Round 32: Quote

Anton’s long sword traced a semicircle in the air, deflecting Milia’s greatsword. A beam of sunlight pierced through the gaps in the trees and reflected into her eyes—Anton immediately swung his sword again. Milia stepped back but tripped over a raised root and lost her balance. The old paladin pushed her forcefully, leaving the female paladin sitting helplessly on the ground.
“Hehe…” Anton leaned on his sword and bent down slightly to pull Milia to her feet.
“Mr. Anton, your skills are truly admirable,” said Josen, who had been watching from the side, sincerely.
“Hehe, but strength and speed aren’t the only things in battle. An old man like me can only rely on a few tricks to find opportunities…” Anton watched as the glow on Milia’s body faded. Though his tone remained casual, his words grew serious: “I still advise you to use your sacred power as little as possible, young lady. Your sacred power is very strong—stronger than anyone I’ve ever seen… But you must understand that sacred power is a sword bestowed by justice, yet it’s we who wield it… Don’t wield it recklessly. Justice sometimes must be imposed in cruel ways, but don’t be deceived by such necessity, just as you shouldn’t let your first impressions blind you…”
“But…” Milia seemed unwilling to give up. “God has given us the power to detect evil…”
“Evil can certainly be detected,” Anton said, slinging his long sword over his shoulder. “But isn’t the Lord of Glory also the god of law? I remember a saying: ‘Law is like sunlight, shining on good people as well as bad.’ We don’t have the right to punish others. To be precise, we are tools through which justice and fairness are upheld, not the other way around…”
Before Anton could finish, chaos seemed to erupt in the village.
An elf rushed over in a hurry, “Paladins! We need your help!”
The entire elf village quickly turned into an emergency hospital.
Milia pulled her hand away from the eleventh severely injured elf, her face pale.
Yet that elf’s condition had improved significantly—his once rapid and weak breathing had steadied, and his bleeding wounds showed signs of healing.
“Don’t push yourself too hard, Milia,” Josen said, walking over. His face was also exhausted, clearly having used up all his sacred power to treat the wounded.
“But…” Milia sat dejectedly, watching the now-stable patients being carried away for treatment by the elf druids. Even with all the druids in the village doing their best, many would likely not survive the night.
Milia looked at the forest village, which resembled a fairyland, filled with pained groans and the scent of blood—her good mood from meeting the holy knight in the morning had completely vanished.
She didn’t see Anton; the elder must also be busy treating the wounded—probably with Archdruid Uther.
“Old friend… I’m sorry to burden you,” Anton said, standing slightly hunched in the small square inside the elf giant tree, looking at the wounded all around him, his age clearly evident.

Most elves suffered damage from shaping spells, and even if they could recover their health, it would likely be impossible for them to regain their once beautiful and elegant appearance.
Uther stood silently like a wooden statue, taking a long time before answering, “Thunder and rain are gifts of nature… there’s nothing to complain about.”
Anton felt a chill—he heard anger in the great druid’s tone that certainly wasn’t natural.
After a full day of activity, the elf village fell back into silence.
Si Si Qi stood alone at the ferry crossing. The great druid Uther was too busy to see him and simply asked Kast to arrange for Si Si Qi to spend the night in the warrior’s small hut. He knew nothing about battlefield first aid or medical care; in fact, whenever he approached a wounded person, the bandages would start bleeding again—though unintentionally.
Anton and Milia stood on the nearby shore, watching Si Si Qi. Milia still looked uneasy, while Anton stroked his gray beard, remaining indifferent.
In Milia’s eyes, that dark figure against the backdrop of the dense forest seemed to possess an indescribable sense of harmony. How was that possible? The thought sent a shiver through her—how could such a beautiful forest be associated with such a monster? As her thoughts progressed, the scene before her seemed to undergo some mysterious change—the elegant forest gradually became eerie, enveloped in a gloomy atmosphere. The faint light of the setting sun filtered through the gaps in the ancient trees, casting strange, patchy shadows around that creature, which twisted and danced with the breeze, like a group of ghosts celebrating around it.
All the chaotic scenes from her encounters with this evil semi-pyreal creature surged together, and suddenly, the bloodstained bodies of the elves during the day added to the scene, coloring everything red.
Milia stepped back, pale, feeling dizzy for a moment. Panicked, she reached behind her and, not feeling the familiar hilt of her sword, remembered she hadn’t brought any weapons.
Anton placed a firm hand on her shoulder, making her feel as if she were leaning against an ancient tree.
“Don’t let your illusions scare you,” he said in a deep, steady voice. “Don’t think that only strength can help you face fear… What you need to overcome now isn’t that pyreal creature—it’s yourself.”
Milia steadied herself.
Yes, she was afraid, afraid of an evil she was completely powerless to resist. The first time she encountered this monster, she had a slight advantage—she managed to harm its flesh using the power of her innate holy sword skills. But in the subsequent battles or encounters, she was always at a severe disadvantage. Perhaps it wasn’t obvious on the surface, and Josen hadn’t noticed either, but she knew it herself—every time she prayed, every time she reflected inward, even every time she swung her sword, she thought of this evil presence. It was a deep sense of powerlessness—a force of destruction rampaging unchecked on earth, while she could do nothing…

Many times, she even wanted to recklessly engage in a deadly fight with that monster who called himself Forty-Seven. Though it would be her who fell, it was still better than being looked down upon by him with utter contempt, as if she were just a little dog barking at a lion! This feeling of frustration and powerlessness reached its peak after witnessing the devastation caused by the war between the Night Elves and Agus. When she rested, exhausted from using her sacred power, and faced that creature again, she even began to doubt the beliefs she held—was justice really useful?

It is always our own hands that fight with swords and blades! Justice is not merely enforced through the power of swords. Even the weakest and most fragile beings deserve to hold their heads high in the face of dragons—what truly combats fear is not strength, but courage.

Milia closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then opened them again. She stepped forward toward Forty-Seven. She wanted to talk to him. Since both the Brass Dragon Abazig and the old Holy Warrior Anton had confirmed that he was not a purely Infernal evil being, she should have the courage to face the consequences of her mistaken judgment. At the very least, she should apologize for her previous recklessness. This was not only the virtue expected of a Holy Warrior but also a way to overcome her inner obstacles and achieve redemption.

Suddenly, Forty-Seven turned his head 180 degrees, facing away, which startled Milia greatly. “If you are not with me, then you are my enemy.” Those strange words, uttered from his hoarse, metallic throat, made Milia forget what she had wanted to say. It wasn’t Common or any other language she knew. Milia widened her eyes. “What? Clothes, oil…?”

Forty-Seven also turned around. He had long noticed the two Holy Warriors, one old and one young, behind him, but he had been too lazy to pay them attention and had been lost in his own thoughts. He glanced at Milia, then at Anton over there. “Don’t understand?” Milia nodded dumbly. I knew you wouldn’t understand. Forty-Seven smirked and switched to another language. “Then you must also not know what ‘a tree of pear blossoms pressing down on the crabapples’ means.” With that, he stepped away from the dock, even humming some lively tune—this Infernal creature was strutting past her, humming some country tune!

Milia was stunned for a moment. All her previous thoughts turned into anger—although she still didn’t understand those seven strange syllables, they surely weren’t kind words. “You filthy Infernal creature!” she shouted at Forty-Seven’s back, but the only response she got was Anton’s wry smile.

The next day, three canoes left the ferry dock and drifted deeper into the forest. Castor and five other fully armed Night Elf warriors were in one canoe, tasked with opening the way and providing protection. Forty-Seven still occupied another canoe alone, being the only passenger besides the oarsman.

To his slight annoyance, Milla and Anton were on another boat traveling with him, as they too were heading to the Priest tribe—but Josen stayed in the Druid village to take care of and help the injured elves, as the power of sacred healing was far greater than ordinary healing spells or potions.