Chapter 996: Act 168 – The Elves Cross the Sea
The evening bell tolled long over the city of Nabersius, its sound echoing in the empty dusk, coming from near and far, as the sunset poured through the fiery evening clouds, casting an orange glow upon the dome of the Golden Palace.
A squad of golden-helmeted guards lined up in shifts along the sloped path outside the palace walls, and the orderly commands of the ceremonial knights echoed from a distance, drowning out the sound over the copper-tipped treetops, even reaching the inner court. In the Winter Solstice Palace, Pope Petian III hurriedly finished his dinner—a meticulously cooked half lamb, a silver sea mackerel, and exquisite pastries all served on a snow-white porcelain plate, the meat accompanied by basil leaves and the leaves of Saint Ausoor’s snow tree, and topped with sauce and black pepper, the meat tender and fragrant. Yet, the diner himself had no appetite; after a few bites, he set down his silver knife and fork, wiped his lips with a gold-embroidered napkin, and then ordered his servant to arrange a coach for him to the Emerald Hall.
With the authority of Fanzan unified, despite the fact that nobles still harbored grudges against the Temple due to uneven distribution of interests, both the earthly crown and the sacred scepter were in the hands of one person. Therefore, the Pope’s election was often not hereditary but usually chosen from among the eight cardinals. After the previous Pope abdicated, he lived in the Emerald Hall under the name of a saint, detached from earthly power, but still served as the spiritual leader of the Temple, and thus for thousands of years, this nominal position possessed immense power. To this day, although the current Pope can indeed act autocratically, he is still constrained by that position.
Recently, Petian III had been troubled because of this. He sat in his coach, looking at the shadow of the Emerald Hall’s arch, like a giant beast looming in his heart, watching him with hungry eyes, leaving him restless. The previous Pope, Asbestus XI, had been his mentor on the path of holiness, nurturing him to his present position. Although their mentor-student relationship was harmonious, there always lay a throne between them, and Petian understood that this was due to their respective statuses—a tradition followed by all Popes, and nothing unusual about it. Yet, some abnormalities had arisen recently. He had continuously advocated for a holy war against the southern Crusian peoples, and Asbestus XI had always understood his thoughts. Now, with the Crusian people in disarray and the mad queen daring to restore the dark dynasty, this was a divinely gifted opportunity for him to launch a righteous campaign against Cruz. He had even contacted the Wind Elves and the Grey Scout Knights’ emissaries, amassed a large army and supplies at the border, preparing to make a grand display and leave a heavy mark in history. Just then, an order for a ceasefire turned his hopes into bubbles, and this order came from within the Emerald Hall before him—
Such occurrences might not happen even once in a century, the last being during the Lima church riot when Gloria I used the power of the Holy Knights to dismiss the sitting Pope at that time. This thought made Petian III’s expression dark. He looked gloomily at the seven-foot-tall gilded palace door of the Emerald Hall slowly opening in the hands of the guards, his mind swirling with unspoken thoughts. His deeper unrest stemmed from the responses of the local bishops. The bishops and the knights did not seem to react as violently to the rude decree as he had anticipated; the empire was as still as a tranquil lake, without a ripple to be seen. He knew that behind that palace door, the old man must have wielded some unknown power, bringing all parties to submit obediently.
As an upper authority, none could tolerate power beyond their grasp, especially one of a magnitude greater than he had anticipated.
Accompanied by his servants, Petian III passed through the corridor and stopped before a dark walnut door. He raised his hand to dismiss those around him while halting the announcements of his attendants. Facing this walnut door, the supreme autocrat, who acted with divine judgment, found himself feeling a moment of hesitation. But this hesitation was as light and powerless as a spider’s thread; with a gentle tug, he broke the restraint, placed his slender palm on the door handle, and pushed the door open.
Since growing old, Asbestus XI had taken to lighting the fireplace in his study, sitting in a small chair, and reading the classics and documents of the Church all day long. Although Petian doubted how much truth lay within, he nevertheless felt a tinge of envy; after seizing earthly authority, he inevitably grew distant from that sacred will—“The holy seat is no match for the ascetic”—this saying in Fanzan was by no means a rumor.
A warm breath rushed at him, the hot air striking his cheeks, causing him to squint involuntarily. The flickering light of the fireplace seemed to flow through the crack of the open door, like living warmth crawling over his golden shoes and the edges of his holy robe.
Inside, there was not only Asbestus XI but also a servant in his forties and an elderly man with white hair and glasses, whom Petian III recognized at a glance as a renowned scriptural scholar in the Temple. Asbestus XI wore simple robes today but unusually had a hat on, looking rather formal and serious. Facing him sat a woman, prompting an unexpected second glance from Petian III, who could not help but look at her again, and then his gaze could not be torn away. This woman had dry, chestnut-colored long hair and a pair of sparkling eyes that resembled emeralds embedded in mountain stones. The reason for the comparison to stones was that her skin appeared very dry, dull, and lacking luster, high cheekbones resembling steep cliffs, and her lips were sharply defined, as if sculpted from the very stone, making it evident upon first glance that this woman possessed a resolute character.
In the world, there was only one woman with such a face, and only one woman who had lived for a thousand years. Petian respectfully greeted, “Sage Lord.”
Asbestus XI smiled at his student, closing the book he was holding, which outlined the early doctrines of the Temple, written by someone who had long since been laid to rest in the earth, approximately three or four hundred years ago, and who had been posthumously canonized as a saint. He gestured for Petian not to be overly courteous, as if he had already anticipated his arrival: “Your Holiness, do you have many questions today?”
The situation had already grown beyond Petian’s control; the current Pope nodded solemnly after a moment of contemplation.
“Let me answer you,” Sage Erlandta began, her voice unexpectedly soft and pleasant, completely at odds with her appearance. “That decree was one I requested Asbestus to issue.”
“Why?” Petian III asked.
“Because I hope Fanzan will not take part in this war, Your Holiness.”
“Why?” Petian III reiterated the question.
Asbestus XI smiled as he took over the conversation: “Your Holiness, for half a century now, the Temple has been fraught with disputes between old and new doctrines, all of which you have witnessed firsthand. The root of these debates lies in discussions of justice. The source of this question was a great war sixty years ago, behind which we saw many things, leading us to start questioning the fundamentals of our existence. What do you think about this?”
Petian did not respond but glanced at Erlandta.
“I cannot provide you an answer on who’s right or wrong in history, Your Holiness,” Erlandta replied calmly. “Though I am a witness, neither I, Jill, Saint Ausoor, nor your predecessor Fanzan can answer this question. Odin believed he was wrong, but that only represents his view. He cannot judge history or all that has transpired; at certain stages of history, no one can accurately judge themselves, much less with countless sages before them—many have participated in this, and anyone situated anywhere within history, be they witness or bystander, can only observe a fragment of it. Hence we can only personally experience it to witness it. I have lived for a thousand years precisely to see that result—”
Petian III frowned. “But do you believe the Crusian queen’s choice was the right one?”
Erlandta shook her head. “No, it is precisely because we cannot confirm our right or wrong that I want to look at another path of history. You know the prophecy: the lost moon steals away the light, with light gone, the silver age lost upon the earth, meandering through darkness and ignorance, a meeting of kings and fools, the rusted clockwork is resetting, the sword that changes destiny—the sword that Vaunte awaits.”
“Do you believe in the Black Prophecy, Sage Lord?” Petian III retorted. “That everything will be born from darkness?”
“That is what the Minren are unwilling to abandon, Your Holiness,” the sage replied: “This is the age of black iron, the age of heroes, Martha hands power to mortals, believing heroes must arise among them. But in the eyes of the races of gold and silver—how can the weak save our world? Moreover, there are those failed creations lost in the dark forest; everything seems to warn us that this is a wrong path for civilization. The descendants of the Azure Knights argue incessantly, and the flame of civilization is waning, almost to the point of extinguishing, and the dark dragon Odin has made a reluctant choice to save it all. Today is the moment for it to reveal the result.”
Erlandta looked at Petian III and answered: “The millennium of history seems to have returned to a cycle, but this may not be a beginning or starting point for everything. I shall honor my agreement with Odin to witness the final outcome, but regardless, I still hope to preserve a spark for civilization, and not pour all powers into just one answer. Therefore, I hope the Fanzan people can distance themselves from this worldly stage, as a more important war requires your strength.”
Petian slightly raised his head. “Sage Lord, do you mean…?”
Erlandta lifted her head, her emerald gaze seeming to penetrate the walls of the Emerald Hall. The direction she looked toward crossed vast hills and plains, under clouds like flames, the emerald waves tirelessly washed against the white rock coastline for millennia. On this vast land, the Alliance of Ten Cities had taken root and multiplied. About five hundred and thirty years ago, mercenaries and traders from the regions of Inir and Machisen came here, spending a hundred years establishing the first city. After that half-century, a new kingdom was founded, its people comprising humans, mountain dwellers, as well as elves and dwarves, where the Temple’s teachings spread widely, yet nature’s beliefs were also not rejected.
This is a land of freedom, where the sounds of money and sword clashing echoed throughout the year.
Yet today, beneath the White City, the fishing fishermen suddenly paused their tasks; sailors were clearing fishing nets and cable lines, some clambering up masts, some stumbling drunkenly from the cabin onto the deck, some preparing to set sails, others cranking the winch to drop anchor, but each and every one of them stopped, turning their heads to gaze at the horizon where the sea met the sky.
The cannon of the fortifications on the walls were sounding alarms; squads of guards rushed up the battlements. The sea surface was turquoise and clear, with the horizon appearing calm and ordinary.
But in an instant, a density of black dots appeared in that direction—
Rand hastily donned his armor and rushed to the city walls, surrounded by his attendants. He raised his hand to quiet the surrounding chatter and then lifted his monocle—what filled his eyes was a white triangular sail, nearly blinding him. He muttered a curse under his breath and lowered his gaze. The silver oak emblem on the sail shimmered in the sunlight; looking further down, he saw the elves’ elegant white ship.
“The Wild Elves’ fleet—”
Rand spat, putting down the telescope. “At least three hundred ships, that’s an army of thirty thousand—has Erlandta gone mad?”
The Erlandta he referred to naturally indicated that realm of wild elves. He glanced one more time, confirming he wasn’t imagining things. At that moment, the bells of alert were ringing loudly within the White City, and the vessels outside were starting to flood into the harbor. Rand looked toward the harbor and estimated it would be sealed within half an hour. He turned back, merely a small company commander in this affair, unable to make any decisions. He handed the telescope to his deputy and said to one attendant, “Go notify the Eagle of the Far Lands and the lord of the city, let them decide. If the elves are serious, the White City cannot hold up; we must immediately seek aid from other city-states—”
The attendant glanced at him in a panic and trembled as he received his bronze token, stumbling away.
“Look at that ship—” Suddenly, an attendant shouted, pointing towards the sea.
Rand turned back, seeing a light boat break out from the Wild Elves’ fleet, swiftly heading toward the White City.
“It’s an envoy.”
“They’re sending an envoy out.”
“What on earth do the elves want?”
…
(PS: A new month has begun; let everyone continue to strive hard!)
