Round 22: Declaration

“What are you doing! They have protective magic shields against damage! This will expose our location!” Alphens warned 47 anxiously in a low voice, but received only indifference in return.
A crystal on the aircraft flickered—indicating that all pre-stored imaging spells had been used up. The pilot began preparing to return. They had already ventured deep into the Sleeping Forest, greatly increasing the risk. If they encountered an elf patrol, the elf archers’ precision would be a minor issue; the powerful elf druids might order the treefolk to throw boulders or even summon lightning attacks. Although the aircraft had instant protective magic shields and force field shields, accidents could still happen. The mages certainly wouldn’t care about the soldiers’ lives, especially if they damaged such a sophisticated and expensive craft.
The aircraft circled upward, ready to leave once it found the right direction. The scout in charge took one last look at the forest below, just as a routine check—expecting nothing to be found. But this time, he was shocked to see a blinding red light through the binoculars—it wasn’t a heat reaction; it was as if he were looking at the sun.
“Enemy attack!” the scout shouted in a changed tone. The pilot reacted quickly, pulling a lever. Iron rings on the aircraft snapped open, and a visible wave of magic energy spread outward from them, forming a spherical energy shield that enveloped the entire aircraft—
Flame missiles struck the aircraft with long trails, sending it spinning. The scattered flames made it seem as though a third sun had appeared in the sky.
The magic shield blocked the attack but flickered several times before fading away.
“Go! Quick!” the scout urged. He was sure it wasn’t an ordinary fireball spell—its range and power were completely different. If it hit again, they wouldn’t be able to escape!
His luck shattered along with the melting hull. The second attack hit the aircraft precisely, turning half of it into fragments mixed with flames and thick smoke.
47 retracted his arm cannon and watched satisfactorily as the aircraft fell. “Let’s go take a look.”
“Craft Number 6 has lost contact in Sector 11 of the Sleeping Forest!”
In the vast domed hall, several people in white robes with gold trim gathered around a huge, mirror-like circular device. One of them exclaimed in surprise.
“Oh? Is that so?”
The person in charge, reclined in a velvet chair, asked indifferently. Her attention was entirely on the massive magic book in her hands—the book seemed to constantly change shape, as if it existed outside the world in some chaotic time vortex. Sometimes it was brand new, sometimes ancient and tattered, covered in snow-white spell symbols. Its patterns kept shifting, like ripples on water’s surface…
“Should we send a search team?” the white-robed mage asked cautiously.
“That’s good… Send someone to check, but don’t bring any armored weapons.”
“What… What? No armored weapons?”

The white-robed mage asked in astonishment, but then wisely fell silent upon seeing the fervent gaze behind those gold-rimmed glasses: “Yes!”
“This stale standoff is truly boring,” said Daguras as she stood up and stretched—her graceful figure fully revealed by the modified mage robe. She pushed up her gold-rimmed glasses and said to the person lying on another chaise nearby, meditating with closed eyes, “When will something interesting happen? Hmm? Can you predict it?”
“Isn’t sending people to die for no reason interesting enough?” the other person ignored her.
“Don’t say that—” Daguras’ voice sounded like she was acting spoiled, “Constructed weapons are limited, but soldiers are not. Since we’ve already lost one aircraft, why keep wasting limited resources? Right, Moriel?”
The crashed aircraft snapped countless branches and crashed between two large trees, sending thick smoke into the air. The plants were burned, and insects fled in panic. The intense smoke and burnt smell brought an unpleasant atmosphere to the forest. As the breeze blew, the ancient trees rustled, seemingly expressing dissatisfaction at this desecration of nature—though it was unclear whether they were upset by the metal objects that could fly in the sky or by the random firing.
Seeing this scene, the night elves showed a hint of disgust. They abhorred any act of cutting down trees in the Sleeping Forest, let alone setting fires in it.
Alphens stepped back a few paces to avoid the spreading smoke, remaining silent as if deep in thought.
Josen observed her from the side and suddenly said, “Uncontrolled power brings unimaginable costs.”
Forty-Seven stepped into the smoke as if it were just a thin mist.
It took a while before he came out, seemingly having found nothing interesting—or perhaps having found something but not intending to share it.
The elves used plant growth magic to extinguish the fire and covered up the wreckage of the aircraft, then continued on their journey. Yet their gaze toward Forty-Seven carried even more complex and unfathomable emotions.
White owls flew freely through the forest, calling out as they returned to Alphens’ shoulder, making her smile with joy: “We’re almost there! Our people are waiting for us at the crossing!”
The River of Unicorns—legend has it that this great river deep in the Sleeping Forest was once the habitat of unicorn herds. Even now, sacred unicorns occasionally come here to drink. The beautiful river winds its way through the forest, surrounded by lush ancient trees and serene, picturesque clearing. Together with rivers like those of the little fairies and swans, it forms the waterways that nourish the Sleeping Forest.
Humans who came here for the first time stared in awe at the beautiful scenery—the hazy light filtering through the dense forest, refracted by the mist, took on a fresh, light blue hue. Combined with the shimmering water and the elves, who appeared even more ethereal against such a backdrop, everything seemed dreamlike and unreal. Even Alphens’ voice sounded as if it were coming from afar, barely audible.

Milia led Bingxue carefully onto the elves’ pointed canoes. She scooped up a handful of water and drank it; the sweet, cool sensation instantly permeated her entire body, sweeping away all her fatigue. Her gloomy mood over the past few days also lifted, and she even felt a slight aversion toward Agus: How could such a beautiful place and the creatures that lived there be evil?

If Forty-Seven could hear her thoughts, he would surely disdainfully tell her that the abyss was also beautiful—its sky red as fire, its land covered in ashes, its bottomless chasms, and countless hellish creatures fighting for survival—all of which displayed a grand and magnificent beauty, no less stunning than this delicate, fresh beauty before her. Beauty is beauty; a beautiful, graceful maiden is beautiful, a ferocious water monster is also beautiful, and even flies and bugs, viewed under a microscope, can evoke a sense of twisted, strange beauty. What difference is there between good and evil?

Forty-Seven sat in a pointed canoe. On the long canoe were only he and two elves who rowed it, yet the water still lapped high, almost to the point of sinking.

The waves created by the canoe disturbed the river surface as the elves rowed upstream with no apparent effort, as if they had merged with the river itself. In just over half a day, they arrived at the elves’ camp.

Dozens of fully armed elves were waiting for them at the ferry crossing. Most had purplish-red skin like Alphens, some had brownish skin, and a very small number had a stern grayish-black complexion. To Forty-Seven, those grayish-black dark elves looked the most pleasing.

An elf druid stepped forward from the group, hugged Alphens, who was the first to disembark, and then spoke with him in elvish for a while. He wore a hat adorned with antlers, but upon closer inspection, it turned out to be carefully carved from dead wood, not real antlers. Fine crow’s feet could be seen at the corners of his eyes, his brown skin was somewhat loose, and the gray hairs at his temples were quite noticeable. Such old age was extremely rare among elves, usually indicating that he was nearing death. But to Forty-Seven, this old fellow wrapped in a bark-like cloak seemed quite robust, even looking healthier than the elf warriors around him.

Those who do not die in old age become spirits.