Translator: CinderTL
The sharp clang of metal on metal, the stifled roars, and the dying moans of the fallen mingled in the clearing at the edge of the Eversong Forest.
Pale blades of the drow clashed and intertwined with the silver gleam of surface elves' swords, sending sprays of blinding blood into the dim woodland.
The elves' movements were swift and lethal as they darted between massive, bioluminescent fungi and twisted trees, locked in brutal combat.
The air quickly filled with the thick stench of blood, mingling with the forest's natural scent of grass and wood, creating a bizarre and brutal atmosphere.
"Easily defeated..."
Hiding in the shadows of the tunnel's exit, Roland calmly observed the brief, violent battle, his mind rapidly assessing the situation.
Individually, the drow and their surface kin were nearly equal in physical prowess and combat skill. Even the lighter-skinned surface elves, wielding exquisite longswords and longbows, surpassed the drow in the refinement of their techniques and the seamlessness of their coordination.
However, when the decisive variable of "magic" was introduced into the balance of battle, the situation instantly reversed.
Just as the surface elves' line stabilized, even beginning to push back, several elves behind the drow formation raised their hands.
The shadow force, like venomous snakes alive, slithered and shot forth, precisely entangling several of the bravest surface elf officers, their movements freezing abruptly.
Greasy, dark webs materialized out of thin air, blanketing a section of the battlefield and making it difficult for the charging surface elf warriors to advance.
Burning dark rays, like the fingertips of the Black Iron Reaper, pierced the elven archers as they drew their bows, eliciting pained grunts and explosions.
This sudden magical assault instantly shattered the surface elves' rhythm and formation. Their faces were etched with shock and disbelief.
Their once-tight defensive line, like glass struck by a hammer, splintered visibly. Under the drow's relentless assault, it quickly dissolved into a rout.
Roland, following the drow vanguard, witnessed the entire scene and felt a slight sense of relief.
It seemed Galvis's information had been accurate.
For some unknown reason, despite the resurgence of the magic element, these surface elves appeared bound by invisible shackles, unable to reclaim the spellcasting abilities from their ancient heritage.
Even though many among them were powerful transcendent practitioners.
Roland's sharp eyes caught an elf ranger's arrow piercing a drow warrior's throat like a meteor.
Another dual-bladed warrior moved through the trees like a phantom, each flash of movement leaving behind a spray of blood.
Their individual prowess was remarkable.
But without magical support against an enemy with organized spellcasters, individual bravery ultimately proved insufficient to turn the tide.
Under the drow mages' second wave of targeted magical suppression, the agile dual-bladed warrior was suddenly restrained by dark tendrils rising from the ground and then overwhelmed by a volley of poisoned crossbow bolts.
The elf ranger's position was bombarded by a barrage of scorching, unholy fire, forcing him to flee in disarray and abandon any hope of effective sniping.
With their command structure shattered and no means to counter the enemy's spells, the surface elves' resistance quickly crumbled.
"This is strange," Roland thought, watching the drow elves stream past beside him.
According to Durga, surface elves and drow were complementary partners, their fates intertwined.
So why could the drow wield magic, while these surface elves possessed no trace of it?
As Roland pondered, a sudden, bloodthirsty cheer erupted from the drow lines in the distance. Though the language was obscure, the triumph and frenzy transcended linguistic barriers. Immediately, the front line, previously locked in a stalemate, visibly surged forward. The surface elves' defenses were completely torn asunder.
As expected, before the cheers had fully subsided, the drow spellcasters who had been providing magical support near Roland, their bodies shimmering with faint magical light, ended their brief respite and began advancing with the tide of the assault.
Seeing this, Roland hesitated no longer. Like a ghost merging with the forest's shadows, he used the trees and terrain as cover to silently follow the steps of the drow vanguard, especially the precious spellcasters. Their direction often marked the core of the fiercest fighting and the path to the heart of the elf settlements.
With their defenses broken, the remaining surface elves were clearly unable to form an organized resistance. They scattered into small groups, relying on their familiarity with the terrain to wage a brutal guerrilla war against the invaders in the dim forest, thick with glowing fungi and gnarled ancient trees.
Poisoned arrows flew from unexpected angles, and agile figures plummeted from treetops in deadly ambushes.
Yet, faced with the drow's overwhelming strength and equally refined hunting skills, these scattered resistances appeared tragic and futile.
The drow advanced in disciplined squad formations, warriors pressing forward to maintain pressure and vigilance, while spellcasters proved to be the true nightmare.
They accurately detected ambushes, either driving hidden enemies out with area-of-effect shadow erosion or mental assaults, or directly targeting elf skirmishers attempting raids with deadly rays.
The hit-and-run tactics failed to significantly slow the drow's advance, merely leaving a trail of pale, blood-stained corpses of surface elves in their wake.
Roland's eyes remained impassive as he glanced at the fallen elves lying among the ferns, their life force extinguished. He merely shook his head slightly.
He had witnessed too much of war's brutality.
Clearing his mind, he turned his attention away from these scattered killings and focused entirely on following the team through the perilous forest.
After a long trek through the blood-soaked forest, faintly illuminated by bioluminescent fungi, the light ahead seemed to shift, and the trees gradually thinned.
Finally, after pushing through an exceptionally dense thicket entwined with luminous vines, Roland's vision suddenly opened up.
In the distance, the true habitat of the surface elves came into view.
It wasn't the primitive, nature-integrated village he had imagined, but rather a cluster of buildings ingeniously constructed to follow the forest's terrain.
Tall elven towers rose from the ground, their elegant and peculiar designs flowing with artistic grace.
Many of the buildings were covered in softly glowing moss or ivy.
Graceful arched bridges and winding wooden walkways connected some of the structures, outlining a dynamic skyline.
Even under the dim, subterranean sky, the entire settlement exuded an aura of tranquility, harmony, and ancient beauty, standing in stark contrast to the rugged dilapidation of the drow camp.
But at that moment, this peace had been shattered.
The sounds of battle and wisps of black smoke rising from some of the buildings signaled that the war had already spread here.
Yet this scene, a blend of brutality and elegance, did not distract Roland in the slightest.
His goal was clear and unwavering: to find Galvis and Avril.
Just as he was about to inquire about the location where the surface elves held their prisoners, a faint yet undeniable tremor pulsed at the center of his chest, near his heart.
It wasn't pain, but rather like a long-dormant, almost forgotten heartstring being gently plucked by some distant, faint force, causing a brief tightening sensation.
Roland instinctively raised his hand, his fingertips lightly pressing against his chest.
In an instant, he understood the source of this sensation:
The Red String of Fate.
This connection had previously fallen into a complete, inexplicable silence, as if severed.
Now, it had suddenly revived on its own, though the signal it transmitted was faint and unstable.
Yet, strangely...
Roland frowned, concentrating intently.
At this moment, more than one person was connecting to him through the Red String of Fate.
The clearest strand connected to the friend he cared about most.
However, almost simultaneously, another strand forcefully intruded into his perception.
It felt utterly unfamiliar, yet overwhelmingly vast and majestic, exuding a palpable aura of pressure that instinctively compelled one to look up.
It was like a colossal river suddenly appearing beside a trickling stream.
This abrupt and unfamiliar connection made Roland frown slightly, but he had no time to ponder it. He focused all his attention on the connection leading to Galvis.
With this re-established guidance, searching for Galvis was no longer a blind quest.
Yet, this thought brought not joy, but a sudden chill that tightened his heart.
For he could clearly "feel" that the life force at the other end of the connection was flickering precariously, like the last ember of a candle in a raging storm.
"Galvis..."
Roland murmured his friend's name, suppressing the rising anxiety in his heart. Without a moment's hesitation, he moved like a leopard melting into the shadows, following that faint yet distinct pull through the depths of the Eversong Forest at astonishing speed.
As Roland raced onward, he swept past clusters of collapsed glowing fungi, shattered weapons, and the occasional fallen elf corpse.
Traces of battle were everywhere, but the main engagement seemed to have moved forward, leaving behind this ember-filled aftermath, thick with the stench of blood and silence.
Just as he was running at full speed, a familiar voice, yet somehow altered, suddenly caught his ear in the wind. It was calmly issuing combat orders and organizing defenses.
The instant he heard that voice, Roland's forward momentum halted abruptly, and he instantly changed direction without hesitation.
His feet lightly touched the moss-covered rocks as he silently leaped onto an abandoned, towering wooden watchtower beside him, moving like a night owl.
He lowered himself and peered toward the battlefield, following the sound.
He saw a small group of surface elf warriors, using a few seemingly residential buildings as cover, locked in a fierce standoff and battle against a numerically superior force of drow elves.
Their formation was tight, clearly defending something or someone behind them with their lives.
And at the core of the elf warriors' command position stood a slender, agile figure.
(End of the Chapter)
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