Chapter 1318: The Linhai Defensive Line

Crack… crack… rumble!

Ancient, towering trees—some centuries old—sprang up from the fertile forest soil, surging forward to confront the twisted abominations pouring out from the forest’s edge. With the grinding sound of wood scraping wood, the massive branches crashed down from above, smashing those malformed monstrosities into bloody pulp. Behind the trees, elite rangers had already drawn their bows, their specially enchanted longbows shimmering with runic light. The finely crafted arrows’ tips rippled with three flickering azure vortices, and a low hum of resonating air filled the battlefield.

“Charge all energy—aim, fire!”

The commander’s voice rang out from the high ground. Dozens of arcane-charged arrows, carried by the swirling blue wind blades, soared over the scorched crowns of the guardian trees. They arced through the air and struck the far end of the road where a group of monsters, barely recovering from the tree’s crushing blow, staggered to their feet—only to be pierced one after another. The energy within the arrows ignited in a chain of explosions inside their bodies. Amid rising smoke and flames, this wave of creatures that had burst from the forest was finally wiped out.

“Squad One, hold position and rest. Squad Two, retrieve arrows. Medics, tend to the wounded!” A human commander descended from a nearby rise, issuing orders among the soldiers. His head was wrapped in bandages, once white but now stained dark red with blood and soot. His enchanted longsword was smeared with gore, its magical glow dimmed to near extinction. Exhausted, bloodshot eyes staring ahead, his voice remained strong and commanding—only this resolute tone could keep the warriors standing their ground.

Not far off, the towering guardian tree groaned with fatigue. It lumbered to the edge of the battlefield, driving its roots deep into the earth once more. Drawing the scarce nutrients from the soil, it began to mend its wounds while stretching its canopy toward the dawn light spreading over the forest’s edge. The tree’s crown was scorched and blackened by fire and smoke; the few remaining green leaves trembled in the wind, rustling softly.

Several silver-haired elves rose from among the human soldiers and approached the weary guardian tree. They appeared to be communicating with it in a strange, melodic cadence. The human commander couldn’t understand the unique rhythm of the elves’ speech to the plant, but he noticed their faces growing increasingly grave. Clearly, the tree’s condition had reached a critical point.

Footsteps echoed from the nearby forest. The resting human rangers instinctively gripped their weapons tighter, but upon recognizing the source, they relaxed and resumed recovering, savoring this rare moment of respite.

The mixed force’s human commander turned toward the sound and saw a tall, imposing silver elf clad in pale golden alloy light armor leading a dozen soldiers through the trees. He immediately stepped forward. “General Lomarl.”

“No need for formalities. I’m inspecting the line,” the silver elf ranger general from the Silver Empire interrupted. His armor bore little bloodstain, yet every movement radiated a brutal, battle-hardened aura far stronger than anyone else present. This general seemed to have slaughtered thousands on the front lines without a trace of dirt or corruption on himself. “How are things here?”

“The soldiers are near exhaustion, and our weapons are badly damaged,” the human commander replied grimly. He took an arrow recently retrieved from the front lines and pointed to the melting arcane module at its tip. “The enchanted arrows are being consumed too quickly. They’re already this damaged—probably only good for two more volleys before they completely melt down. And regular arrows barely harm those monsters…”

Lomarl’s gaze fixed on the nearly spent magical arrow, his expression grave and silent for a long moment.

Too costly. These intricate arcane devices are difficult to produce. Even with the combined resources of the Silver Empire and the Highland Kingdom, the treasury can only supply a limited number. In a typical “normal war,” such consumption might be acceptable. But the hordes of abominations flooding out of the wasteland number in the millions. These thick-skinned beasts can only be truly killed by these enchanted weapons. The magical arms in the hands of the defenders here are nearly depleted.

“Lord Valendian’s reinforcements have crossed the Returner’s Long Bridge and will soon reach the front,” the ranger general exhaled softly, sharing the latest news to bolster the weary fighters. “Including three star-astrologer battalions and at least six ranger regiments. Your king is also mobilizing border troops from the west and east. Our pressure here will ease soon.”

“That’s good news. Once reinforcements arrive, I believe we can hold out until then,” the human commander nodded firmly, raising his voice deliberately. Then, lowering it, he glanced swiftly toward the still-smoking forest edge and asked urgently, “General Lomarl, what’s the situation at the Star Temple?”

“The breach from the wasteland into the line has been mostly sealed. Only a few enemy stragglers slip through small gaps now. The massive ‘tide’ won’t come again,” Lomarl said solemnly. His tone was calm but carried a sharp, icy edge, like a hidden blade. “Our task now is to hold back the monsters already inside the forest line. We cannot let them regroup and spread corruption into the civilized world.”

The human commander acknowledged the order with a grave nod. Lomarl passed him and strode toward the nearby guardian tree.

The elves tending the giant tree immediately saluted their highest commander. One spoke in a low voice, “General, its condition is very poor…”

Lomarl nodded and approached the tree’s base. The ancient guardian seemed to be in a brief slumber. Its crown twitched and swayed in the wind. The mottled bark was scarred with shocking wounds. Sap oozed from the trunk, dried and cracked under the fire and smoke. The corrupting power of the abominations had left unhealable corrosion marks in those injuries.

How many deadly assaults had this venerable guardian helped the humans and elves on the line withstand?

The guardian trees were the Highland Kingdom’s main defense against the encroaching wasteland in southern Gondor. These permanent treant sentinels, created through druidic magic, were originally brought to the Loren Continent from distant southern isles by the Silver Elves and planted along the northern border of the Highland Kingdom. After seven centuries of growth, they formed a vast forest along this long frontier—yet today, they had suffered a devastating blow.

Each border nation facing the vast Gondor Wasteland had its own bulwark. Old Ansu had the natural Dark Mountains and the Cecil Line. Typhon had border swamps and powerful mage and knight orders. The Ogure tribe nation had mountain barriers and fierce beast-warriors. But the Highland Kingdom… between it and the wasteland lay only open plains and gentle hills. Without natural defenses, their only hope against the wasteland was these guardian trees planted by the elves—and the blood and flesh of generations of border soldiers.

Crack… crack…

The sound of wood scraping wood suddenly came again. The guardian tree, roused from its brief rest by Lomarl’s approach, awakened. Its crown shook, and the upper bark’s grooves resembled a wrinkled, ancient face turning toward the ranger general. A trembling voice, only understandable to elves, whispered through the scorched leaves into Lomarl’s ear: “Do you need me to fight, General?”

“You need rest,” Lomarl said slowly. “We’ve cleared the nearby enemies for now.”

“Enemies… still many…” the tree creaked. “They spread through the forest… mindless, like a plague that grows wider. My brothers and sisters… many have fallen silent. General, I smell the forest burning. The plague ignites toxic fel flames, scorching my kin…”

Lomarl’s voice was calm and cold. “We will ‘purify’ this plague. Those monsters will turn to mud, nourishing your brothers and sisters next year.”

“Purify… good, but they’re not good nourishment…” the tree murmured, voice growing faint. “They… taste foul, worse than dirt…”

The ancient guardian, rooted here for centuries, seemed to have accumulated considerable wisdom over its long life. It appeared to try to lighten the mood with a grim joke, but Lomarl showed no smile. He silently watched as the tree’s branches drooped, its bark and roots stiffened like a true plant’s, and the magic flowing within it slowly faded. It fell utterly silent, no longer emitting any sign of sentience.

The wind blew from afar, rustling the dry branches and leaves, producing a soft, mournful sound. The guardian had died—standing tall on the land it had protected for seven centuries, it passed away at this dimming dawn.

Lomarl gazed long at the fallen guardian. A nearby elf ranger whispered, “It was planted by the Queen and Master Virania herself…”

Lomarl said nothing. He took a slow breath and placed his hand on the tree’s dry, scarred trunk. He wanted to bid a brief farewell to this comrade before rallying the troops for the next battle. But at that moment, an indescribable tremor surged through his heart, causing him to pause.

An invisible wind swept through the entire forest in that single second. An unseen force brushed over every inch of the defensive line.

The nearby rangers seemed to sense something too. They looked up in stunned silence, searching for the source of the wind, but all they saw were the treetops rustling in the breeze. Every plant in the forest swayed in harmony with the gusts. This forest, which had been slowly dying, suddenly seemed to come back to life. Even the foul, acrid stench that had hung in the air began to fade away.

Moved, Lomarl instinctively turned toward the ancient guardian tree that had just died—and to his astonishment, he saw tender new shoots quietly sprouting from its bark. The once withered, brittle branches softened and swayed gently in the wind. Then, his gaze shifted toward the distant sea of trees, where waves of green pulsed and surged. In the next moment, a voice he knew well—but now carried with an overwhelming majesty—resounded through the entire forest, carried on the chorus of countless ancient trees:

“People of the Silver Empire, allies of the Highland Kingdom, I am the Silver Empress, Belsethia Morningstar.

“I have returned, and now I speak to you through this forest.

“The enemy’s reinforcements have been cut off. The breach in the wasteland has been sealed. The pollution that once choked this land is beginning to dissipate. The hardest trials are behind us—our defenses hold, and our homes remain safe behind us.

“Across the wasteland border, fierce battles still rage along the Alliance’s frontlines. Civilization has not crumbled beneath the onslaught of those monsters. I have received word from the northern continent, and I am certain that reinforcements from the south will soon arrive at the front.

“But until then, the mutants lurking within the forest barrier still threaten our homes and kin. These mindless creatures will instinctively continue to spread toward the lights of civilization—and we… we are the very edge of that civilization.

“Here and now, as your Silver Empress and as one of you, I implore everyone within the forest barrier to fight on bravely. Hold the ground beneath your feet. Protect your comrades at your side. Guard this forest—no matter what, we cannot retreat another step.

“Brothers and sisters, hold fast. Hold out until the reinforcements come. Whatever the course of history after today, our descendants will forever remember this day—

“Today, mortals endure!”

The wind howled over the forest canopy, setting every leaf and branch to thunderous song. The entire forest barrier seemed to awaken from its deathly slumber. Bathed in the spreading dawn light on the horizon, Lomarl felt as if the forest itself was roaring like a mountain and sea.

“General…” a ranger beside him said, his young face a mixture of confusion and excitement. “Was that just now—”

“That was our Empress,” Lomarl breathed softly, gripping his longsword. His eyes blazed with renewed fire as he looked at his soldiers. “Did you hear the orders, soldier?!”

“Yes, General!”

…

“Is this enough?”

At the southern edge of the fallen Star Temple, along the forest’s defensive line, the great stag Amon’s form was hidden among collapsed boulders and the charred remains of dead trees. Belsethia stood atop Amon’s shoulder, gazing toward the forest barrier still shrouded in the smoke of battle. She lowered her head and spoke softly to the stag.

“This will do,” Amon nodded gently. “The forest has begun to regenerate, but more important than that is the rebirth of hope. Few have the strength or the will to notice the forest’s overall change, but every soul here heard your voice.”

“…I must return to them,” Belsethia whispered.

Amon remained silent for a long moment, staring out at the forest and the Silver Empire’s people fighting within it. After a while, he rumbled low from his throat:

“Then… I too must return to where I belong.”

(End of chapter)