Chapter 130: The Viscount Who Survived Disaster

The council chamber inside the castle was left a wreck after the fierce battle. The treants had smashed every door and window, their dripping venom turning the once luxurious carpet into a source of acrid stench. Gawain’s final strike shattered the entire southeastern corner of the floor and tore a gaping hole straight up to the ceiling. No matter how you looked at it, this place was in desperate need of repairs.

But compared to the losses suffered by the Leslie family in this catastrophe, what weighed heaviest on Gawain’s mind was the fact that, after all that chaos, the cultist had still escaped.

The Cult of the End of All Things—a heretical sect formed by fallen druids—their dark magic was truly insidious and unpredictable.

Pittman immediately began preparing a ritual spell to track the cultist’s aura. According to him, escape spells used in such emergencies had many limitations. Druids weren’t exactly known for their getaway skills; their teleportation magic often relied on the power of plants. So it was highly likely the cultist hadn’t gotten far—after one teleport, he was probably still somewhere inside the castle.

Just as the old druid pulled out the leaves and ointments needed for the spell, a sudden explosion shattered the night’s silence.

It was the sound of a crystal grenade detonating, and the direction… seemed to be where Knight Byron was.

Gawain’s face changed instantly as realization dawned. “Quick! To the outer corridor!”

But by the time they reached Byron’s location, the cultist was gone.

All that remained was a tangle of shredded vines torn apart by the blast, bloodied flesh scattered on the ground, and the middle-aged knight himself standing by the battlement, looking utterly helpless.

Gawain turned to Byron. “You better tell me you blew that cultist to bits with a single crystal grenade, and that what’s on the floor is all that’s left of him…”

Byron shrugged helplessly. “If you want the truth, here it is.”

Gawain: “…”

“The stuff on the floor is definitely part of him, but I didn’t expect a magic user’s body to be so tough,” Byron explained what had happened. “The grenade went off, but the guy was way too quick. He not only threw the grenade away at the last second but also had who knows how many survival items hidden on him. In the end, he just lost an arm. After that, he vanished into the woods behind the castle. I wanted to follow, but as soon as he entered the forest, his aura just… disappeared.”

“After all, he’s a druid.” Gawain frowned. Byron’s encounter had been a rollercoaster: first, the cultist accidentally ran into a weakened Byron; then the illiterate cultist caught a grenade like a fireball; and finally, despite being hit point-blank by a fireball, the cultist still escaped. You could only say the guy was incredibly lucky—he wasn’t meant to die tonight.

Gawain knew he had dealt a heavy blow. Even if the cultist used magic to flee, he couldn’t have completely avoided the aftermath of the Steel Storm. But who would have thought that this fifth-level cultist was not only a magic and martial hybrid but also a heavily equipped “pay-to-win” warrior? He still had survival gear on him despite the circumstances… That’s the way the rich play.

“It’s impossible to catch him now,” Pittman said regretfully, staring at the dense forest behind the castle. The woods stretched along the western slope of the Tanzan Mines, connecting to the distant forest. “Once a druid disappears into the forest, with our current manpower, there’s no way we can find him.”

“We’ve let a threat slip away,” Knight Philip said gravely.

“No,” Pittman shook his head. “The Cult of the End of All Things never acts rashly. If their operation in an area fails and their presence is exposed, they won’t move again for a while—unless there’s a target so important they’re willing to sacrifice many members. A druid cult that doesn’t specialize in combat surviving and growing this long isn’t reckless.”

“Anyway, at least we’ve neutralized the immediate danger here,” Gawain sighed, pushing down his frustration. “Pittman, go to the courtyard and try to dispel the magic on the victims. Save as many as you can. Byron, Philip, you two help out.”

When lives were at stake, the three nodded without hesitation and set off immediately.

“Amber, you and I will head back to the hall,” Gawain said, looking at her. “That poor Viscount Andrew is still just sitting there.”

As he spoke, he turned toward the rooftop exit.

But just as he was about to step forward, a faint glimmer in the darkness caught his eye.

Gawain stopped and carefully examined the spot where the light had flickered. Among the ruined, withering vines and fallen leaves, he found what he was looking for: a small, charred, broken finger wearing a delicate ring.

It was clearly a remnant of the black-robed cultist.

“Hey, you actually search the bodies after a fight? I thought you were too upright for that…” Amber came over curiously but stopped mid-sentence when she saw what Gawain held. “Wait, a ring? And it’s not even damaged?!”

Gawain easily removed the tiny ring from the carbonized finger. Half of its surface was blackened, but the rest still shimmered with a silvery glow under the starlight. This “accessory” had been at the very center of the crystal grenade’s blast, yet, as Amber said, it was completely intact!

A quick wipe made it shine brightly.

Gawain frowned slightly, feeling the ring looked familiar.

Soon, he recalled where he had seen something like it.

He took off his glove—and on his own finger was an identical ring!

That was…

“My token of affection?!” Amber suddenly shouted. “You have the same ring as that cultist? What’s your relationship?!”

“If you keep yelling, I swear I’ll knock you flat with one sword strike. You won’t even be able to get up!” Gawain glared at her, then lowered his head and placed the two rings side by side. “Looks like it really is a Mithril Ring…”

“Mithril Ring?” Amber suddenly remembered where Gawain’s ring came from. She recalled their trip to the capital months ago and the agent from the Mithril Treasury called ‘My Little Pony’—though she never met the agent in person (she was knocked away before she could see her face). But she had seen the ring Gawain got from that agent. “The Mithril Treasury?!”

Then it hit her. “You mean that cultist might also be a ‘VIP client’ of the Mithril Treasury, just like you?!”

“Those rings aren’t handed out casually. And no cultist would carry such an important item when going out to wreak havoc,” Gawain nodded. “Looks like the Mithril Treasury’s business is really booming.”

Amber was stunned. “Aren’t they afraid those cultists will ‘end’ them too?!”

Gawain chuckled indifferently. “They even take orders from the Elemental Lords. What wouldn’t they dare?”

He searched the rooftop carefully for more traces left by the cultist but found nothing else besides the ring.

Everything else had been blown to bits.

The two then returned to the hall where the battle had taken place. Viscount Andrew of Tanzan was still there.

In truth, he couldn’t have gone anywhere else. After days of torment from the fallen druids’ dark magic, and with no extraordinary abilities of his own—his magic barely sustained by potions—this viscount’s resistance and constitution were almost no different from an ordinary person. In fact, his frequent overdosing on potions had left him even weaker. Even now, free from the dark magic’s influence, his exhausted limbs couldn’t move.

He could only slump in his chair, helplessly watching as half his hall was torn apart, then as the others left, and finally as Gawain and Amber returned.

The only relief was that the battle’s aftermath hadn’t harmed him; the viscount was still intact.

“The cultist got away,” Gawain said frankly as he approached the viscount. “But he probably won’t come back—at least not anytime soon.”

The viscount’s eyes moved with difficulty. He took several deep breaths, his face a mixture of joy and worry. Weakly, he spoke first to thank them. “Thank you for your rescue… Your Grace, I truly believe befriending you was the best decision I’ve ever made… cough cough… I’m starving. Could you give me some food first?”

Gawain shook his head and pulled a small crystal vial from his pocket. “I want to feed you a proper meal, but you should drink this first.”

The viscount looked at the vial in confusion. “What is this…?”

“A potion brewed by the druids in my domain. It will restore your strength and repair your internal organs,” Gawain said, removing the stopper and bringing it to the viscount’s lips. “Your organs are nearly dead. Eating now would kill you. You need this potion to stabilize first.”

Though Pittman often sold useless “luck ointments” around the domain, his functional potions were genuinely effective. After drinking the stamina potion, the viscount’s complexion visibly improved within minutes.

Only then did Gawain ask, “What can you tell me about that cultist? How did you end up targeted by the Cult of the End of All Things?”

The viscount tried to force a bitter smile but failed, sighing deeply instead. “Ah… I only have myself to blame for digging up something I shouldn’t have.”

“Something you shouldn’t have dug up?” Gawain frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I unearthed a fragment of an Eternal Stone tablet…”

(End of chapter)