Chapter 1329: Overlooking the Darkness

A commander of a grand legion had fallen—this was the highest-ranking dark priest to die since the war began. The soul-wail that erupted the moment Marcellus’s mind shattered swept through the vast root network of the wasteland like a fierce gale: piercing, sharp, laced with intense hatred and fury, yet also tinged with unmistakable fear and unwillingness to accept his fate.

That shrill cry pierced the mind of High Priest Borken, who looked warily toward the western plains shrouded in darkness, whispering again under his breath, “Marcellus is dead…”

The lower nodes soon caught wind of the shocking news. The dark forest surrounding the small hill rustled with a chaotic chorus of branches and leaves, the twisted “trees” whispering among themselves across the plains. The aberrant army under their command stirred uneasily—but the ripples were short-lived. A mental command from the High Priest quickly restored silence throughout the entire order.

Two figures ascended the platform atop the hill, one following the other. Borken’s deep brown eyes shifted as he took in the twin sisters who came into view. “Looks like you’ve received the news as well.”

“We heard the cries through the root network—the wail at the moment Marcellus died was deafening,” Filna shook her head. “Such a tragedy.”

“He was our comrade, and yours as well,” Borken snapped, shaking his withered branches, his gaze fixed on the indifferent faces of the elven sisters. “You should at least show some respect.”

“Of course, we mourn his loss deeply,” Relna replied earnestly, “but regret won’t bring High Priest Marcellus back. What matters now is what intelligence he managed to send before his death. How did he die? Wasn’t the western front the most successful of all the legions? Marcellus even reported that within a week he could take Ruby City, and within two weeks crush all resistance in Augure, securing the Forefather’s Peak. How could he suddenly fall?”

“A force of aerial troops from Cecile entered the western battlefield,” Borken’s gaze lingered on the elven twins before he continued in a low voice. “Before that, the western legion’s advance was indeed smooth. Marcellus had reached the gates of Ruby City, but then the Cecile reinforcements arrived…”

Borken paused for two seconds, as if carefully extracting the last mental signals Marcellus had sent. After a moment, he resumed, “He described a scene that sounded almost exaggerated—he said the Cecile forces ‘made the city float in the sky, fighting with flying fortresses and castles.’ He called it a war machine purer than even the Star Sanctum—and our aerial forces were no match for those flying fortresses.”

At last, a trace of seriousness appeared on the sisters’ faces. They spoke in unison, “The Swollen Polluters didn’t have any effect?”

“They couldn’t get close. Those flying fortresses were heavily escorted, and their firepower far outmatched the Swollen Polluters,” Borken said gravely. “I don’t know if Marcellus exaggerated… but according to him, our flying troops and anti-air defenses barely made a dent against the Cecile fortresses.”

“Even so…” Relna pondered aloud, “our legion’s command nodes are far from the front lines, and Marcellus was always cautious—he wouldn’t have charged headlong into battle himself. Even if the vanguard was overwhelmed by Cecile’s flying fortresses, he should have had ample time to retreat. Bertram managed to escape unscathed when he encountered the living forest on the northern front. How did Marcellus get killed when he already had the battlefield advantage?”

“That part is unclear,” Borken’s tone grew even more serious. “The earlier intelligence was sent when he still had some margin, and it was clear and detailed. But just before his death, something chaotic happened. The information we received was fragmented and heavily disrupted… The only certainty is that at the time, Cecile’s main force was still near Ruby City. Shortly after, we lost contact with the western legion’s command unit, and within minutes, Marcellus’s final transmission entered the root network…”

“A kind of ultra-long-range attack—fast and devastating—broke through the layers of defense around the command node. It likely caused severe communication interference,” Filna added quickly. “We can’t tell if the interference was a side effect of the attack or another Cecile technology… This is really bad.”

“Yes, very bad,” Relna nodded, then looked to Borken. “What’s the situation on the western front now? Who’s controlling the aberrant army after Marcellus’s death?”

“Not only Marcellus died, but also over a dozen priests around him—that was a massive strike,” Borken’s mood darkened further. “After the command node vanished, the western legion fell into chaos. Though I immediately transferred command to Banor, the closest node, many ‘soldiers’ far from the command node permanently lost control… The rogue aberrants can’t stand against the grand legion; they’ll likely be wiped out soon. The western legion has now contracted to the Wind-Eroded Valley line under Banor’s control and is beginning to retreat south.”

“A complete rout—utterly disgraceful,” Filna sighed. “Looks like our grand plan won’t be so easy to realize, High Priest.”

“Save your pointless lamentations, unless you intend to just watch the show,” Borken snorted. “Tell me your thoughts—this situation has gone beyond our initial plan. We’ll need to adjust our next moves.”

“Don’t worry too much, High Priest,” Relna smiled calmly. “Not all our forces in the wasteland have been deployed—we haven’t shown our full strength. As for the Cecile forces… yes, they’re unexpected, but they can’t guard every border. We don’t need to raze every inch beyond the wasteland. We only need to place the runestones and let the mortals enjoy their hollow victories on localized battlefields. Loren is vast; in the later stages, they’ll have to abandon some lands to maintain their position. The true victor will be decided only after we’ve ‘tamed’ the entire planet.”

Relna’s steady, confident words seemed to lift Borken’s spirits somewhat. The branches at the edge of his crown stretched out slightly, though his tone remained grave. “But we must admit, if the Cecile forces keep this up, the window for placing runestones will narrow. The mortal defenders on the eastern and southern fronts have united, throwing their entire nations against us—especially the elves. The fall of the Star Sanctum didn’t break their morale; it unleashed their millennia-old legions. Every runestone we place now costs two or three times more than before. This is not a good trend.”

“Indeed, this can’t continue,” Filna agreed. “We need to find weaknesses in the mortal defenses again, and intelligence is key—especially on Cecile. Since the war began, they’ve surprised us too many times. Such ‘surprises’ are dangerous on the battlefield. Their living forest is still trying to spread into the wasteland, and those flying war fortresses won’t just stay near Ruby City. We have to uncover the truth behind these threats.”

As Filna finished, Relna added, “Speaking of Cecile’s living forest, I’ve heard that ‘Lady Beltira’ has been trying to breach our ‘immunity barrier’ in the north?”

“Yes… that woman!” Borken’s voice grew bitter at the mention of Beltira, once a “comrade.” “She inherited all of Franken’s legacy—the knowledge and secrets of that underground palace—and now she’s using it against us.”

“That living forest attacks our northern immunity barrier daily. Nearly a third of our root network’s strength is tied up defending against her incursions. Without that, our control over the legions would be stronger, and we wouldn’t have seen so many peripheral nodes lose control immediately after Marcellus’s death!”

“The flying fortresses are hard to deal with for now, but the writhing forest tendrils underground are at least something we can reach,” Relna said. “And the threat she poses is clearly growing. High Priest, we should focus on halting the forest’s spread and at least understand its… survival mechanism. A creature rooted in the Holy Spirit Plains, extending its limbs to the southern foothills of the Dark Mountains—that’s no simple matter.”

Borken fell into deep thought. His withered, twisted branches and leaves stood silent in the night. Then suddenly, he shook his limbs, sending a mental signal through the root network.

The dark forest around the hill stirred. Moments later, a hunched, withered figure emerged from the earth, pulling roots free as it climbed out from the thicket. The glow of magical energy sparked naturally from the polluted clouds above illuminated the figure—it was none other than Bertram, the dark commander who had recently fled the northern battlefield in disgrace, losing half his forces in his first engagement.

“High Priest, you summoned me?” Bertram lowered his branches, completely stripped of the confident demeanor he once had when leading armies to destroy the northern sentinel towers and nearly breaking through Cecile and Typhon’s defenses.

Though the failure on the northern front wasn’t entirely his fault—the living forest lurking in the southern mountains was an unforeseen threat—Bertram’s reckless advance at the war’s start, followed by panic and chaos after defeat, had cost half his forces to the forest’s maw.

After his hasty retreat to the wasteland, Bertram was stripped of command over the northern legion and harshly punished. Now, he was a disgrace rooted in a twisted corner of the forest, the laughingstock of the legions—even the lowest-ranked dark druids secretly mocked the image of him fleeing hundreds of kilometers from the Dark Mountains, abandoning all his troops to escape to the main camp.

He never imagined he’d be summoned again by the High Priest.

“I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself, to make amends,” Borken said, his voice low and commanding as he stared at the hunched treant. “Bertram, you must accept this opportunity.”

“Of course! I await your orders at any time!” Bertram replied immediately, his vine-like roots writhing beneath him like serpents. “I will complete your mission!”

“Confidence is a good thing, but don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” Borken said calmly. “Do you still have the courage to face the battlefield up north?”

Bertram paused for a moment, then shook his withered branches vigorously. “Of course. These days, I’ve been scorched by a hatred as fierce as fire. That battlefield… I long to return to the front lines every moment.”

“Good. Then you will return to the northern front to support our ‘immune barrier’—our root network is under siege by the living forest’s invasion. And you, having once come into direct contact with the spiritual form of Beltira,” Borken fixed his gaze on Bertram, “must seek out the power that once pierced your soul. Trace its subterranean path, uncover the truth behind how Beltira could extend her body so far, and discover the source of her power…”

A cold night wind swept across the plains, and the winter wasteland of Gondor lay shrouded in deathly silence.

Bertram’s form bent even further. He lowered his branches respectfully, the dry leaves trembling in the wind. “At your command, High Priest.”

Bertram withdrew, and the small hill fell silent once more. Borken seemed lost in thought, while the elven twins stood nearby, serene and unreadable. No one knew what they were thinking—not even Borken himself.

Of course, he couldn’t hear the whispered conversation between Filna and Relna on the spiritual plane.

“This is getting interesting, isn’t it?” came a sudden voice in the mind-link, audible only to the elven twins. It was the voice of “one of them.”

“Yes. The floating fortress, the living forest… those ‘Cecilans’ have created many fascinating things. Given the foundation of this cycle of civilization, their trajectory and current direction are approaching that ‘ideal model’ more and more closely.”

“It all began with that ‘visitor.’”

“The changes brought by the visitor… whether they will ultimately alter the mortal beings of this cycle, whether an otherworldly soul fallen into this world can truly become a variable on this planet… that is something to look forward to.”

“But there is a greater possibility: that this cycle of civilization will, like countless promising ones before it, vanish into dust. An ambitious ‘fallen one’ will ultimately be ground to dust by the overwhelming forces of fate—civilization is meaningless, and the activities born of ‘intelligence’ are but insignificant notes among the stars. Whether pioneers, mortals, or gods, all leave behind only fleeting illusions in this universe.”

“None of it matters. We need not concern ourselves with the process. Whether that otherworldly visitor changes everything or not, it will be… sufficiently interesting.”

The mind-link fell silent. Filna and Relna remained standing quietly on the hill, their cold gazes surveying the boundless darkness of the wasteland below.

As sentinels have done for the past one million eight hundred thousand years.

(End of chapter)