Round 29: The Path We Have Chosen (I)

“This is the path we have chosen,” said Phylgas calmly. Though her entire skeleton was likely now made of living metal, she moved with the same grace, speed, and silence as before. As she walked, the chains, claws, and other weapons attached to her body might sway and collide, yet no sound of metal on metal was heard. If one had exceptionally sharp eyes and observed intently, they might notice that those deadly instruments did not maintain a fixed shape but constantly adjusted and refined themselves, absorbing the impact from minor collisions and using subtle structural changes to channel that force into her body, strengthening the elven flesh that played a dominant role within her steel-like frame.
“Nobody has any complaints about this, I know,” Phylgas said as she stepped onto a shaft over ten feet high, her posture exuding a strange beauty, like a lady descending from a carriage at a ball. After Forty-Seven used his foot thrusters to slowly ascend and end his watch, she bent down and extended her hand to the women below. “They will always be with me, just as I will always follow you… my master.”
Morriel seized Phylgas’s hand before any hesitation could show on her face. The hand still retained its delicate, slender shape, but the female mage immediately sensed the energy within it—the not only physical but also a torrential, raging spiritual force hidden behind steel-like barriers, gathering madness.
Were those elven subordinates recruited by Ironface when he was a terrorist in the Sleeping Forest? He truly cared deeply for her. Perhaps because they were all monsters born out of the Agus War… Initially, Morriel had no intention of delving into that war between the empire and the elves, nor did she care about the fates of those involved. Yet its consequences still reverberated, affecting everyone who had been part of it. That protracted farce ended without a true victor, and even Forty-Seven was entangled in the historical issues tied to the “Divine Armaments,” unable to escape.
Perhaps this proved a rumor circulating among the prophecy mages: We think life is a winding path from start to end, and that making the right choice at each fork will lead to a completely different fate. But in reality, all our judgments, predictions, and every person and event we encounter together weave a vast net over us. We try every means to escape it and strive hard to find the best outcome among its countless nodes. In the end, we realize that this net itself is the outcome, fate, and life.
“We are all soldiers chosen by fate.”
Forty-Seven offered no further comment on the fate of those corrupted elves. Perhaps it wasn’t unexpected—the lower realms always welcomed every visitor in their unique, cruel way, preparing a series of deadly feasts—pain, torture, corruption, death, and… bloody battles.
“You’re really lucky to have come out of there alive.” Those who participated in bloody battles were fools. Despite being a woman who made a living by selling her body, Eponie understood the essence of things better than most men.

They finally climbed out of the massive trash pit. The misty cold rain in Imprint City, carrying the smell of cooking fumes, fell on their faces, refreshing them and dispelling the stuffy, foul air from underground. Looking up, they could still see faint, scattered lights, so where this rain actually came from was indeed a topic worthy of serious study. “Where does the rain come from? Of course from the clouds, idiot.” The residents in the cage always replied dismissively to those who raised such questions, but in reality, aside from dust and oily smoke, there were no clouds floating above Imprint City, making such an explanation completely unfounded. That’s how people are—no matter how unreasonable or bizarre the situations may be, over time they become commonplace, and people develop an arrogant sense of superiority, mocking those who question them.

They now found themselves on a street of moderate width—it stretched into the dark clusters of houses, like lurking monsters, connecting, turning, and linking together to form a complete circle. Imprint City was the same, as were the outer realms, along with the upper and lower realms surrounding them, and countless material planes…

Following this circle.

“Fergas, you said you were chased to Imprint City by a group of Tanar’ri demons, right?” Tin-Faced glanced around, twisting his chin as he spoke, almost always getting it to touch his ear. It seemed he didn’t need vocal cords or a tongue to speak, perhaps not even a head.

“…It seems we’ll have to go to the Bottomless Abyss to avenge this arrow?” The elf didn’t speak; it was the female mage who answered.

Morril wasn’t unprepared for this. Demons weren’t easy to deal with—unlike what most people thought, making enemies of the truly formidable Batzu devils or Tanar’ri demons in the lower realms wasn’t easy at all. Their interest in primary material beings was far less than people imagined. The Batzu spent their days scheming to consolidate their power, suppressing others and preventing chaos, while the Tanar’ri were busy fighting other cruel and vicious beings, battling the ever-changing and terrible Bottomless Abyss, and striving to become “faster, bigger, stronger”… For other races, a reckless summoning, a fierce battle, or a successful expulsion wasn’t enough to draw their attention even slightly. Over the long years, the creatures of the lower realms had come up with a wise saying: “Those who don’t take the path to heaven will end up in hell by themselves.”

So, in a sense, Fergas achieving the status of being targeted by demons who controlled such powerful abyssal forces and driven to the brink was quite an accomplishment—though it was highly discouraged for any adventurer who wanted to stand out or attract girls to try and imitate it.

Even if Morril trained for another twenty or thirty years, she still wouldn’t want to visit the Bottomless Abyss. But what could she do? A faint smile curled her lips as she glanced at Forty-Seven with a smirk. Kaylo watched the flying little demons curiously, probably treating them as pets like cats or dogs, while Pippi preferred to stay closer to the Tin-Man than to her, harboring deep suspicion toward the girl.

Well. This is the path we chose.

“Of course. But not now.” Forty-Seven snapped his chin back into place with a click, his reply completely unexpected for Moriel. The next words surprised everyone even more: “The Bottomless Abyss is extremely dangerous, especially for mages.”
“Oh? I didn’t expect you to—” The female mage didn’t finish her sentence. She lowered her head to adjust her robe, and after a brief pause, there was a very subtle change in her expression and tone. “So what do we do now? Just keep touring the most wonderful cities in the multiverse?”
That left Forty-Seven stumped as well.
“Hmm… perhaps we should pay more attention to our deep hatred toward those goats?” He suddenly reached out and grabbed the little demon’s tail. “Be honest. I just remembered something I need to ask you…”
Phylgas, who had stayed at a distance from the others, turned around. The appendages on her shoulders instantly unfolded their ferocious claws, but the rain falling on her was silently absorbed without any signs of disturbance. It seemed as though the steel elf herself was a razor-sharp, vicious weapon—capable of turning even raindrops to dust with ease.
Almost at the same time, Moriel also turned to look in the same direction.
The female mage’s eyes shone like stars, piercing through the darkness of the rain. Moments later, a confident, deep, and magnetic voice came from the darkness, drifting in and out of range: “What an incredible masterpiece. Little Moriel, I don’t think you’re ready to handle such a vast fortune… In that case, don’t you think it’s the best choice to leave it in your teacher’s care?”
Protective magical auras lit up around Moriel. She cast spells quickly; within just a few seconds, she underwent a miraculous transformation from a flesh-and-blood being to something as unbreakable as iron, immune to fire and ice.
“Teacher Andre?” the female mage asked tentatively, signaling for Eponie, who lacked self-protection skills, to hide. Eponie reacted quickly, clearly experienced in dealing with such situations. Forty-Seven casually handed the reluctant little demon to Kayro, but his attention wasn’t on Moriel. His ghostly red eyes scanned the twisted, grotesque buildings, like a fierce beast wandering through deep valleys and dense forests, searching for prey.
“I’m glad you still remember your teacher’s voice after all these years.” A figure slowly stepped out from behind the shadowy rooftops and alleyways—his hands behind his back, holding a gleaming staff. An invisible umbrella seemed to shield him from the rain. Though not a single silver strand marred his well-groomed black hair, the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes revealed his true age.
Andre Kim, the chief instructor of transformation magic of the Red Robes, stopped dozens of steps away from Moriel. Even enemies had to admit that this noble-born chief of the Red Robes was always dignified and imposing. An invisible magical shield completely prevented him from being contaminated by the dirt of the outside world. In the muddy nest area of Marked City, he remained as lofty as an eagle soaring in the sky, almost identical to the image Moriel remembered.

“I’m sorry, Master Andrei.” Moriel quoted a famous saying from a previous Red Robe master who had eliminated an insolent local lord: “What a Red Robe mage sells to you is yours; if he doesn’t sell it, you can’t take it by force.”
“Hmph. Look how outstanding little Moriel is. Given time, we’ll all have to step down.” With a few mocking snickers, a tall man with a hooked nose appeared beside Andrei—his signature bald head, sunken eye sockets concealing a cunning gaze, and his archmage robe moving as if without wind, its folds shifting as if cut from the shadows of night.
“I’m afraid I’ll disappoint your high expectations, Master Cynis.” Moriel wasn’t surprised by the appearance of the head of the spellcraft division; she could sense that there were others lurking in the vicinity as well. But her former teacher hadn’t left any image in the female mage’s mind’s mirror—after all, Isabella was far more skilled in prophecy magic, almost to a masterful level, so it wasn’t surprising that she could conceal herself from Moriel’s detection.
The man with the hooked nose stepped forward arrogantly.
“I have no such ‘high expectations’ for you.” He waved his robe sleeve, making a gesture of someone in power giving orders: “Moriel, the masters unanimously believe that allowing you to continue like this is a serious detriment to the interests of the Red Robe mages. It’s not too late for you to turn back; we’ll persuade Isabella to overlook the past.”
“It seems my actions have been approved by Master Victor.” Moriel noticed that Cynis was a bit distracted, so she didn’t dare focus all her attention on the two Red Robes who had appeared. “And I recall your relationship with Master Isabella wasn’t very good, was it? How can I feel at ease then?”
“Moriel, you should know that the Red Robe mages never fight unprepared.” Andrei held his wand in front of him; the glow from it made his aristocratic, pale face appear even more bloodless. “That’s also a flaw you still can’t overcome. I must admit, you now possess power comparable to that of a master… but now you’re facing more than just one master.”
The head of the transformation division was quite eloquent and clearly skilled at using words to influence minds and undermine confidence: “And I believe that ‘it,’ though a trump card, isn’t enough to guarantee your victory. According to reliable sources, ‘it’ has been captured by the Agus Empire many times… Moriel, you surely can’t think that we Red Robe mages are inferior to those old archivists obsessed with archaeology in the Council?”
“Archmage Singer must have a different opinion on this,” Moriel said calmly with a smile. “But I have no obligation to defend him, and womanly courtesy also forbids me from expressing personal opinions at this moment.”
“Enough. Stop wasting words,” Cynis snarled. “Since little Moriel has made her stance clear, shouldn’t we now show her something that will make her respect us more?”
The head of spellcraft’s words created a tangible sense of pressure. The rain continued to fall softly, but Imprint City, usually bustling, was eerily quiet and subdued.

It was once again Phylgas who broke the deadlock. It was unclear what she had discovered, or perhaps what she had learned through Forty-Seven. The Steel Elf leaped upward like a leopard that had lurked for a long time before striking suddenly. Light burst from both of the red-robed mentors at the same time. A magically generated force field appeared out of thin air, pushing back the rain and creating a perfect circular area on the muddy streets. Perhaps the nature of the space within that spell’s range had also changed, but it couldn’t be confirmed whether it could truly render those ghostly attackers helpless.

Phylgas turned mid-air, defying the laws of physics. Her red eyes left a sharp arc of shadow, while her sharp high heels traced larger concentric circles, seemingly colliding with something in the void. Sparks flew as lightning flashed. The rain no longer fell straight down; instead, it splashed outward, revealing a faintly glowing, agile figure… and a pair of star-like blue eyes.

The blue light surged forward, cutting through the path traced by the red light. The Steel Elf then flipped mid-air, leaving behind a magnificent arc. As she swung her legs, she moved like a butterfly flapping its wings—her slender body bending downward caused the water on the streets to spread outward under immense pressure. Almost simultaneously, countless ripples appeared on the ground and in the air, spreading around Phylgas.

Light and shadow intertwined, and the dark night was illuminated by the dazzling reflections of the water droplets, blinding to the eye. Phylgas instantly became an indistinct shadow, moving so fast it seemed as if she were floating. She defied all known combat techniques; any part of her body could serve as a support point or a deadly weapon, with her scorpion-tail-like shoulder claws being just one of the most threatening features. They clashed rapidly with some unseen entity, and the splashing water became increasingly fragmented amid the increasingly intense and shrill sounds of metal colliding. Eventually, it turned into a white mist that enveloped the battlefield, expanding and contracting as it swirled. Two translucent human figures danced a deadly dance within it, chilling the onlookers—even Morriel, who had activated her magical vision, found it hard to keep up with their movements, unable to tell which chaotic colors indicated who was attacking in one moment and what would be torn or severed in the next. Perhaps that didn’t matter at all; such brutal intensity meant that only one would emerge victorious at the end—while the other would become a fragment no bigger than a raindrop, at which point the outcome would be clear.

Forty-Seven watched the match with interest, standing firm as a mountain. He couldn’t move as fast as Phylgas nor perform such intricate moves, but as the object of the plea “Grant me strength,” he was clearly quite satisfied with his own achievements.

The retreat was as swift as the attack. If shown in slow motion, it wasn’t too hard to describe: Phylgas appeared as if emerging from mist, his claws opening and closing rapidly, instantly adopting the style of Forty-Seven’s fierce attacks as he circled around the Blue-Eyed Beauty below him. Surrounded by his outstretched claws, she seemed to lose weight, placing one hand on the Steel Elf’s wrist and lightly climbing to the side, dodging all his blade attacks while flashing above her—such flexibility was beyond any steel machine, like a fish leaping against the current, breaking through the waves.

The collapsing force field sent rain splashing in all directions chaotically. The water curtain lifted by air pressure fell back down due to the vacuum created by high-speed movement, allowing others to clearly see the final scene. Phylgas was pressed below, his long steel limbs twisted together, while the enemy on his back took shape amid the blue electric light flowing through his body. She had arms and legs, yet her number of claws rivaled that of a spider, leaving Phylgas immobile—perhaps only her beautiful long ears, still retaining their elfin grace, remained somewhat free.

“Clang,” “clang,” “clang”—Forty-Seven was clapping.

“Ahem. You see, Morriel, life is like casting spells—surprises can happen at any moment.” The impact of countless raindrops like fine needles made the magic shield tremble slightly. Through it, André’s face appeared distorted: “It seems my trump card isn’t any smaller than yours. I have a proposal now… I say this out of respect for you, acknowledging your status. Let’s put aside swords; a mage’s problem should be solved in a mage’s way. What do you think, Morriel?”

The female mage considered for a few seconds.

“I’m honored, Master André. Shall we start now?”

She responded to Forty-Seven’s gaze with a smile: “I can handle it. It’s fine. But you… be careful.”

Forty-Seven glanced down at Kairo again, suddenly bending to grab the girl’s hand—Pipi took this chance to escape, vanishing in a flash. The Red-Faced One’s eyes burned fiercely, as if trying to pierce straight into her heart, yet he spoke as usual, nonsensically: “Did you hear that?”

The three red-robed figures, along with Kairo, left the place. Morriel didn’t take her with her but used teleportation magic to leave with the two masters. The girl smiled sweetly and stepped into the rain… disappearing into a silent mist.

“Kerry.” Forty-Seven adjusted his chin and whistled.

“Why? Why do you always have to pick on me? Last time it was like this, and now it’s the same. I really don’t understand—does beating a bunch of idiots give you a sense of achievement?”

“Kerry” detached herself from Phylgas. Each blade on her close-fitting armor kept changing as she moved, as flexible as silk. Phylgas didn’t launch a counterattack, though her gaze showed she wanted to. With a light flick of his finger, the Steel Elf immediately leaped onto the roof, paused briefly beside the crooked attic, and was soon swallowed by the shadows.

The Steel Lady strode forward, steady, graceful, and serene.

It was neither the languid posture of a noblewoman strolling in the garden, nor the standard, showy stance of a model on a runway—it was simply a proud, confident, silent movement. If one had to describe it, it was as if she were stepping into a realm that belonged to her, to them. Her blue eyes seemed fixed on Forty-Seven; if not, there was no need to wonder what she was looking at, for it didn’t matter. The glow in her eyes made everyone who gazed at her agree: it was a divinely ethereal presence.
“I have nothing to do with them,” she said, her voice as clear as a bell ringing in a valley. “You have nothing to do with them either. The only ones involved are you and me… that’s why I’m here.”
“Oh? Does that mean I should kneel down and propose now?” Forty-Seven spread his hands. “Maybe I’ll consider it seriously when I’m free. But right now I have things to do. Let’s make a fair deal—you stay out of my way, and I’ll try to care about your affairs. How about that?”
“Everything you do is a mistake.”
“Kerry” moved her fingers gently, not to become more agile. It seemed she had picked up some of the Tin Man’s bad habits as well. “I have the duty and responsibility to correct it. To help you get out of chaos and back on track, I must eliminate all factors that affect you. What made you forget your sacred mission? That woman? Impurities must be removed—I said, there’s no other choice.”
Forty-Seven’s expression darkened instantly. It was like a sky covered in clouds suddenly letting in a sliver of sunlight, or like a dormant volcano emitting a wisp of heat. His chaotic nature revealed itself for a moment, just as a cold, rigid iron block suddenly began ticking away.
“Very well. This is the path you’ve chosen,” he said. “You’ll have to pay one dollar eighty-five—Borleva can’t carry two people.”