Translator: CinderTL
In this city of metal constructs, where decay spread like a creeping vine, Roland could find no other living creature with warm blood besides the human soldiers led by Reggie.
So when a fresh, metallic scent of blood drifted into his nostrils, he couldn't help but frown.
"Roland, what's wrong?" Galvis asked, his keen eyes catching the grave expression on Roland's face. His fingers deftly plucked the harp strings, and a somber, tense melody filled the air, its notes heavy with foreboding.
"Stay sharp, everyone," Roland warned, his voice low and urgent. He drew his Mithril Longsword from its sheath and firmly raised the silver shield he had just retrieved, assuming a defensive stance. "Something's not right here."
The final magic node loomed just ahead, within arm's reach.
Roland didn't hesitate. He took a deep breath and stepped forward.
Whatever lay inside, he had to investigate.
If the danger proved insurmountable, retreat would still be an option.
Apart from Witch Vanessa, who had yet to reveal her true abilities, the team's strength was considerable.
As long as they avoided transcendent professionals, even if they couldn't win, retreating unscathed would be no problem.
His keen senses detected no transcendent presence within the stone hut ahead.
Feeling slightly reassured, Roland signaled his companions to spread out and then slowly pushed open the decaying wooden door.
A piercing creak shattered the silence.
As the door swung open, a glimpse of the interior was revealed through the crack.
A faint ray of sunlight pierced through the mist, streaming down from a fissure in the stone roof and illuminating the central area.
There, a magic array for converting magic elements quietly hummed, its crimson runes glowing faintly in the light.
Before the array, a figure knelt on the ground.
The figure was broad and muscular, clad in battered, scarred armor.
With hands clasped in prayer, the figure faced a crude wooden table, head bowed low, muttering incantations like the most devout believer.
On the wooden table sat a newly sculpted clay figurine.
The figurine's surface still glistened with undried water, its dampness clearly visible.
Though the deity's identity remained unknown, the graceful curves of its silhouette unmistakably revealed it to be a female goddess.
The sudden, jarring creak of the door tearing through the frozen silence.
The prayer abruptly ceased.
A figure slowly, stiffly, and with a bone-grinding sluggishness, raised its head frame by frame, then turned rigidly toward the doorway.
Sunlight illuminated skin as dry and lifeless as withered tree bark, and...
Within the hollow eye sockets, two points of ghostly soulfire flickered silently.
"Another undead?"
The thought had barely crossed Roland's mind when the undead spoke first.
Its voice was hoarse and dry, like sandpaper scraping against rotten wood, yet its tone was surprisingly calm, even...
gentle.
"Greetings. Allow me to introduce myself..."
The undead slowly rose, turning to face Roland and fully revealing its weathered, decaying body and armor.
"My name is Van Buren. I was once a holy knight, entrusted by a friend to guard this magic array."
"May I ask, Mr. Roland, what brings you to this place?"
Seeing Roland's still-furrowed brow and tightly gripped weapon, Van Buren let out a muffled sigh.
"It seems... there's no room for negotiation?"
As he spoke, his withered hand slowly moved toward the sword hilt at his waist.
However, as the soulfire flickered in his eye sockets and his gaze slowly lowered to the Mithril Longsword in Roland's hand, his movement abruptly froze.
"A Holy Artifact?"
A hint of surprise crept into Van Buren's voice, his hoarse tone rising slightly.
"And... you seem to have resonated with it?"
He gasped softly, then placed his right hand on his left shoulder and executed a flawless ancient salute toward Roland.
"It seems you are also a devout believer. In that case... I should not raise arms against you."
This strange behavior made Roland's eyebrows twitch slightly.
Like Holland, the soulfire of the undead before him burned with extraordinary intensity, a clear indication that its strength was no less than Holland's.
But...
Roland's fingers instinctively traced the cold hilt of his sword.
This mithril longsword, freed from its curse, had proven its divine power against undead creatures in the earlier battle with Holland.
It possessed overwhelming dominance over such beings.
Therefore, even if the opponent's strength matched Holland's, Roland felt no fear.
However, sensing the goodwill in the creature's words, he slightly tempered his aggressive stance.
"My apologies, this..."
"Roland."
"Greetings, Mr. Roland."
Seeing Roland finally respond, Van Buren's stiff lips strained upward with great effort, barely forming a semblance of a smile.
"May I ask... what time is it?"
"Nightfall is approaching."
"Nightfall..." Van Buren repeated softly, the soulfire in his hollow eye sockets seeming to dim for a moment.
"Mr. Roland, how about this? I promised a friend I would guard this magic array until dusk falls."
"Once the time comes, my commitment will be fulfilled. At that point, I won't interfere with whatever you wish to do."
"But if you insist on acting now..."
Seeing that Roland didn't immediately object, he paused, his hoarse voice deepening.
"Forgive my bluntness, but even though my current strength is less than thirty percent of its peak, you... are still no match for me."
Beneath his calm tone lay absolute confidence.
"As I said earlier, I have no desire to fight a devout believer. Naturally... I also don't wish to see you follow in that gentleman's footsteps..."
With that, he raised a withered arm and slowly pointed toward a dark corner in the depths of the room, untouched by light.
Glancing in the direction he indicated, Roland's pupils contracted slightly, and his brow furrowed deeply.
There stood a figure almost completely merged with the darkness.
Jashu.
But this transcendent professional assassin now appeared utterly disheveled.
His left arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, the dark fabric of his clothing soaked in large patches of viscous, dark red. Blood dripped from his fingertips, pooling into a small, dark puddle at his feet.
Each breath drew a sharp, searing pain that caused his body to tremble uncontrollably.
Yet despite these grievous injuries, the assassin neither curled up, leaned against anything, nor uttered a single groan.
Instead, he leaned slightly forward, his center of gravity lowered. His right arm hung seemingly relaxed at his side, but his fingertips hovered just an inch from the hidden blade at his waist, maintaining a poised, ready-to-strike stance.
But what truly sent a chill down one's spine were his eyes.
Though bloodshot from the agony, his gaze remained icy and razor-sharp.
Piercing through the layers of shadow, they locked relentlessly onto Paladin Van Buren.
No pain, no wavering—only frozen killing intent and the unwavering focus of a viper stalking its prey.
He lurked silently in the darkness, licking his wounds, gathering his strength, poised to unleash a final, lethal strike with whatever remained of his being.
The air between them thickened, leaving only a silent, blood-soaked standoff.
(End of the Chapter)
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