Chapter 1014: Manifestation

The harsh winter was already halfway through, and for those living near the borderlands, life was growing increasingly difficult.

Gesong Town had once been a prosperous and wealthy place—at least until this winter. Nestled near Winterfort, it served as a key transit hub connecting several border trade markets within Typhon’s territory. Even before the so-called “international trade” boom, it had been a vital stopover for merchants traveling back and forth.

Travelers from north and south brought in steady income, and the town thrived on their commerce. When trade routes opened up, sharp-witted entrepreneurs quickly transformed the town into a veritable goldmine within a year or two, giving it the faint aura of a burgeoning city. But… those good times didn’t last.

War had broken out.

Though the fighting hadn’t yet reached this far, the bustling prosperity was gone for good. Cross-border trade ceased, merchants avoided this troubled land, and the once-important transport hub was commandeered by the empire. Wagons laden with goods were replaced by ceaseless war machines and troops. The locals, who had once made their living from the steady flow of merchants, were now left with nothing but idle time.

Simpson, the innkeeper, sat by the window, worry creasing his brow as he polished a brass pipe. The pipe was empty, its gleaming surface spinning idly between his fingers like a trinket. Outside, the crystal-clear glass was fogged with condensation, blurring the street scene. A biting wind howled through the alleys, slipping through the imperfectly sealed window frame and chilling the middle-aged man, who had begun to lose his hair, causing him to hunch his shoulders and tuck his neck in.

He looked up and saw only a handful of patrons scattered across the inn’s main hall. The layout of inns in town was fairly standard: the ground floor served as a reception area and offered some drinks and snacks. But since the damned war began, the only things he could sell were watered-down spirits and coarse, hard biscuits.

A scruffy, bearded man sat at the nearest table, teetering on the edge of drunken stupor. Several empty bottles lay before him, the acrid stench of cheap ale seeping from his grimy coat, mingled with other suspicious odors.

Simpson frowned and called out, “Saville! You’ve had enough for today!”

The drunk barely lifted his head, waving a lazy hand in response before collapsing back onto the table.

Simpson shook his head, feeling he’d done his civic duty, and returned to polishing his brass pipe. But then, the sound of measured footsteps nearby caught his attention, and he looked up again.

His tired, impatient expression softened into a smile. A beautiful woman cloaked in dark fabric, dressed in winter hunting gear, was passing through the adjacent corridor. Her radiant golden hair seemed to warm the bleak winter air, and the pointed ears peeking from beneath her locks marked her as an elf.

“Lady Solderin, heading out?” Simpson asked with a smile. “The weather’s not exactly kind today…”

“I’m leaving this afternoon,” the elven huntress replied, her voice carrying a neutral, magnetic tone. “I want to try and hire a carriage to the mountain pass before the weather worsens.”

“You’re leaving already?” Simpson’s disappointment was barely concealed—though it stemmed more from financial loss than personal feelings. Since the war began, travelers had become scarce, and a noncombatant like this elven huntress was a rare, valuable guest—staying in the better rooms, demanding refined meals, unlike the rough soldiers passing through, and most importantly, never defaulting on her bills. From a money standpoint, she was worth more than a dozen drunken Savilles.

“I’m just passing through. My people are waiting for me,” Solderin said with a light smile, glancing toward the door. The elf’s identity was a convenient cover here—Typhon’s elven outpost guarding the grand wall lay near the northwest border, so an elf traveling in this area was perfectly natural. As long as she avoided the city’s mage sentinels and officials, she could easily slip into loosely governed border settlements like Gesong Town.

But caution was still necessary. With the front lines creeping closer to Winterfort’s core, tensions were rising. The massive aerial battle three days ago had shifted the entire war’s momentum. Now the whole Winterfort region was becoming a frontline. Agents from Typhon’s intelligence and the Winterfort count’s security forces were intensifying their checks on travelers. And as for her… she had already lingered here too long.

The vital intelligence had been sent out, the rangers and undercover operatives inside and outside the city had withdrawn in stages. This place was no longer safe.

“True enough,” Simpson shrugged helplessly. “You should return to your people. This brutal, bloody war isn’t fit for an elegant elf like you.”

Solderin only smiled, not bothering to correct the common misconception. Many believed elves to be a graceful, peace-loving race who, when the human world erupted in ugly wars, would retreat to idyllic forests to sing praises of peace and nature. This misunderstanding was especially widespread in the north.

In truth, elven rangers were among the fiercest warriors in the world. The Silver Empire had expanded its vast lands through war, and the ancestral forests had once been home to countless savage, bloodthirsty tribes. The Silver Elves didn’t tame those voodoo clans with art and music. But such details were hardly worth explaining to a human innkeeper on the border.

She simply nodded to Simpson and turned to leave. But just as she stepped forward, a sour stench wafted from nearby, causing her to pause and glance toward its source—the drunken Saville, now slumped asleep at the table, muttering incoherent curses in his dreams.

“He’s been here for days,” Solderin remarked casually. “Is he someone you know?”

“Ah… unlucky Saville. I suppose we’re somewhat acquainted,” Simpson sighed, glancing at the man. “He used to run an inn on the other side of town, but those rich merchants passing through muddled his head with unrealistic dreams. He borrowed a huge sum, even mortgaged his inn, to secure rights to three train carriages and a franchise license… all just this winter.”

Solderin listened sympathetically, stealing another glance at the drunken man.

The war’s destructive reach beyond the battlefield was becoming painfully clear. Saville was just a small example.

She shook her head, muttering to herself, “I hope this war ends soon.”

“If that happens, I’ll thank the gods,” Simpson said, fingers tapping his chest in a prayerful gesture. “I don’t know when these terrible days will end…”

Solderin said nothing more. Pulling her hood tighter, she turned toward the exit.

The tavern door opened and closed, a cold gust sweeping through the room. Simpson shivered as the chill brushed his neck, then instinctively glanced outside. He wiped the window glass, searching the street for the elven huntress’s figure, but saw only empty roads, the misty sky, and distant mountains.

Between the pale light and the mountain shadows, a towering figure clad in iron-gray armor seemed to drift through the void.

Simpson’s heart suddenly pounded as if struck by a heavy blow. The hazy silhouette froze his blood for a moment. After several seconds, he gasped sharply, regaining his senses. Panicked, he looked again—but against the mountain backdrop, there was no armored giant wandering about.

It had been a hallucination.

“Saville, Saville!” Simpson rapped his brass pipe on the table, trying to get the nearest man’s attention. “Did you just see that… never mind, what am I asking you for?”

…

Solderin weaved through several street corners and slipped into an alley, completely masking her presence. Even passing patrol mages failed to notice the fleeting glimpse of a “huntress” in their line of sight.

Once certain the area was safe, she stopped and thoughtfully gazed toward the mountains beyond the town.

She recalled recent rumors of “visions” circulating in town, her expression darkening briefly before she composed herself, returning to her usual cold detachment.

After surveying her surroundings again, she quickly found a concealed spot to change clothes. Elven garments were intricate and hard for humans to distinguish; with a few modifications, their appearance could be altered. She flipped her cloak inside out, showing the dull gray side, completely transforming her somewhat androgynous look.

Finally, she reached up to her head—and hesitated for a moment. But a friend’s words from years ago echoed in her mind: true strength lies in facing life’s harsh realities.

With a swift motion, she tore off her wig and tucked it away.

Winter’s wind was truly biting.

At a small crossroads on the other side of the alley, a carriage waited. Solderin stepped out, scanned the area in less than a second, and approached the driver with an expression as calm and unreadable as a still lake.

“Master Delin,” the coachman called out as soon as he spotted his employer, leaping down from the carriage with a respectful, eager smile. Elven warrior monks were shrouded in mystery, and such accomplished, well-read travelers were said to number fewer than a thousand across the entire continent. Not to mention, the passenger had paid double the fare—this was worth every ounce of the coachman’s lifelong courtesy and decorum. “Shall we set off now?”

“Thank you for waiting,” Solderin nodded slightly, his voice low and steady. “Let’s go. We’ll leave the city through the west gate.”

…

A decree from Cecil City had thrown the technicians at Solinfort, as well as Beltira herself, into a frenzy of activity. Joining them were specialists who had rushed over on flying machines from Cecil City, experts dedicated to the Psionic Singers project.

In the central district of the Solin Great Tree, on a plaza to the west side of the trunk, Wendy and several other technical experts from Cecil City stood alongside Solinfort’s own engineers. Before them, holding a lantern, Selina Gelph was gradually materializing like a spirit emerging from a dream into reality.

The “Lantern Saintess” tilted her head back, eyes fixed on the strange object hovering in the center of the open space ahead. Finally, she couldn’t help but glance sideways at Wendy. “Do you really think putting this thing on the battlefield won’t cause a massive psychological shock to our own soldiers first?”

Wendy opened her mouth to reply, but a hoarse voice, rough as wood scraping wood, came from the nearby bushes: “It’s strange hearing that from a Sleeper priest who specializes in mental attacks and crafting nightmares.”

Selina turned toward the voice and saw Beltira rising from the bushes. Twisting, writhing vines had somehow formed an avatar almost indistinguishable from a real person. This figure moved toward them, propelled by roots and tendrils that shifted beneath its lower half.

“We only create illusions on the mental plane,” Selina said with a helpless shake of her head, gesturing toward the object floating above the plaza. It was a massive artificial brain, over two meters in diameter. Its grayish-white flesh, tinged with pink, hovered several meters above the ground by means of anti-gravity. The uneven, furrowed surface pulsed and twitched slightly, while numerous tentacle-like nerve cords extended from its base, writhing and curling unconsciously as the brain floated. “When it comes to gross-out factor, you biochemists really take the cake.”

“…Is it really that bad?” Beltira pondered for a moment, then said with a hint of resignation, “But I kind of think it’s cute…”

The technicians behind Selina immediately wore expressions bordering on horror. Wendy pressed a hand to her forehead—

This plant woman’s sense of aesthetics… was clearly beyond saving.

(End of chapter)