"I want a war — a war that will drown the land in blood!"
A blinding bolt of lightning tore through the layered, mountain-like black clouds outside the window, followed by a rumbling clap of thunder.
Torrential rain poured down.
"War?" The momentary flash lit up Avallac'h's deep and refined features, casting a heavy shadow across them.
"Yes, war," Eredin Bréacc Glas stared at him without changing expression. "You and I both know what Spiral Sector 43 is. The White Frost has already tainted its roots. That world will inevitably fall into a snow-white abyss."
"Since we have confirmed that the Gate of Ard Gaeth is there, we must act with thunderous speed. Before the activity of the White Frost changes, we must charge in and seize the Gate of Ard Gaeth that rightfully belongs to the Alder Folk."
"The eighty-five Red Riders who died paid with blood to show us that Spiral 43 is not as weak as we imagined. Continuing to send small forces will only drag the Alder Folk deeper into the mire."
"War!"
"Yes — war, Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha!"
"Only a large-scale war can crush that world with unstoppable might, make them submit, make them crawl and offer up the stolen treasure of the Alder Folk — the Gate of Ard Gaeth…"
Avallac'h raised his hand, cutting off Eredin Bréacc Glas's fervent, aggressive declaration.
"So you are telling me," Avallac'h frowned slightly, "that after the Red Riders suffered heavy losses in another world, not only do you not intend to report and account to Auberon Muircetach and the Elder Council, but you intend to fan the flames even further in an already difficult situation for the Alder Folk?"
"I have nothing to account for, Avallac'h," Eredin Bréacc Glas shook his head. "You and I both understand the turbulence of the Spiral. Anything can happen in battles between worlds."
"If this were hundreds or thousands of years ago, there would be no need for such troublesome procedures. The moment I awakened, I would have mounted my black steed, raised my lance, and led my riders into the Spiral, to avenge the blood of the Alder Folk flowing in flames."
"But foolish proposals have shackled me, shackled the sharpest spear of the Alder Folk. They wrapped its keen tip with rough straw, covering its unstoppable gleam, then hung it messily high in the rafters instead of placing it on the weapon racks of the armory."
"Besides…"
Bloodshot lines spread through the whites of Eredin Bréacc Glas's eyes. He stared straight into Avallac'h's eyes without looking away: "You should know, Avallac'h…"
"The winters of Tir ná Lia grow colder each year."
Avallac'h met his gaze silently.
Outside the Tower of the Swallow, the storm howled, the rain poured, sheets of water swept across the high platform, soaking the clothes of the two ancient ones. Neither noticed, nor did they move.
Provoked, the storm only raged harder, driving more wind and rain into the ivory-white tower.
"Auberon Muircetach and the Elder Council will never agree," Avallac'h said.
"Of course they won't," Eredin Bréacc Glas curled his lips disdainfully. "They fear me, fear the power of the Red Riders, even though the throne of Tir ná Lia and the dignity of the Elder Council exist only because the Red Riders rode across the worlds."
"But you will agree, Avallac'h," he continued. "I will not use the Conquest Armor on the gene-modified body to threaten you, even if doing so would subject you to a harsher punishment than mine."
"Because I know who, at this moment, is the navigator who pulls the sails of the White Ship in the storm, risking at any moment being blown off the deck, being crushed upon the beams by the heaving of the ship…"
"And who hides in the rotten cabins deep within the White Ship, covering the ship's sway with dance steps, drowning the howling wind with music, numbing their thoughts with sweet, corrupt wine…"
"Avallac'h… the winters of Tir ná Lia are growing colder each year."
Eredin Bréacc Glas repeated softly.
"After the failure of the Elder Blood Project, the Gate of Ard Gaeth is the only hope left for the Alder Folk."
Avallac'h lowered his head and was silent for a moment.
Eredin Bréacc Glas smiled — gentle, yet cold — without pressing him.
"Auberon Muircetach and the Elder Council are not numbing themselves with wine, dance, and music," Avallac'h breathed out slowly. "It is only that the power hidden in our blood weakens with each passing day. The Alder Folk's control over the spheres visibly declines."
"To keep the Aen Elle from fracturing as the Aen Undod did…"
"They must be cautious, so the Alder Folk can at least maintain a somewhat stable life, rather than drifting endlessly through the void because of some accident."
"You know this history. You should understand them."
Eredin Bréacc Glas twitched his lips stiffly. "If I didn't understand, I wouldn't be standing here now, Crevan Espane aep Caomhan Macha."
Avallac'h shook his head slightly — it was unclear whether he was rejecting Eredin's words or acknowledging that his own explanation had been useless.
"I will persuade Auberon Muircetach for you. But the Elder Council…"
"The Elder Council is not a problem," Eredin Bréacc Glas smiled, revealing white teeth. "And besides — the Spiral…"
"The Spiral is about to stabilize," Avallac'h said. "After attending the Elder Council meeting and handling the compensation for the fallen Red Riders, we can depart."
"But no matter what caused the last upheaval, you must warn your Red Riders to be cautious in the Spiral. If two upheavals occur back-to-back with short intervals — the structure of the Spiral will be affected further…"
"Rest easy. The Red Riders are the most seasoned elite. I will have people investigate the cause of the Spiral's upheaval." Eredin Bréacc Glas's smile deepened.
Avallac'h nodded.
He looked at Eredin Bréacc Glas's calm expression and could not tell whether his actions now were right or wrong.
He did not even know whether those eighty-five Red Riders had truly died because of that so-called gene-modified body — one who wielded the Gate of Ard Gaeth and could summon a giant dragon…
He only knew one thing — Eredin Bréacc Glas was not wrong.
The Alder Folk truly did not have much time left.
Avallac'h's thoughts wandered to possibilities that could never happen again.
Lara Dorren… if only Lara Dorren were still here, if the Elder Blood had not failed…
Outside the ivory tower, the storm slowly faded. In an instant the clouds parted, and a seven-colored rainbow arched over Tarn Mira and the four clover-stem-shaped lakes.
Avallac'h's gaze lingered on the beautiful lakes below for a moment, just as he was about to add another warning—
At that moment.
Eredin Bréacc Glas and Avallac'h suddenly sensed something, and lifted their heads to look into the distance.
Deep within the rain-washed forest, white palaces loomed in drifting mist.
"I should go fight those stubborn old men now," Eredin Bréacc Glas said mockingly. "Do not forget our promise, Avallac'h."
Avallac'h nodded lightly.
Receiving the response, Eredin Bréacc Glas patted his rain-soaked robes. Steam lifted instantly, evaporating all the moisture within.
Following closely behind, Eredin Bréacc Glas did not linger any longer and walked straight down the high tower.
When he stepped past the arched doorway and onto the pure-white spiral staircase descending below, Avallac'h's voice suddenly came from behind him.
"Eredin Bréacc Glas," Avallac'h said softly, "the Alder Folk are no longer the Alder Folk of a thousand years ago, you know that, don't you?"
"Of course I know, Avallac'h." Eredin Bréacc Glas did not turn around. "And…"
"I have always been trying… to save her…"
-----------------------------------
Nothing unexpected happened.
The message-carrying bird looked fragile, yet not only did it fail to shatter in the explosion that had left the witcher gravely injured, it wasn't even lost along the black dragon's rampaging path.
But thinking about it, that made sense.
The message-bird was a gift from Ida Emean to Vera, an ancient elven relic capable of carrying messages across a thousand miles.
If it were that fragile, it would have shattered long ago on the road, or during Sol's fierce battles with monsters, when it could have struck something hard. It would never have lasted until today.
When Allen told Visenna that he needed to find the message-bird, the druid immediately picked it up from a spot not far from the witcher's ear.
She even told Allen:
Not only was the message-bird completely fine, but his Wolf School master set also had only minor damage—something a simple mending by a blacksmith could fix.
Only Allen had become the one seriously injured in that world.
What exactly had the legendary dwarven smith's work—crafted from dimeritium, red dragon hide, queen scorpion-spider silk, and other extremely rare materials—managed to protect?
That, of course, was a joke.
Because the reagent pouch sewn from ordinary leather was gone, and the sword-bag was gone too.
Thankfully, Elsa and Balmur, the two swords—steel and silver—were still there.
According to Visenna, when she found him, both swords were clutched tightly in his hands.
Clearly, before losing consciousness, Allen still instinctively protected the two most precious treasures he carried.
However…
Even if the two swords had been lost, it actually wouldn't have been a big problem.
Back in Drakenberg, he had already placed a "Staff Summoning" mark on both weapons.
[Name: Staff Summoning]
...
[Active effect: You may leave a "mark" on a staff (or another object), allowing the staff (or object) to be transported to a place you have visited within the past day. Casting the spell again will recall the staff (or object).]
The mark had a one-day duration, so although he could not summon the weapons back immediately after recovering, this kind of mark was enough for various tracking spells and rituals to locate the lost weapons.
Of course, it was best not to lose them at all.
Otherwise, not only would he have to search the whole world, there was also the chance someone might accidentally pick them up. And after falling from high altitude, Balmur might not suffer damage due to its nature as a relic, but Elsa would definitely need to be reforged from scratch.
A waste of both effort and money.
"What are you talking about?"
The witcher lay unmoving on the soft straw.
Visenna suddenly stopped her movement of checking the wounds. One moment she took out a crystal craftwork from a small pouch beside the witcher, the next she patted the neatly folded leather armor beside her, as if in broad daylight a visible ghost were directing her inside the wagon.
The strange sight made Korin shiver.
But he soon realized that the witcher and the sorceress were likely communicating directly through some mysterious magic.
Back in the Amell Mountains, Visenna had already used mind-reading on him.
"The witcher said," Visenna lifted her head instinctively upon hearing Korin's voice, her tone somewhat complicated, "that he can help us return to the Mayena Druid Circle…"
Korin froze, instinctively lowering his head to look at the witcher lying motionless on the straw—if not for the slight rise and fall of his chest, he would look nearly like a corpse—and said in astonishment: "Help us return to the Mayena Druid Circle?"
"Him?"
"That's right, I can help you return to the Mayena Druid Circle." Just as Korin pointed at the witcher, looking at Visenna in disbelief, a clear yet weak young voice suddenly appeared in his mind. He jumped to his feet as if he had seen a ghost and hit the low ceiling of the wagon hard.
"Hiss—"
Holding his head, he let out a cry of pain.
Seeing Visenna withdraw her finger—one that had been pointed at him—he understood it was the effect of her spell.
"Nana, you should've warned me first," he said with a bitter smile, rubbing his head. "At least let me be prepared… So…"
Korin pointed at his own head. "This is that witcher?"
The one who answered was not Visenna, but the voice inside Korin's mind: "Hello, Korin. I am Allen, witcher of the Wolf School… Allen."
Wolf School witcher Allen… Korin paused, frowning. He felt he had heard that name somewhere before.
But before he could think any further, Visenna's voice appeared again in his mind, drawing his attention: "You're saying this craftwork can let me return to the Mayena Druid Circle?"
Korin lifted his gaze and saw the exquisitely made crystal raven-shaped ornament in Visenna's hand.
This could send them to the Mayena Druid Circle on the far side of the Trava River?
Even the mistress of the Mayena Druid Circle, Visenna herself, could not accomplish such a thing—yet some noble's useless collection piece could?
"The message-bird cannot do that," the witcher said in their minds, "but it carries my message and flies toward the person who can."
"Flies toward who?" Korin asked instinctively.
The witcher's voice paused for a moment, then said:
"Vera, the Crimson Fox, sorceress Vera…"
.....
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