Round Thirteen: Encounter Battle

The scouting party had entered a grassland covered with lush and tall weeds.
“How much longer do we have to wander around? If we don’t head back soon, it’ll be daylight!” Sayers complained, yawning—seemingly proving that even wine’s invigorating effects had limits.
“The darkness before dawn is both enchanting and dangerous,” said Shant, plucking a blade of grass and gazing at the vast expanse before him. “Back in the days when the elves hunted each other in the forest, we never took advantage of such times—arrows from the shadows, traps that struck unexpectedly, vines that suddenly tightened to strangle a person… They were the children of the forest, the children of the night…”
He suddenly snapped out of his reverie. “We must keep searching until we receive orders from Count O’Sullivan. Let’s head eastward a bit; we seem too far away from the others now.”
No sooner had he spoken than a sharp, high-pitched scream came from the distant east.
Like the poor Sayers, Cohren, the captain of the northern search team, was also utterly exhausted by this almost blindfolded search. He wore a shadow cloak similar to Shant’s, but without a hood, allowing his grayish hair to flutter wildly in the evening wind.
To Cohren, the grassland appeared deep green. Standing on a slightly raised hill, he watched the man-height mandrake plants sway in the wind like undulating waves. Of course, it wasn’t because he was in the grassland that he saw this way—the mandrake leaves were actually a deep red with slightly purple edges; the greenish hue was merely a side effect of the faint-light vision glasses he wore.
Cohren pushed the glasses up on his forehead; the two oval lenses looked ridiculous, like broken horns.
“Damn it… can’t they take this any more seriously?” He carefully rubbed his eyes with his right hand to relieve the visual strain. Two poisoned crossbows on his arms glinted coldly; if even a slight wound occurred, he wasn’t sure he’d have time to call for help.
Unlike Shant, Cohren didn’t mind being replaced by a bunch of metallic, mechanical gadgets. On the contrary, he was glad to finally be away from the hellish forest and take on well-paid private jobs. Most of his life had been spent in life-and-death struggles, resulting only in injuries and disabilities, only to be dismissed—earning less than what he got from helping nobles deal with their troublesome bastard daughters. So when Count O’Sullivan forcibly conscripted him into this even more damned scouting team under the pretext of “Council authorization,” he really had no good impression of this clean-minded young noble.
By the gods, he really didn’t want to deal with those damned elves anymore.

But this is truly a great thing. Corian bent his left arm, admiring his brand-new prosthetic limb. Though the lingering chill made half of his body less agile, it was nothing compared to the “Death Finger” spell he could cast once a day.
He better finish this quickly… Corian thought to himself. Then he had to find a way to leave this damned place of Agus. With his skills and these gadgets, where couldn’t he make a living and enjoy a comfortable, decent old age?
A sudden gust of wind blew. The grass snapped. It seemed as though something was cutting through the void, extending invisible fangs to bite at Corian. The mandrake leaves, wide as a palm, were severed as if by scissors, flying in the night wind filled with sharp whistles. A few of them seemed to hit something, getting pushed and curling into a surface the size of a human head.
All of Corian’s hair stood on end. The scars on his body tightened and stung as if about to split again, as if he were back in the dark and unpredictable forest, with elven arrows flying from all directions.
With two nearly simultaneous sounds of bowstrings snapping, Corian’s body twisted as if boneless, yet he quickly jumped away, escaping death just before the giant maw’s fangs closed.
At the same time, an arrow shot from nowhere with a soft thud, one flying obliquely and disappearing somewhere. A black figure emerged from the swirling grass, rolling on the ground. Another arrow was embedded in his shoulder. The poison capable of killing an elephant seemed to have no effect on him at all. The black elf raised his head, staring at Corian with dark red eyes that seemed to burn, as if looking at a frog in a snake’s mouth.
An attack! Corian hesitated briefly as he met those eyes. He didn’t think he had a chance against the elves surrounding him. The best choice at such a moment was to alert others and join them immediately—but the cold prosthetic limb on his left arm gave him a false sense of security. Maybe he could try this new thing. “Death Finger” was the spell he most wanted to learn—the realm of killing that could take a life silently and effortlessly—
Hesitation cost Corian his life. He had just managed to escape using years of experience and reflexes honed through life and death, but that moment of hesitation sent him back into the trap.
He barely felt pain as the curved blade sliced across his neck. Even as his head flew into the air, Corian rolled clearly, watching the black shadow passing below. Though his trachea and vocal cords were severed, his wide-open mouth still emitted a strange, long sigh-like sound: “Too old…”
To Sayer Temple and Shant’s ears, that sigh sounded like a scream.
A streak of fire flew diagonally toward where Corian was attacked and exploded with a roar. The corrupted elves were not good at—or disdainful of—ambushes, so aside from a few unlucky ones near the east who were dealt with immediately upon encountering them, the rest still had time to react.

A few more fireballs exploded, igniting the dry weeds, which emitted thick black smoke due to their high moisture content.
“Which damn idiot did this?!” Shant cursed as the strong wind carried the thick smoke toward him. He pulled out four or five scrolls as if by magic and infused layers of magical energy into himself and Sayers beside him—“Accelerate,” “Detect Invisibility,” “Protect from Ranged Weapons,” along with other spells Sayers couldn’t identify, giving him an overconfident attitude, as if he could defeat any enemy—luckily, Sayers knew it was just an illusion.
“I’m giving you a break, kid.” With a grumbling tone, Shant disappeared into the bushes in an instant.
“Damn! What terrible luck!” Sayers didn’t have Shant’s stealth skills. He could only look around frantically before crouching in the bushes, trying to track the enemy.
“Idiot! Activate the crystal and report our situation to the Count, now!” Shant’s voice suddenly came from Sayers’ right, so low it was almost lost in the wind.
“The crystal… oh, the crystal!” Sayers reached into his pocket but could only find a flask; he had no idea where the magic crystal had gone.
Shant emerged from the smoke, and for the first time, Sayers smelled something from him—blood.
Several black figures rushed out of the smoke. Thanks to the “Detect Invisibility” spell, they were completely exposed and didn’t need to hide. Their red eyes stood out in the darkness, along with their gleaming teeth. Amid the drifting smoke, their handsome faces twisted into grotesque shapes. Sayers could see them clearly and even smell their faint sulfuric scent. He had truly run into bad luck—he had found the magic crystal but hadn’t had time to recall how to use it. In desperation, he threw it at a dark elf swinging a sword at Shant and ran away—even if he called for reinforcements, he needed to survive until they arrived. He had to perform better than the former commander hiding in the tower.
Although Sayers was tall and strong, he ran just as fast, especially after being accelerated.
Cracking sounds of broken grass and plants came from behind him, as if a giant grasshopper was chasing after him.
Sayers had no time to worry about Shant. He could only rely on himself. He ran as fast as he could, not even bothering to recall the few basic spells he knew. Now, he could only hope the hunters behind him changed direction. If they persisted, once the acceleration wore off, he would have to fight back desperately—hoping they’d accept his offer to have a wrestling match.

“Damn!” Sayers stumbled, tripped over a body lying in the grass—more precisely, by its intestines. He glanced back, but saw nothing. Yet Sayers knew it was only because “Invisibility Detection” had failed. The pungent sulfur smell clearly indicated the attacker’s swift approach. Though he had already experienced the speed of these demon elves before, feeling it in this way was the first time, and the intense sense of immediacy made their speed seem even more exaggerated to him, as if he were watching death rush right at him.

Sayers rolled and crawled around frantically on the ground, hoping to find something to use as a weapon—preferably some magical artifact that could instantly kill a large number of enemies. But all he could get his hands on was a broken spear.

Whatever magic might have been in that spear was now only good for self-destruction.

“Come on!” Clutching the broken sword, Sayers, in desperation, suddenly pushed himself up with a dramatic flip—a truly remarkable move for him. The invisible enemy leaped high into the air, ready to bring an end to Mr. Sayers’ glorious life.

The scorching hot wind not only burned Mr. Sayers’ hair but also saved his life.

Forty-seven swooped down from above, crashing to the ground like a flaming meteor. The night elves attacking Sayers were blown aside by the wind, skillfully flipping in midair before landing and revealing their forms.

The inexplicable appearance and disappearance of the Hellish Waves angered Forty-seven greatly, but he was helpless—tracking had never been his strength. He scanned the battlefield and noticed nothing worth paying attention to. The resistance of the scouting team seemed utterly insignificant to him. Instead, he found the Notari Plains in the darkness somewhat similar to the swampy nights, though in the swamp, Forty-seven could only watch from the top of a mage tower, so the view naturally couldn’t compare to now. Since returning to the ground, he rarely thought of the swamp, and this out-of-place sense of melancholy was very unfamiliar to him.

“Kill them.” Forty-seven turned his head, temporarily shoving aside that feeling, and pointed casually. The demonized elf waiting nearby immediately rushed forward—fortunately, not in Sayers’ direction.

When Moriel saw the thick smoke and flames in the distance, the corners of her mouth twitched uncontrollably.

That idiot! Moriel didn’t have time to analyze why things had to go so badly, as a large shadow swept overhead and crashed heavily onto the grass, shaking the ground and sending dirt flying.

Hoffman, who had been at the back of the group, wildly raised his arms and howled toward the sky. In his remaining consciousness, there was an enemy ahead who he was destined to destroy. This thought overshadowed everything—his pain from his half-stone, half-human body, and his hatred for normal beings. It made him eager to charge forward like a giant gorilla, even before Moriel gave the order.

Moriel rode her armored warhorse over the crater left by Hoffman and sighed at the lone giant figure speeding ahead. “Chase after them and finish those bastards.”

To be honest, she really wanted to do just that at that moment.

Santek wasn’t as lucky as Sayes. He had used up all his possessions and exhausted every spell he could use. He had no time to wonder why these black elves showed no reaction to the poisonous rays or arrows; he simply drew the dagger hidden in his staff, gasped for breath, and watched as the steel monster approached him as if no one else were around.
In fact, 47 hadn’t intended to deal with Santek. Having lost track of Mobo, he wandered aimlessly, waiting for the demonized elves to clean up those who resisted before deciding on his next move. Amid the thick smoke, 47 even became somewhat lazy, showing an unacceptable level of slackness—so much so that he didn’t even notice what he had knocked away.
“Damn it!” Sayes watched as Santek, like a kite with broken strings, crashed not far in front of him.
He rushed over and pulled Santek into the bushes. Fortunately, no one noticed them.
“Be gentle! You’re hurting me!” Santek’s voice was clear and strong.
“How are you? Are you dying?” Sayes regretted his joke as soon as it left his mouth. When he turned Santek over, he saw that half of his body was torn apart.
“Stop talking nonsense! I just slipped accidentally…” Santek coughed a few times, yet his mental state was surprisingly good.
“Stop talking! I…” Sayes’s palm, larger than most people’s, couldn’t cover the wound, as it looked as if a dragon had scratched it—blood gushed out like a stream. It was hard to believe such a thin man like Santek could have so much blood: “Do you have any healing potions?”
“Sayes, do you know the town of Tralay? It’s located in the south of the empire.” Santek ignored Sayes’s question.
“Shut up! I’m asking if you have healing potions!” Sayes was impatient, though his eyes were a bit moist.
“Idiot, why cry? We just met. There’s something I want you to deliver to someone named…”
“Hey! Didn’t you say we just met? If you’re a man, go tell them yourself! It was you who was lying on someone else’s body enjoying yourself, not me!”
“…The person I want to tell is my mother.”
“I’m sorry… Anyway! I won’t deliver your message!” Sayes could only vent his frustration and displeasure with harsh breaths.
“We’ve been friends who’ve drunk together too. Please do me this favor…” Santek’s breathing grew rapid: “Tell them I went to the north to make money and might not return for a long time. Remember, I went to the north to make money…”
“We haven’t even gone to brothels together.” Sayes stared at Santek, who took one last gasping breath before remaining motionless.
“You bastard elves!” Sayes stood up from the bushes and roared, drawing the attention of two nearby demonized elves. They changed direction and rushed at Sayes—
Whether by luck or not, Sayes still didn’t die at the hands of the elves.
Hoffman’s leg, wrapped in iron armor like a pillar, crashed into Sayes, sending him flying far away.
“Damn it.” That was Sayes’s last words before passing out.
The black elf and his equally black curved sword twisted in the air and swung at Hoffman without hesitation.
The ironclad giant let out a roar that shook the heavens and earth.