Chapter 307: The Shifting Tide of Typhon
Solderin leveled his shortbow at the elven girl not far ahead, seemingly ignoring her greeting altogether.
“How cold-hearted,” the elf smiled as usual, but this time her smile carried a sharp edge of mockery and something unsettling. “On the journey before, you always acted like a protector, like an elder.”
“Words won’t buy you any time,” Solderin said calmly, as arcane light began to shimmer along his bowstring. “Who are you?”
“Me?” Berna’s lips curved slightly. “I’m just a druid wandering far from home.”
As her final word faded, a whirlwind of leaves suddenly erupted around her, swirling wildly as if summoned from thin air.
Without hesitation, Solderin released his bowstring. An arrow charged with arcane energy sliced through the air, splitting mid-flight into a dozen dazzling beams that pierced through the storm of leaves without missing a spot. Yet he didn’t relax for a moment. Instinctively, he leapt high as a surge of poisonous black thorns erupted from the ground, shattering the rock beneath his feet.
A strange floral scent filled the air. An unnatural magical breeze stirred the surrounding trees, shaking leaves and branches with a rustling clamor. From all directions came a hoarse, distorted female voice, clearly masked with intent: “I’m curious—when exactly did you start doubting me?”
Solderin landed, a ring of emerald light spreading from his feet, halting the growth of the venomous thorns and cutting off the pervasive floral scent. He frowned at the figure reforming nearby—still bearing Berna’s face, but with a grotesque lower body woven from roots and vines. The enemy’s strange form put him on high alert.
Watching carefully, he spoke: “I honestly didn’t suspect you—until just as I was leaving the Messenger Hall, I realized my mind and judgment had been off these past few days. So I checked the Thornheart Master’s apprentice records for the last two centuries—she hasn’t taken a single new student.”
“So quickly freed from the effects of the maddening pollen…” The half-tree, half-woman druid chuckled softly. The floral scent thickened, and strange blossoms bloomed at her feet, spreading a mind-clouding aura throughout the forest. “I thought you’d been with me all along, constantly exposed to low doses of pollen, unable to recall your mistakes…”
“You underestimate those who survived the ruins of Gondor,” Solderin said, nocking another arrow. “Don’t bother. With my preparations, that pollen won’t affect me. Without your mind-altering tricks, you’re no match for a high-level ranger. Now, be honest—who are you? Why did you infiltrate the surveillance station?”
“Berna Lightbreeze was indeed Thornheart’s apprentice… but that was three centuries ago,” the twisted druid smiled. “She was an elf who ended her travels wanting to return home, but fell on the way. I merely gave her a little help…”
“Besides, proud high ranger, do you really think you have this won? You may resist the pollen’s effects, but what about the ordinary rangers and sentinels you brought and ambushed nearby? Can they?”
Solderin’s expression flickered, but his gaze sharpened. “I alone am enough to keep you here.”
“Funny—I was thinking the same thing. Wither, treant!”
“Grenade, throw!”
“?”
Typhon Imperial Capital, Aldernan, Noble District.
Duke Pedinan stood in his study, surrounded by ancestral portraits that had not risen from the dead, quietly gazing out at the city streets shrouded in mist. The grand buildings—some towering and majestic, others gilded and resplendent—were veiled in a hazy shroud. The thick fog obscured many details, leaving only the tallest noble and royal structures standing proudly, their glowing lights and massive silhouettes cutting striking shapes through the mist.
This scene embodied the empire’s ideal: the nobility and royalty as eternal beacons, guiding the ignorant masses forward.
Since the arrival of the Fog Moon, Aldernan had often been blanketed in dense fog—a hallmark of the central and some northern regions of the continent. The very name “Fog Moon” originated from this phenomenon.
In the past, Pedinan had enjoyed such foggy days—he liked how the ancient city, wrapped in mist, appeared both blurred and yet sharply defined, reminding him of the empire itself: weathered by countless storms, yet standing proud. It also brought to mind his first battle, when caught off guard in the fog but turning the tide with a bloody counterattack. But today, he had no heart to admire the view.
The latest intelligence from the empire’s border lay on the desk behind him. The specially enchanted parchment had been unsealed, the words clearly visible in delicate female handwriting:
“Winterwolf Fortress attacked by massive humanoid creature. The beast resembles a flesh giant, possessing immense strength, nearly impervious to blades, and capable of corroding and weakening our walls and steel armor with ease…
“Defensive forces suffered heavy losses, but the fortress remains intact.
“Creature originated from the Dark Mountains.”
This report came from Andersa. Alongside it was another note, even briefer: “Ansu border attacked by flesh giant; damage to the Cecil territory unknown.” This intelligence came through other channels of the Wendell family.
Duke Pedinan withdrew his gaze and turned to the portraits of the Wendell ancestors hanging opposite. He murmured softly, “Were those truly the monsters you faced back then?”
His thoughts drifted back decades, to when he was a mere knight captain on the empire’s border, and met a wandering elven monk who warned him.
The monk was rare—a young elf wandering the border during a foggy Fog Moon, much like today. Pedinan still remembered vividly how the monk saved his wounded self on the battlefield, and how they rested in a tree hollow amid the mist. The monk’s head gleamed in the fog, and his words remained etched in Pedinan’s memory:
“Young human warrior, you speak of ideals and glory as if defeating the enemy nation grants honor. But do you see the true threat? Two nations, once one, now torn apart. Do you not look at the wasteland so close by? Those monsters were sealed away seven centuries ago. Are you truly unafraid they will return?”
Pedinan inhaled deeply, his expression hardening. He rang the copper bell to summon his steward and whispered, “Master Derlin, you were right.
“They have returned.
“Humanity must change.”
The study door opened, and the family’s loyal steward appeared. “My lord, your orders?”
“Prepare the carriage. I must see His Majesty the Emperor.”
The carriage bearing the Wendell family crest and its retinue enjoyed the highest noble privileges. The gates of Emperor Rosetta Augustus’s palace opened wide. As the towering walls grew larger in his view, Pedinan’s resolve hardened like steel.
No matter how far His Majesty’s mind had deteriorated, no matter how much influence his words still held over the vast empire, he had to change the course of Typhon’s war machine today. If he delayed three more days, the emperor would convene the final noble council, and then the only option left would be the one he most dreaded.
He glanced down at his hands—calloused from sword and blade, still strong—and clenched them slowly into fists.
He would not take that worst path unless forced.
Entering the palace and the emperor’s chambers, he shed his heavy ducal cloak with the help of attendants, though the decorative sword at his waist remained—a privilege befitting the empire’s foremost duke. Having secured permission for the audience, he followed the attendant toward the emperor’s current location.
Halfway there, Pedinan noticed they were heading to the audience chamber rather than the usual study where the emperor met him. Curious, he asked, “His Majesty in the audience chamber? Receiving guests?”
The attendant replied with proper etiquette, “Yes, Your Majesty is meeting two elven healers.”
“Elven healers?” Pedinan frowned. “Is His Majesty unwell?”
“Rest assured, His Majesty remains healthy,” the attendant said. “Though his spirit has been somewhat weakened lately.”
Weakened spirit?
Pedinan paused, sensing something amiss. Before he could ask more, two silver-haired elves in white gowns, nearly identical in appearance and radiating dignified beauty, rounded the corridor corner into view.
The attendant added, “It seems the healers have finished their work.”
Pedinan Wendell regarded the unfamiliar healers, suppressing unnecessary suspicion, adopting the calm detachment befitting a duke.
The corridor was narrow; the two healers inevitably approached him. They offered flawless polite smiles and bowed gracefully, lifting their gowns slightly.
“Good afternoon, my lord. His Majesty awaits you.”
(End of chapter)