Round Nine: The Old Men

A farm on the Tanori Plains was slowly being swallowed by the approaching darkness. What was once a peaceful estate was now shrouded in an oppressive horror. The horses in the stables were completely terrified. Foam gathered at their mouths as they let out fierce neighs, frantically ramming against the fences in an attempt to escape—fireballs streaked in like meteors, blowing the entire stable to pieces. A half-burnt horse head landed in front of 47; its once smooth, black satin-like fur had been carbonized by the heat, and its melted eyes stared blankly at the overcast sky—seemingly clear just before those black demons arrived.
“It seems I’m not good at calming animals.”
47 turned the pistol on his arm, flashing a fang at the charred horse head, then continued to gaze at the old knight fully armored, standing in front of the main entrance of the manor with a shield and sword. “Old man, I have no intention of killing everyone. Take your family and leave so I can set fire to this place—I respect old men, but that doesn’t mean I have time. Understand?”
“Demons! You just killed my son!” The old knight’s eyes burned with fury as he raised his long sword, pointing at the black-iron warrior across from him. “Do you think the knights of Agus will yield to the tyranny of such evil creatures? You want to destroy my home? You’ll have to step over my corpse first!”
No sooner had he spoken than a dark cloud descended upon the old knight—after a loud explosion, the old knight collapsed in the shattered doorway, his chest crushed under 47’s foot.
“As you wish.”
47’s dark red eyes scanned the manor. Cries came from inside the large house. The tightly closed door moved slightly, as if someone tried to come out, but was immediately stopped.
“Set it on fire,” he said hoarsely.
O’Sullivan slowly entered the grand hall on the top floor. Darkness enveloped everything—an immense, almost boundless darkness. A celestial map was painted on the huge dome, with dense clusters of starlight glowing white on a black-blue background, forming vast, ethereal galaxies that resembled sacred lights sliding across the sky, even creating a path of pure light in front of the count.
What purpose did the mages have in building such a magnificent place? Clearly not for studying celestial movements. Its scale far exceeded what any subject still recognizing the authority of Agus should possess—it was outright treasonous. Even calling it treasonous would not be an overstatement. Yet, no one ever reported or accused such an arrogant Mage Council. If it were him, would he report it to the emperor? Of course not. O’Sullivan understood without hesitation why such serious acts of usurpation could go unchecked right under the emperor’s nose.
The empire had long been in the hands of the Mage Council, or rather, in the hands of Archmage Singer, who controlled the Council.

Deep in the hall illuminated by the stars stood five chairs arranged in a semicircle, each of different shapes and materials. They appeared quite ancient, most of them empty, with only two people sitting on them in a somewhat lonely manner—one on the first chair on the left, the other on the second on the right. Both wore the same air of age, indifference, and an unfathomable mystery.

O’Sullivan stepped forward with a serious expression, flicked the hem of his black coat, and knelt on one knee to pay respects to the two elders who seemed to dwell at the edge of the universe. “Count of the Agus Empire, O’Sullivan, presenting himself before Councilor Singh and Archmage Kiskein.”

“Please rise, young O’Sullivan. As a count of the empire, you need not kneel before us.” Singh, sitting on the right, raised his eyebrows slightly. Kiskein, on the left, seemed to have taken on Singh’s role—his eyes half-closed, he didn’t even glance at O’Sullivan, as if already lost in a drowsy slumber.

“You and Archmage Kiskein have served the empire for nearly a century; you may be called its mentors. Not to mention me, a mere young count, even my father and grandfather would address you with respect as teachers.” O’Sullivan stood up obediently, his expression humble.

“Fei Et?” Singh seemed stirred by Yuri’s words. “Fei Et… It’s been a long time. Is he well?”

How could he be well when he was imprisoned in the empire’s prisons under false charges? If it were ten years ago, O’Sullivan might have rushed forward to tear that damned old man to pieces. But now, he only lowered his head even further. “Thank you for your concern, Councilor. I am here because—”

“It’s about that band of rogue elves causing chaos in the Tanori Plains, right…” Singh made a seemingly simple gesture, but the light around O’Sullivan instantly moved and combined, forming a series of chaotic and terrifying images:

Swordsmen in silver-white armor swung their dual swords forward. Agile and muscular figures emerged from the darkness, grabbing soldiers’ weapons with their bare hands. Their handsome faces twisted into monstrous shapes as they bared dagger-like teeth and bit at the swordsmen’s throats.

Demoralized mages screamed frantically, firing magic projectiles aimlessly from their staffs. An arrow pierced their necks; they dropped their staffs, clutching their wounds as they staggered forward. Then three or four more arrows struck them. Before their lifeless bodies could fall, they were torn in half as black elves wielding scimitars flashed by.

Chaotic footsteps ran up and down the stairs—this must be inside some military fortress. The scene shifted to a window, where a terrified gaze looked outside. In a close-up of the pupils, a flame grew larger and larger, instantly engulfing everything before turning into a raging fire cloud that rushed toward the count…

O’Sullivan instinctively shrunk back and raised his hands in a futile defensive gesture. But he quickly straightened up, ashamed and resentful at his inability to remain calm amidst these imaginary scenes.

The shocking vision faded, turning back into scattered stars of light.

Singh put down his hand, covered in age spots and with long nails: “These are some images obtained by the Council from the survivors… What do you think, Young Master O’Sullivan?”
“Those mysterious enemies are extremely dangerous. Dangerously insane—O’Sullivan had never seen any elf kill their enemies in such a cruel manner, not even sparing the dead around them. In his mind, elves were elegant, even in battle—that deadly elegance had once been something he aspired to imitate.”
“Sufficient attention must be paid, and swift and forceful measures must be taken to eliminate them, preventing further casualties and destruction! I am willing to go all out for this! Please give me a chance, Council!” O’Sullivan stood at attention, fully displaying the demeanor of a soldier.
“Heh…” Singh let out an aged laugh. “Indeed a warrior of the imperial bloodline with the spirit of a ‘lion’… Well, I suppose you’ve reflected long enough. Your suggestions at the court meeting were good. The empire doesn’t have the time or energy to launch a large-scale campaign against this group, so we still need warriors who can truly fight on the battlefield to hunt them down… Those of us who only deal with flasks and ancient texts, who like to wear loose robes to hide our slow, frail bodies, are not omnipotent; we’re still inadequate in many ways…”
O’Sullivan stood quietly, hiding his surprise well—Singh had agreed!
“By the way… Deeper-seated, more cunning rats require fiercer cats…”
As soon as Singh finished speaking, heavy footsteps echoed in the darkness.
O’Sullivan looked in the direction of the sound. The starlight on the dome seemed to move deliberately, illuminating the darkness and revealing a giant figure.
White beard… Hoffman? O’Sullivan barely recognized the man from his hooked nose and chin covered in yellowish-white hair like pig bristles—or perhaps he couldn’t even be called human.
Once an invincible imperial general, Hoffman, who had gathered ruthless bandits from the deserts to attack the night elves during O’Sullivan’s mission abroad, approached with rough breathing, as if stirring a pile of stones and gravel.
He was slightly hunched, but even so, with O’Sullivan’s tall stature, he only reached just above his thighs. His entire upper body was covered in thick rock-like layers that extended over most of his face. His arms, almost reaching the ground, no longer resembled human arms at all—thick as pillars, they were inlaid with various runes in precious metals, and their ends were fists the size of siege stones, covered in steel spikes, with no fingers at all.
Hoffman stopped in front of O’Sullivan. His small patches of flesh were as pale as a dead man’s, indistinguishable without close inspection. Hard rocks and his giant frame were strangely combined, and his small eyes, fixed on O’Sullivan, radiated a cruel, murderous light.

O’Sullivan stepped back, putting distance between himself and that disgusting monster. He had no doubt about Hoffman’s hatred for his flesh and blood—should he get the chance, Hoffman would surely use his terrifying fists to crush him into pulp. The mages’ research on construct magic had reached such insane levels! Just look at what they’ve done!
“I think you know…” Singer began slowly, “Captain Hoffman was severely injured during a mission some time ago. Driven by hatred for the enemy and loyalty to the Empire, he chose to become a new symbol of Agus’s construct power—a half-golem. The Council will send him along with other warriors to assist in this military operation. Please go see Lord Yatu; he’ll arrange everything.”
Kiskein, who had been motionless in his chair, suddenly trembled. He turned his head, his cloudy gaze falling on O’Sullivan. “Oh, um, Yuri, right? Ah, yes, Yuri. I haven’t seen you in ages. What brings you here? Go ahead, don’t hesitate…”
“…Um… Lord Kiskein, I should be leaving now.”
After O’Sullivan and Hoffman left, the hall fell into even deeper darkness. The galaxy-like artificial starlight dimmed, making it impossible to see even the floor—only those five chairs remained, as if floating in an endless void.
“I thought you wouldn’t let go of that brat from the O’Sullivan family…” Kiskein seemed to be falling asleep again, but it wasn’t Singer who spoke.
“I haven’t let him go.” Singer’s frame was quite slender compared to the throne-like stone chair beneath him; his chair was the only one of stone among the five. “Just because he went on his own to search for Loom and the core that Loom took away from the Empire… I won’t let him go.”
Kiskein slowly opened his eyes, no longer showing the senile foolishness he had shown in the Council. “Loom… he’s been gone for over a hundred years now… Ever since he left, we don’t even have enough people to play cards.”
“Yes… Of the five who were qualified to sit here, only the two of us remain.” Singer sighed, turning his gaze away from a finely crafted, seemingly very comfortable wicker chair beside him. “But he took the wrong path… They all took the wrong path.”
“You’re still here…” Kiskein suddenly stopped talking and changed the subject. “What do you think of that rare construct that’s on the elves’ side? Have the elves already discovered—”
“No, that’s impossible.” Singer denied it firmly. “Actually, I have another idea… but it still needs to be verified. Let that Isabella’s apprentice join the operation too. Didn’t that brat from the O’Sullivan family suggest that in front of the Emperor as well? Truly, he’s inherited their bloodline from that old man… They won’t cry until the coffin is closed.”

“I rather like that little girl,” Kiskain said again, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes to rest. “When we took her away from the Red Robe Elder, none of us thought she would survive, did we? You know, I even think that if she could stay in the Council forever, maybe in a few decades we’d need an extra chair here… Can we really expect someone like Aresha, that witch, or Yatu, that fool who’s no different from a warrior aside from knowing a few spells, to take over the Council?”
Singh’s half-closed eyes suddenly flashed with intensity.
“As long as I’m here, the Council will never need anyone else to take over. All we need are all of Lum’s research notes, not her,” Singh said, a hint of anger in his voice. “If it weren’t for that brat Yuri acting on his own and causing the notes to become incomplete, the Council wouldn’t have risked a complete rift with the Red Robe Mages by attacking one of their eight masters, Isabella… And now that woman is stuck in Vatan, refusing to leave, just because she wants to know more secrets about ‘that’ thing.”
“But there won’t be much left soon.” Singh vented his anger briefly before his tone returned to its usual old, empty state, devoid of emotion. “‘That’ thing’s plan has entered its final stage… By then, even if that thousand-year-old monster Victor comes to Vatan in person, it won’t help at all…”
“We’ll all be gone one day… and you just refuse to admit it.”
Kiskain and Singh sat in silence. The starlight in the hall gradually faded until everything was completely dark and silent.