Round Twelve: Actions
A thick cloud covered the moonlight for a long time. If one looked up, they could faintly see that the clouds in front of the moon were still moving swiftly, and the wind showed no sign of weakening. Sayers pulled his collar tight and stuffed his scarf in more firmly. The two sips of strong liquor he had drunk earlier had warmed him up and improved his mood slightly. What annoyed him was that he was still wandering aimlessly, wasting energy.
“Hey, your liquor is really good,” said Shant, walking silently beside Sayers with a strange gait that seemed not to disturb even the grass. “It’s a real pleasure to drink it… Where did you get it?”
“The 32nd Command Army, under the Fourth Front Regiment,” Sayers replied with a smirk. “Logistics troops—led by crazy guys and useless fools who only know how to hide in those weird machines developed by the empire and keep calling for help.”
“Oh? I’ve heard of them. But those mecha machines are indeed formidable. With them, the elves in the forest have been forced to retreat step by step,” Shant said, his tone carrying a strange emotion.
“Hmph, what’s so great about them? They were all wiped out at once; they couldn’t even run away,” Sayers said, taking another sip, his expression conveying an air of “I’ve seen it all.”
“And where did you come from? You don’t seem like an ordinary mage!” Sayers wiped his mouth, put away the flask—there was only a little left—and hesitated to drink any more. Who knew how much longer they would have to walk? Maybe until dawn!
“I’m not a mage. I’m an assassin,” Shant said with a smile.
“An assassin?” Sayers glanced at the short staff at Shant’s waist. “Don’t joke. How do you commit assassinations? By hitting people in the head with that thing?”
“Hehe, it’s obvious you’re the kind of simple-minded guy who just muddles through in a mage squad,” Shant said, mimicking the motion of cutting someone’s throat. “Assassins aren’t just like that. Haven’t you heard that assassins born from sorcerers or mages are the most terrifying? They can kill silently with the help of magic.”
“Oh, so you’re…” Sayers suddenly studied Shant from head to toe as if seeing him for the first time. “You’re from the Hunter Corps!”
Shant’s gaze sharpened.
“I really didn’t expect… you to know about the Hunter Corps too.”
“I heard about it when I was young,” Sayers said, acting like an encyclopedia. “You’re a group of mage-assassins trained by the empire to penetrate the forest and deal with the night elves! From a young age, you train hard in various stealth techniques while studying deadly spells, combining the strengths of mages and assassins to counter the elves’ advantages in the forest…”
“That was a long time ago,” Shant cut in coldly, his face turning pale, as if he had completely forgotten the act of sharing liquor. “Ever since the empire made breakthroughs in developing large-scale mecha weapons, us half-baked mages who aren’t real mages or assassins can only do errands and odd jobs.”
“Don’t say that,” Sayes tried to comfort him. “I admired you guys a lot when I was young. Besides, you’re better than me anyway—ugh, just looking at a spellbook makes my head hurt!”
Sant laughed, it was the first time he had made a slightly louder sound. “Your head is already twice as big as anyone else’s! And look around—whose in the scouting team isn’t better than you? Are you here to do all the work for our Count?”
“Dare you look down on me? Anyone who underestimates Sayes will regret it!” Sayes threatened, waving his arm, which only drew more laughter from Sant.
“By the way, if your beard were a bit thicker and messier, you could be Lord Yatu’s double. Two Master Yatus—the enemies would surely be at a loss…” Suddenly, Sant stopped and looked around suspiciously, then stared at Sayes for a moment.
“What’s wrong?” Sayes touched his face.
“Nothing, nothing.” Sant finally shrugged. “Maybe I’m just overreacting… I thought I sensed someone watching us just now.”
Inside the inn, Moriel continued to watch the search team wandering aimlessly across the wilderness. Their distance grew greater, and the area they searched expanded. Moriel strongly doubted the purpose of such aimless searches, but any delay in the operation was beneficial for her, or rather, for Forty-Seven.
Sayes, whose image was the clearest, and the mage beside him were at the far west end of the search team’s fan-shaped search area. The two of them strolled leisurely, as if taking a walk, suggesting that no results would come from this side. Perhaps they should focus on O’Sullivan, who was heading south…
Suddenly, something on the map shifted. Like an insect landing on a spiderweb, a fleeting, strange ripple disrupted the detection network Moriel had built, carrying a hint of heat, like a match that had burned out. She immediately shifted her attention from Sayes, who was looking around, trying to pinpoint that abnormal magical wave. But the ripple moved quickly, barely perceptible, and kept recurring. Her mind raced across the plain in pursuit of those faint ripples. There were no tangible people or objects on the map or in her line of sight. Moriel simply didn’t have the extra energy to give them form—this required more magic power and more time. For now, she could only do her best to prevent them from disappearing completely, which was already extremely difficult.
The ripples shifted left and right, becoming increasingly unpredictable. But to Moriel, they seemed to be rushing rapidly toward the scouting team. Damn it! Moriel sensed the danger growing stronger. Could it be—
Forty-Seven landed on a huge rock against the wind, like a beam of black torchlight.
The demonized elves had dispersed as per his orders to search this area—Forty-Seven saw nothing in the sky, perhaps because the clouds were too thick, or maybe because he was a bit careless that day.
But it didn’t matter to search again. After all, night belonged to the night elves, especially when they were demonized.
Such procrastination-like behavior this evening was quite rare, but Forty-Seven didn’t try to change it—even metals get tired. He faintly foresaw that as he delved deeper, a fierce battle with Agus would soon erupt. Agus wouldn’t just stand by doing nothing; there were only two possibilities if he remained unresponsive to such humiliation: either he was preparing to deliver a deadly counterattack or he lacked the ability to do so, but Agus clearly wasn’t the latter. Forty-Seven wasn’t afraid of battle—he’d never been afraid of it—only a bit unsure about how to deal with that red-robed, tattooed female mage who kept hitting him with her staff. Survival or destruction—what a dilemma. Suddenly, the red glow in Forty-Seven’s eyes flared intensely. A weak magical fluctuation swept across him. Given Forty-Seven’s understanding of magic, such a fluctuation would be no different from a gentle breeze—but this one was different. The scorching aura carried a familiar, detestable sensation; he had once been burned by such an aura, tried to be toyed with at will. The black steel devil spread its wings. The clouds in the sky were scattered, and Forty-Seven flew westward like a starless night sky. The demonized elves also raised their heads; the telepathic signals reaching their minds made them change direction and chase after Forty-Seven. Their figures faded rapidly in the dim red light before merging with the darkness, indistinguishable from it. In Moriel’s room, the magic map continued to function slowly, yet changing with every second. The map of the Tanori Plain, once like murky water, gradually simplified as the swirling mud began to filter, settle, and dissipate—vast illusions collapsed and shattered, with silver powder and other spellcasting materials turning into dust that fell to the ground only to vanish before touching it… Eventually, the entire map became nothing but simple lines and rough patterns, with only Moriel’s thoughts and that mysterious, intense magical fluctuation remaining as they raced across it. The map rippled like water’s surface, and the flashes of magic cast alternating light and shadow across the room. Moriel’s once clear, lifeless eyes now resembled bottomless abysses, filled with cold mist that swallowed all light, seemingly spinning faster and faster, as if her eyes merely reflected a huge, bottomless vortex. It was hard to imagine what kind of scenes those eerie eyes could see. Under Moriel’s gaze, the map trembled more violently—until, with a sudden violent shake, it completely shattered. Moriel closed her eyes; her chest rose and fell rapidly for a brief moment. When she opened them again, she had regained her usual expression. “I almost fell for it…” Moriel murmured softly, a faint smile appearing on her lips. “Dagulas!”
The originator of those strange magical fluctuations wasn’t some fool wandering around in the plains. Although the caster was very careful to hide himself, keeping the connection between the magical fluctuations and himself at the lowest level, through continuous verification and feedback—like solving a puzzle—Molier eventually captured the magical waves simulated by that person in the plains and traced them back to this very place, to Dagulas’s room on the third floor of the Vilker Town inn, closest to the stairs.
Molier could even see clearly the slight airflow caused by Dagulas casting spells. Though it was hard to believe that the source of those magical fluctuations in the plains was actually right beside him, once captured, it was unmistakable—after all, the distance was too short.
So, the remaining question was: What was Dagulas’s purpose in playing such a deceptive game right under his and Yatu’s noses?
Dagulas’s magical fluctuations wandered through the southern part of Vilker Town, leaving barely noticeable flaws on Molier’s mental map. Molier caught them accurately, even beyond Dagulas’s expectations. There was also that burning aura filled with profound darkness. Molier wasn’t very familiar with it, but he wouldn’t mistake it—it was the same aura he had encountered for the first time after reuniting with Forty-Seven in the Sleeping Forest, a faint yet persistent presence, as well as the one he had felt during the elf’s demonization ritual in the Sleeping Forest—a truly evil and powerful aura—the aura of Hell.
Yes, when he first encountered it, there was indeed a moment when he thought it was Forty-Seven, but though similar, there were slight differences…
Wait, if such an assumption were possible…
Suddenly, Molier felt everything about Dagulas become clear—how she should have perished in the dimensional rift yet survived; her inexplicable abandonment of her revenge against him; her insistence on participating in this hunt—yes, this was the only explanation.
Standing in the pitch-black room, Molier remained silent for a moment before opening the door and stepping out. He walked through the equally dark corridor and climbed the stairs to the third floor.
The stairs led straight to Dagulas’s room. She must still be manipulating those magical fluctuations inside. Without hesitation, Molier passed by the closed door. He could imagine Dagulas looking in surprise toward the door… Molier sneered slightly before knocking on Master Yatu’s door.
“Come in!” After a while, Yatu’s irritable voice came from inside the room.
“Good evening, Lord Yatu,” Molier said as he quietly pushed the door open and closed it behind him. After bowing, he looked up at Master Yatu, who was lying in bed in his pajamas. “I’m sorry to disturb your rest at such a late hour.”
Yatu closed the book he was reading—a brown-covered book with nothing on it, probably some kind of magical notes.
“If you knew it would disturb me, why did you come to bother me?” Yatu still spoke in an impatient tone. It was unclear whether he was sticking to his usual manner or truly annoyed by the interruption. “Speak up. What’s the matter?”
“Because the situation is urgent, so…” Moriel paused, seemingly hoping to draw Yatu’s full attention, but it was clear his attempt failed—Yatu simply lay back in bed and continued reading the book: “Count O’Sullivan has led the search team out to look for them…”
“I know. He reported to me before leaving,” Yatu interrupted without even lifting his head.
“And I used magic to scan the search area last night. I think I’ve detected the movements of the culprit causing trouble in the Tanori Plains!” Unperturbed by Yatu’s interruption, Moriel grew even more urgent: “I believe we should immediately support Count O’Sullivan. This is a perfect chance to capture the criminal—this mission…”
“Very well, then go and provide support!” Seeing Yatu’s indifferent attitude, Moriel even began to doubt whether reporting directly to him had been the right decision.
“Well, I’m just a prophet mage. As for combat…”
“Then I authorize you to deploy all the troops from Volk Town, along with Hoffman. Taking him along will settle everything!” Yatu remained with his head lowered, as if the content on the pages would vanish the moment his gaze left them: “Now go. Stop disturbing me!”
It was unclear whether he truly underestimated the situation, was confident enough, didn’t believe his own words, or… If Yatu continued to act so indifferent, it would not only be difficult to disrupt Dagulas’s plans but might also anger him by forcing a pointless trip with no enemies to be seen. Losing his say in such a situation would be troublesome.
After leaving, Moriel stayed in the corridor for a while. Dagulas was probably staring at him through the door with dark resentment—she felt things might not go as planned.
Indeed, things wouldn’t go smoothly, because if Moriel had managed to keep the magic map active for a bit longer while in the room or hadn’t been so preoccupied playing hide-and-seek with Dagulas, she might have discovered something she truly wanted to find.