Round Eleven: Reconnaissance

The night was short but unbearably cold. The wind grew ferociously cold from sunset onward, especially in this wilderness far from towns. Clouds raced across the night sky, and the starlight was intermittent. Even the usually tranquil Tanori River roared with its rushing currents, while the water plants and reeds on the riverbanks swayed and rustled, almost drowning out all other sounds. Add to this the blindingly strong wind—what a perfect night for reconnaissance.

Sayers sniffed. In such horrible weather, everything was terrible, except for the flask in his arms, which emitted a wonderful warmth and fragrance.

He had no idea how that eccentric young count knew about the Big Bobo Tavern, which led to him being dragged away before he could even fill the flask. Hmph, that idiot Hunter—without watching over him, he’d probably spend his last copper coin on some busty barmaid.

No, he couldn’t hold back any longer. What kind of stupid rule was this about not drinking? Was it really going to kill him if he didn’t drink now? Sayers glanced around. The rest of the reconnaissance team was far away… So he reached into his arms. Besides the flask, there was also a rhombus-shaped crystal given to him by Count O’Sullivan before they set out, specifying that it could only be used in a life-threatening situation against enemies—Damn it, had he really seen those guys he was supposed to fight? Anyone who could run away from them could already be considered brave… And he still had time to chant spells to activate it?

“The count ordered that no one may drink during missions.”

It sounded like a ghost’s voice, startling Sayers—Who was that?

A mysterious shadow appeared beside Sayers. Tall and thin, not much shorter than Sayers, but with a huge difference in build.

“Hehe, it’s okay. The count went in the opposite direction from us… Oh, of course…” Sayers stuffed the flask back into his arms and replied in a low, friendly tone. This guy was strangely terrifying. Although Sayers wasn’t good at any detection magic—actually, he knew nothing about it—he relied on his naturally keen sense of smell and intuition, his trump card in battle, far better than those half-baked spells. Yet this man had stayed so close to him without being noticed, with no strange odor at all. Strange, really strange.

The tall, thin man wore a hooded cloak of strange color. The mottled black, with varying shades, resembled overlapping shadows. Even from such close range, it made Sayers feel as if the man was blurred and merged with the surroundings.

“I’m Sante,” the tall man said with a smile. His small, gleaming eyes and white teeth shone in the darkness.

“Sayers.” The bear mage extended his hand.

“Commander, good to see you.” Hunter wasn’t unconscious or penniless, as Sayers had expected. He met Morriel at the entrance of the inn in the town center. He found this serious-looking female commander to have an indescribable warmth, unlike the other adults who were so domineering.

“Hello.” Moriel wanted to go out for a walk; she was tired of Dracula’s endless nagging. The woman still hadn’t revealed her true motives for helping her keep things hidden—what’s meant to happen will happen, and worrying was pointless.
Ever since O’Sullivan volunteered to lead a scouting party, Moriel had felt an inexplicable irritability, unable even to focus on her daily meditation. She didn’t know where this irritability came from, but it certainly wasn’t due to Dracula’s sweet, vulgar remarks.
“Where’s your partner? You two seem to be inseparable.” Moriel asked casually.
“Are you asking about Sayers?” Hunter said dejectedly. “He went with the scouting party. Count O’Sullivan heard somewhere that his sense of smell is extremely sharp.”
“Oh? He was chosen by O’Sullivan too?”
“Yes. They set off at dusk. I hope poor Sayers doesn’t run into that devil, but the Count seems quite confident…”
“Oh? O’Sullivan is confident? Alright, I understand. Thank you.” Moriel turned and headed back to her room, seemingly having figured something out.
O’Sullivan… What are your plans? Do you feel it too? No, probably not. I barely recognized him even the first time I saw him… Damn! That idiot wouldn’t bother hiding his identity!
“A sissy narcissist—here we meet again.”
Moriel could imagine the haughty tone in Forty-Seven’s voice when saying that! Something had to be done…
“It’s no problem. I’m honored!” Hunter watched as Moriel disappeared quickly through the hotel door, making a half-hearted bow that wasn’t completed since no one was looking. He reluctantly continued wandering aimlessly.
“Kid—could you do me a favor?” A feline voice behind Hunter.
“Oh? Who? Lady Dracula! Uh, hello!” Hunter was nervous, not knowing what to do. He had heard various rumors about Dracula, but facing two of the empire’s most famous female commanders in a row filled him with fear rather than excitement.
“My heel came off!” Dracula pouted, looking like she might cry at any moment. She resembled a cute little sister next door, far from the ruthless madwoman described in the rumors.
“Oh, um, well…” Hunter’s face turned red. Did she want him to carry her back to the hotel?
“Stop stammering. Stand still. I just need to use your shoulder…” Dracula seemed to read Hunter’s thoughts and suddenly adopted a stern tone, though she still looked like an older sister next door. “How boring. It was only because of me that I had to beg the teacher for ages before he agreed to let me join the hunting mission… Stand still! Don’t move!”
Dracula placed her hand on Hunter’s shoulder, lifted her foot, and seemed to just check the broken heel briefly. But by the time she removed her hand, the shoe was completely fixed.
“Yes, that’s right, hehe, yes…” Hunter seemed to have lost the ability to speak.

“The lifespan of these shoes is only enough for the journey back to my room… sigh…” The purple pupils behind the lenses glowed with an eerie light. “By the way, what did Commander Moriel say to you just now? Can you tell me?”
The night wind grew stronger.
Deep in the vast wheat fields of the Tanori Plain, inside a wooden shed once used to store farming tools among dozens of oval grain silos, 47 sat on some sacks with his chin in his hands, resembling an evil version of some famous ancient sculpture. The fire in his eyes seemed to have gone out; it was unclear whether he was lost in thought or asleep, motionless—though neither of these states meant much to him.
A dozen or so demonized elves were scattered throughout the shed, eating. Their supper consisted of two silver-armored warriors and one mage. It seemed they had been left to guard this empty military grain silo, but now that they had become food for the demonized elves, their former identities, statuses, and tasks no longer mattered.
With faint creaking sounds, the demonized elves, their dark red eyes gleaming, watched outside through the cracks in the shed while eating. They were always vigilant and extremely polite. No matter what they were eating, they wouldn’t chew noisily but would eat quietly like well-mannered ladies—unless they occasionally reached in to snatch a piece from the pile of mutilated flesh in the middle of the shed.
It seemed Agus had adopted a policy of scorched earth.
In the eastern part of the Tanori Plain, it was hard to find any decent buildings. Often, all that could be seen were empty houses or farms. The inhabitants of Agus had left their homes like retreating tidewaters, fleeing to the imperial capital or the largest towns guarded by heavy troops, like sheep driven away by wolves. Whether they evacuated voluntarily or were ordered to do so in response to the empire’s actions—since a small force of less than twenty people using such a strategy even prompted the withdrawal of troops from the front lines to strengthen rear defenses—how could this be considered a major victory? But 47 wasn’t satisfied with this. From a strategic standpoint, as long as they continued this nightmare-like harassment—without even having to do much, just occasionally smashing up a fenced house and setting it on fire to declare their continued terror—enough to force the Agus Empire to invest heavily in defense—47 didn’t want such so-called strategic victories. Such actions only served to give those foolish elves in the forests a sense of relief and didn’t achieve his goals. Ever since the demonized elves shifted their interest from livestock to humans due to a lack of food, 47 had grown tired of this terrorist-style destruction and killing.
Now, the core energy that could be obtained from those Agus people’s steel toys was becoming increasingly scarce, to the point of being negligible. For some reason, perhaps due to quantitative changes leading to qualitative changes, but in reality, not much energy had been absorbed—at least that’s what 47 thought.

Since driving that arsonist back to hell at Hellgate Fortress, the Spark seemed to have reignited within him. Though he had lost most of its core, 47 could indeed sense it reappearing—only now it was replaced by a scorching mass of light like molten metal, instead of the once-piercing cold. It appeared as mysteriously as he had arrived in this world, incomprehensible and unexplainable. So, after pondering for a while, 47 simply stopped thinking about it, and this time was no exception.

Big Brother Megatron had traversed nearly infinite spaces just to obtain the Spark, sleeping for tens of millions of years—what did his own efforts count for? And even aside from that, since there were no cartoons to watch, finding a tough enemy to fight against was a tolerable form of entertainment, and it was actually his duty.

As for Morriel… 47 blinked—actually, the red light in his eyes flared and then dimmed.

Not knowing what to do with this… just put it aside and do something else first. He remembered the old mage named Loom in the swamp always muttering that.

Fergas sat across from 47, silent. Her entire body was covered in twisted dark red markings that spread across her smooth skin, carrying a terrifying beauty, like rivers of blood flowing across the gray-black land. Her right eye was unusually bright, almost white in color, emitting a fierce and eerie light, as if it wasn’t meant for seeing.

Fergas hadn’t joined the meal—or rather, she had already finished eating. One leg bent, arms wrapped around her knees, the steel longbow and strange curved sword she wore reflected a cold metallic glow—byproducts accidentally created by 47 when destroying Agus’s armor. She sat there quietly, waiting for her master’s orders.

“Fergas.” 47 stood up. The sack, overloaded, cracked with a rustling sound. “There’s nothing more interesting here… Keep moving west.”

Fergas immediately glanced at the demonized elves squatting around. Soon, one after another, they flipped over and leaped onto the rafters, twisting their agile bodies like water snakes as they climbed out through the high, narrow skylights.

“When will you learn to use doors, huh, Fergas?”

The wind howled outside the window. In the dark world, Vilker Town seemed to have lost its former vitality, with only the silhouettes of houses standing motionless in the night. The townspeople wisely stayed indoors—some eating, some sleeping—no matter if lions or tigers came, as long as they hid in their holes.

In the hotel room, the map of the Tanori Plain, formed from magical images, had been enlarged several times, floating vaguely around Morriel. At this moment, the red-robed female mage resembled a goddess overlooking the entire plain from the clouds, making various complex gestures with her hands and whispering spells, occasionally sprinkling fine silver powder to make it clearer.

She was trying to search as large an area as possible. Using various predictive spells such as Eagle Eye, Biological Locating, and Advanced Detection, most of the area on the magical map remained chaotic, with even the basic terrain uncertain. Only when Morriel focused her attention there would it become slightly clearer.

This is truly not work for humans. I fear only the great gods can, with their all-seeing eyes, discern every detail across the vast plains. It seems that bastard number forty-seven once bragged to her that he could use some magical device called a “Vey” to find anything across the entire continent without difficulty—even the legendary prayer magic that harnesses divine power might not be able to do this. What an unusual case of construct epilepsy.

Moriel focused her mind, driving away the random thoughts. Her clear eyes seemed to lose focus, but in reality, she was looking at places beyond the reach of mortals. Her thoughts extended beyond the town of Wicker; the fragmented and blurred scenes on the plains appeared before her eyes as her spirit raced through at high speed, filtering out meaningless distractions. Moriel could see O’Sullivan’s scouting party moving in both north and south directions. The magic net guided her as she locked onto those small human figures, moving aimlessly in a network-like pattern—nothing seemed amiss… Moriel followed them, with that burly man named Sayers being particularly clear. Sure enough, it wasn’t in vain that she had fed those two novices breakfast—her self-made magical potion for tracking had been mixed into their food and absorbed by them, especially by Sayers. Having eaten too much, he stood out like a beacon compared to the others. Although Moriel hadn’t really thought it would be useful later on at the time, it seems that prevention is indeed a good strategy.

Should I take care of this strong but stupid fool tonight…? Moriel pondered, exhausted from maintaining such a large-scale detection array.