyes be white?