Translator: CinderTL
"Forgive my bluntness, Mr. Roland..."
The Purple-Haired Witch spoke softly, her gaze fixed on the pixie ahead, which was now swirling and dancing with an uncharacteristic exuberance, a stark contrast to its usual somber demeanor.
"I've never heard of pixies possessing spatial magic."
"Don't worry, Vanessa, your memory serves you well."
Not only Vanessa, but Roland himself had never encountered any record of pixies wielding spatial magic in any ancient texts.
In fact, pixies in ancient texts were never depicted as spellcasters at all.
After a brief, teasing remark, Roland signaled to Freddy, the orc beside him, to remain vigilant. He then slowed his pace and explained, "But Tracy mentioned earlier that clues to her people lie not far to the south."
"Since we were already heading south, why not try our luck? It's better than wandering aimlessly in this sealed-off area like headless flies."
"That makes sense."
Vanessa nodded slightly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
Noticing the familiar, carefree expression still on her face, Roland couldn't help but feel a flicker of suspicion.
"Doesn't this witch fear being trapped here to die?"
"Or... does she actually have a way to escape?"
In this treacherous land, every moment spent lingering increased the danger.
As soon as the thought formed, Roland carefully chose his words and voiced his doubts.
Unexpectedly, Vanessa didn't react with anger to his questioning. Instead, she chuckled softly and replied, "My apologies, Mr. Roland. I truly have no means of leaving this place. As for why I'm not afraid..."
The witch leaned forward slightly, her lips curving into that familiar, playful smile.
"It's simply because death, to me, is not the end."
Roland's brow furrowed at her words. He was about to press further when Freddy's signature good-natured voice boomed in his ear.
"Mr. Roland! Something's up ahead!"
Freddy's warning instantly quelled Roland's urge to question Vanessa further.
He gestured for her to remain silent, then crouched low, signaling Freddy to stay on guard while he slipped forward like a shadow, moving with silent grace.
Each step was taken with feather-light precision, his sharp gaze sweeping over every bush and rock ahead, scrutinizing their outlines for any sign of danger.
Parting the last drooping vine, the scene before him emerged through the thinning mist.
A small squad of armored guards, their backs pressed against a massive, wind-eroded rock wall, were locked in a desperate struggle.
They swung their longswords, the cold metal flashing in the dim light as they desperately parried the relentless onslaught of dozens of demonic beasts and wraiths.
The twisted figures shrieked piercingly, their claws and fangs relentlessly battering against the guards' barely maintained defensive line.
The battle was fierce and brutal, the air thick with the stench of blood and the peculiar, acrid odor of demonic beasts.
"They're from the River Domain Nations," Roland recognized instantly, spotting the blue-and-white insignia on their armor.
The warriors' condition was dire.
Even through the thinning mist, their gaunt, sallow faces were clearly visible—the unmistakable marks of prolonged starvation and exhaustion.
Their deep blue armor had long lost its luster, riddled with sword slashes, claw marks, and dark, dried blood. One guard's breastplate was even split open by a gaping wound, held together only by bloodstained bandages.
As they moved, Roland noticed the askew throat guards and loosened leather belt buckles, the entire group radiating an air of exhausted disarray, their fatigue palpable.
"It seems the River Domain Nations' campaign into the Mistland isn't progressing smoothly," Roland mused inwardly, observing the battered soldiers.
He had harbored suspicions since his escape from this region. Why hadn't he encountered any traces of the River Domain Nations' main forces? Logically, their armies should have already penetrated deep into the Mistland before he even set sail for Howling Gorge. This scene now confirmed his suspicions.
As his thoughts raced, Roland's hand quietly settled on the hilt of his sword. In the next instant, the Mithril Longsword at his hip slid silently from its sheath, accompanied by a cold, silvery glint.
The demonic beasts besieging the guards were of mediocre strength, and the wraiths... against Vanessa's specially formulated Negative Energy Protection Potion, they posed no real threat. Rescuing these men would be effortless for him.
And even if he only gleaned a few scraps of information from them, it would be far better than groping blindly through this wilderness.
With his resolve firm, Roland signaled to Freddy, who was standing nearby, and then vanished into the battlefield like a phantom.
The Mithril Longsword in his hand transformed into a cold, silver storm, its strikes precise and lethal.
The demonic beasts that had moments ago been ferociously attacking the guards now fell before him like rotten wood.
Each flash of the blade was accompanied by the sickening crunch of shattered bones or the abrupt cessation of a demonic beast's howl.
Twisted figures collapsed in droves, their foul blood barely spattering his cloak.
Within mere breaths, the tidal wave of demonic beasts had been utterly annihilated as if reaped by an invisible scythe, leaving only a chaotic field of mangled remains.
The last Terrorclaw Beast lunging at him was effortlessly pierced through the skull by his sword, its body twitching as it collapsed to the ground.
An eerie silence descended upon the battlefield.
The few remaining guards from the River Domain Nations stood frozen, staring in disbelief at the figure who had suddenly appeared and instantly ended their nightmare, and at the rapidly cooling corpses of the demonic beasts at his feet.
After a moment, the lead guard, leaning heavily on his longsword, staggered toward Roland and bowed deeply, his eyes filled with reverence.
"Y-you are...?"
Roland's gaze swept the surroundings, confirming no demonic beasts remained. He flicked the blood from his blade, turned to face the guard, and smiled warmly.
"Roland. You're guards from the River Domain Nations, aren't you?"
"Y-yes, that's right..." the guard captain stammered.
Despite Roland's youthful appearance, the guards who had witnessed his thunderous display of skill earlier dared not show the slightest disrespect.
The captain glanced back at his battle-scarred comrades, his throat bobbing as if some dreadful memory had choked his voice. He ultimately let out a heavy sigh.
Roland frowned slightly at this reaction.
He smoothly sheathed his Mithril Longsword and asked tentatively, "Are you the only survivors of the unit that entered the Mistland?"
"Of course not!" the captain quickly clarified, realizing his demeanor had caused a misunderstanding. "There's a camp not far from here. We... were just ordered to scout for supplies when we stumbled upon such a massive horde of demonic beasts..."
"A camp?" Roland's eyes flashed with interest. "How many people are there?"
"Approximately... fifty or so."
Roland nodded inwardly at this number. Even if these guards from the River Domain Nations harbored ill intentions, he was confident he could handle them.
Having made up his mind, he slowly said, "In that case... would you mind if my companion and I accompanied you back to the camp to rest for a few days?"
"Of course not!" the captain agreed without hesitation, then added with a hint of hesitation, "Just... our commanding officer has been acting rather strangely lately. I hope you'll be understanding if he's... difficult."
(End of the Chapter)
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