Chapter 83: Rebirth of All Things

Chapter 83: All Things Are Reborn

Lyman was fighting three crimson Grayshaws.

The scene reminded him of a sci-fi movie back on Earth, where the protagonist also fought an endless horde of identical enemies.

Though there were only three Grayshaws before him, their combat prowess was just as formidable as in that movie.

No matter how many times Lyman cut them down, they could always heal their wounds all over again. Things that were never alive to begin with couldn't be killed, no matter how many times they were slain.

If only Tove were here, she could torch them to ash with a single burst of fire. Blood clones, blood armor—all of it would burn away in the heat.

Suddenly, a hoarse voice—like a prayer, or a sob—reached Lyman's ears:

"I know what I want now..."

Lyman's vision split in two: on one side, the crimson Grayshaws; on the other, a boundless road stretching across an open plain. His soul existed in both spaces simultaneously—one filled with the clang of blades and the roar of a life-or-death struggle, the other with the laughter of guards and the animals' easygoing songs.

Both worlds existed at once. Both versions of him existed at once—here and there, like some bizarre superposition.

The Lyman in the carriage opened the illusory *Book of the Evil God* and withdrew the Apostle Card used as a bookmark.

The brass-colored card blazed with brilliant light, gradually transforming into a silver hue.

At the same time, new words appeared on the pages one after another, as if an invisible hand were writing at breakneck speed.

"Chapter 5: Sylvira"

"You have forged an immortal soul-contract with Sylvira. She will obey you and serve you until her body rots and her soul is wiped out."

"As a reward for her loyalty, choose one of the following three Supernatural Abilities to grant your Apostle. Note: this gift cannot be taken back. Choose wisely and at the right moment."

Lyman observed Grayshaw's attacks with one eye while reading the three options presented by the *Book of the Evil God* with the other.

"Supernatural Ability: Light Mage (A-rank). You are a master of light and shadow. You can create illusions, blur the line between truth and falsehood, or simply bring boundless radiance. Remember: those who chase light and shadow should beware being devoured by the mirages they themselves weave."

Lyman thrust his blade at Grayshaw. The moment it struck, the wound turned to liquid and reformed, healing completely.

"Supernatural Ability: Blood Priest (A-rank). You command the ebb and flow of life itself. You can shape blood into solid form, steal life with life, and deal death with death. Remember: wielding another's blood is a curse."

The Grayshaws surged forward together, three massive scythes swinging at Lyman from every angle. "Death's Neighbor" screamed in his mind.

"Supernatural Ability: Spirit Weaver (A-rank). You are the shepherd of souls. You can grant fleeting vitality to the inanimate and illusory will to the soulless. Remember: you cannot create souls, nor can you revive the dead. Respecting life and death is a core tenet for every Spirit Weaver."

"...Ah." Both of him let out a short laugh almost simultaneously.

He knew. He knew how to handle Grayshaw. He knew exactly what ability to grant his new apostle.

***

Sylvira lowered her arm, raising the silver bow with a hand slick with crimson.

The world around her dimmed.

In that instant, time froze.

The cackling black-robed man, the roaring Elven Warriors, the grimacing Grayshaws—all froze like statues. It was as if she alone in the world could still think, still move.

No—she wasn't alone!

A shadow darker than midnight appeared overhead. The figure draped in darkness reminded Sylvira of Mr. Shadow, but this shadow before her was far vaster and more magnificent—more like the pitch-black universe than the night sky.

Where a face should have been was nothing but void, except for a pair of crimson eyes staring back at her.

In the shadow's hands was a great brass-bound book, bearing a closed eye on its cover.

Sylvira knew who he—no, "He"—was.

"Lord of the Abyss...?"

"Elven Saint Sylvira." A majestic and solemn voice echoed in her ears. "Your wish has been received!"

A brass-colored card materialized out of thin air before Sylvira. It hovered in midair, glowing lines converging on its surface to form an image:

An elven woman in blood-stained battle garb knelt upon the deep red earth, reaching out with both arms. In her embrace lay a small skeleton, whether she had just dug it up or was about to bury it was unclear.

Green vines coiled around the bones. A small flower bloomed where its heart used to be.

"Sylvira"

"You were born carrying curses and despair, in an age devoid of light. You yearned for peace and tranquility, yet in the end, you buried your kin's remains with your own hands. You chose blade and flame to purge the lingering darkness and sin. You bring tears and blood—do they nourish the seeds of doom or of the future?"

[You have accepted the mission: "Blood and Fire, Born of the Same Source."]

[You have unlocked a new quest: "Purge the Sin."]

The eye on the cover of the great brass book suddenly snapped open. Its pupil dilated, blood vessels burst, the eyeball bulged, and a thick tear of blood seeped out.

—Time started flowing again.

An illusory torrent surged forth from the Apostle Card, pouring into Sylvira's mind. Her body was battered and exhausted, yet in her weakened state, she felt she still had the strength to draw power from her fractured soul and pour it into countless vessels.

Her soul held such immense energy. Even she was amazed.

The Grayshaw facing her furrowed his brow. He waved his hand, and a new blood scythe took shape in his grip.

The man in blood-red armor raised his blade high, letting out a furious roar. The scythe's edge, with overwhelming force, swung down at Sylvira.

Even if she blocked with her silver bow, she could not withstand this blow!

Grayshaw was stronger and taller than her; years of brutal training had given him explosive strength far beyond ordinary men. How could an elf, known for agility and lightness, defeat a human strongman? Absolute disparity in strength would only cut this desperate Elven Saint in half!

—CLANG!

The massive scythe struck against something hard, sending a shower of sparks flying—it was blocked dead in its tracks!

Grayshaw's eyes narrowed. He could hardly believe what he was seeing.

Sylvira was still standing there.

The one who had blocked that unstoppable strike was not her, nor some brave and mighty Elven Warrior.

...It was a grey stone statue.

It was lifelike and vivid, its features uncannily resembling a real person, its delicate hair covered in moss. One ear was missing entirely, fine cracks spreading from the damaged area, half its face covered in a web of cracks. At first glance, they looked just like the tattoos on elven faces.

Along the Statue Road, such statues were everywhere. They stood silently in the grass and beneath the shade of trees, watching the sun rise and set, and travelers passing by.

Seasons changed, years turned, and even the long-lived elves had passed through several generations—yet these statues had stood forever as silent, loyal guardians of the Statue Road.

Now, one statue moved. It left its post, which it had held for who knows how many hundreds or thousands of years, stepped in front of Grayshaw, and used its half-broken obsidian sword to block his attack.

"What... what kind of sorcery is this?!"

The other black-robed men also halted their attacks, glancing around in shock and uncertainty.

A stone statue emerged from the depths of the dense forest.

Half of its head was missing, yet the remaining side of its face still revealed handsome features. It skirted the blood-weeping tree, crunched through dried leaves, and trod through the damp red soil, advancing toward the black-robed men.

"Demon! Monster!" One black-robed man, rattled by the bizarre sight, stammered incoherently and charged at the statue, swinging his scimitar.

The blade clanged against the hard rock and snapped in two with a sharp crack.

Dust and bits of stone crumbled from the statue's half-shattered head. It raised its stone sword and swung it in a backhand slash at the black-robed man's neck.

The black-robed man flew through the air like a snapped branch.

The statue stepped over his corpse and continued forward.

The wounded Elven Warriors, leaning on each other, watched in shock and dread as the statue passed by them, not daring to move a muscle.

If their eyes hadn't still been tracking the statue, they might have looked more like statues than the statue did.

Another statue pushed through the dense thicket, silent as it advanced toward them.

Behind it, countless gray shapes emerged from the darkness.

Some were whole, others just half a body. Most were damaged, but that didn't slow them down one bit.

Even the Black Sun Cult, who'd seen more than their share of twisted horrors, could only shake in their boots before this army of stone.

"Lord Grayshaw, what do we do?!"

Grayshaw twirled his massive scythe and strode forward.

"Worthless! Kill the Elven Saint!"

The words barely left his mouth when Grayshaw heard the Shadow Transcendent—still tangled up with his blood clone—let out a short laugh.

"Ah, I see. Your Supernatural Ability is 'Blood Priest.'"

A wave of pure dread hit Grayshaw.

How could he possibly know that? This ability was insanely rare, with a name so obscure that Grayshaw had never once met anyone who could name it on sight—let alone call it "Blood Priest."

Was this Shadow Transcendent really that well-read? What else did he know? How much?

"Blood Priest... You can control your own blood, but you'd rather use other people's. Why? Scared of pain? Scared of dying? Or just trying to get some use out of your dead lackeys?"

A low, mocking laugh echoed from under the tattered cloak, dark as night.

"But using someone else's blood comes with a curse. So that's the catch! Makes things a whole lot easier!"

The Shadow Transcendent flicked his wrist and pulled out a plain little mirror from who-knows-where.

Grayshaw's soul, wrapped in that blood-red armor, shuddered before he could stop it. He knew that mirror. Back when he'd fought the Dawn Church, he'd seen followers of the False God use something just like it.

—He knew! He knew it all!

The Shadow Transcendent raised the mirror.

"Let there be light!"

Those words of power, heavy with miracle, woke the sleeping magic inside the mirror. It was a gift from the God of Dawn, charged by the endless prayers of his faithful—able to banish dark forces and cleanse the curses of the dead.

The mirror exploded with blinding light.

In that pure white light, the three blood clones froze, crumbled on the spot, and turned back into three pools of blood.

Grayshaw's blood-red scythe cracked apart piece by piece, crumbling into ash. Cracks spiderwebbed across his crimson armor, and chunks of dried blood flaked off, exposing Grayshaw underneath in his black robes.

Sylvira raised her silver bow.

She didn't have a single arrow left, but she still nocked an invisible one and drew.

The instant the string reached full draw, a flood of starlight poured into the silver bow—like the whole Milky Way had crashed down from the sky—and formed a ghostly arrow of light.

With a soft twang, the blazing arrow shot out, cutting through a maze of light and shadow—some real, some fake—and flew dead-on at the one true target.

The statue army charged the black-robed men. Cold stone met flesh and blood. One side was all screams and wails; the other, a silence that had been frozen for a thousand years.

The arrow hit its mark. The string went slack.

***

The Verdant Court.

Livia cradled a long wooden box as she hurried out of the great hall. She ran her fingers over the box, a glowing smile spreading across her pale face, like she'd already been promised a seat in heaven.

Suddenly, the smile vanished.

"How could this be?"

She muttered to herself, staring through the darkened sea of trees toward the forest's edge.

"Grayshaw actually... Could it be..."

A breeze rolled through, rustling the leaves. The forest rippled like waves, and Livia's silver hair and robes swayed along.

"What is that thing, coming toward me?"

***

At the forest's edge.

Blood soaked into the ground.

Black Sun Cult members lay scattered across the field. The Elven Warriors, fighting back their disgust, dragged the bodies into a pile. Not out of some noble urge to bury the enemy, but to keep the corpses from taking up too much space and poisoning the forest they loved.

Sylvira crossed the battlefield and came to stand beside Lyman, who stood there grim and silent. Lyman was staring down at Grayshaw, sprawled at his feet.

Now there was only one Grayshaw left. Or, to be exact, two-thirds of one.

Sylvira's light arrow had punched straight through him, and his right arm and leg had turned to ash on the spot. The agony and the weakness from losing so much blood made it impossible to keep his Supernatural Ability going.

Maybe it was all those years of hardening his body, but even with a third of it gone, Grayshaw was still hanging on.

Lyman, having learned his lesson last time, had shoved a chunk of wood in his mouth to stop him from biting down on poison.

Sylvira looked down at him. The dried blood on her face had gone dark brown, like some new kind of war paint.

She gave a small nod, and Lyman yanked the wood out of Grayshaw's mouth. After checking his teeth for hidden poison, he smacked Grayshaw's cheek with the flat of the Blade of Revelation to wake the dying cultist.

"Did Councilor Lanmano order the Black Sun Cult to attack me?" Sylvira asked softly.

Her gaze was calm, and her tone was flat, as if she were asking, "What's the weather like today?" Having endured such intense sorrow and pain, she could hardly bring herself to care anymore, even if someone was trying to murder her.

Grayshaw stared at her, saying nothing.

"Sometimes silence is an answer in itself," Lyman reminded her.

Sylvira shook her head. "It's fine. I'll ask Lamanor myself."

Grayshaw suddenly grinned, revealing a full set of blood-stained teeth.

"You won't get into the Verdant Court," he said coldly. "The 'human stakes' aren't just here—they surround the court as well, and they're denser there. Without the High Priest's or a Councilor's sanction, no one can pass through!"

With that, he tilted his head back, and his one remaining shoulder trembled, as if trembling with laughter.

"Human stakes," Sylvira lowered her eyes. "So that's what you call them," she murmured.

"I know you have some way to destroy the human stakes," Grayshaw said. "But destroying them means killing the people trapped inside. Hah, the Elven Saint leading outsiders to slaughter her own kin—what a joke."

"Is there any way to reverse this forbidden art and save those who've been turned into weapons?" Sylvira asked.

"You're asking me?" Grayshaw let out a bitter laugh. "That's a forbidden art known only to the High Priest. You think she'd tell you? Don't even dream of it, you—"

"It's not known only to your High Priest," Lyman interrupted.

"...What?" Grayshaw's jaw dropped.

"That forbidden art was invented by the dwarf master Relf Stonespear, and then sold to your Black Sun Cult," Lyman said.

Grayshaw's eyes widened. This fearless man finally felt true fear in that moment.

"How do you know that?"

"Oh, because Relf Stonespear has already been dealt with by a sister in my order," Lyman said casually. "By the way, that sister is also a dwarf, and she's gathered a host of skilled dwarf craftsmen around her. A forbidden art invented by dwarves, studied and cracked by dwarves—it shouldn't be long before they crack the 'human stakes' for good."

Grayshaw trembled almost imperceptibly.

"You're bluffing... Even if you crack the forbidden art, it'll take ages. There's no way you can get through the cordon now, unless you're willing to kill..."

Sylvira suddenly spoke up. "We have our ways."

She lifted her head, her gaze cutting through the dying branches toward the crimson sky.

A rush of wind—

The forest's stagnant air suddenly stirred. Wind came from afar.

The treetops dipped, then rose, and the ones beside them followed suit, creating rolling waves. The dead forest stirred to life, and the earth breathed with it.

Sylvira's golden hair and Lyman's tattered cloak whipped in the wind.

A shadow vast as a mountain swept over the treetops, blotting out the sky. For a moment, the forest seemed shrouded in darkness.

The Elven Warriors halted their work, gaping at the sky.

"The human stakes have a limited range. We can fly over them from high enough," Sylvira said.

With a thunderous crash, a stone dragon burst through the dense canopy and landed on the outskirts of the cordon.

Under Grayshaw's disbelieving gaze, it stretched its neck, spread its wings, and roared silently.

The Stone Path was lined with many such dragon carvings.

"Long ago, in an age before you humans even dreamed of 'fire,' our elven kin came to this world alongside the dragons through the Stellar Conjunction," Sylvira said softly.

"Our two races forged an alliance, battling together against the oldest and most evil beings of this world and beyond, and ultimately claimed this homeland. To honor that pact, we raised statues along the paths we once walked, etching our precious memories into stone.

"The first dragons have all passed away. The first elves have long since returned to the roots. The ancient pact is broken, yet the Stone Path endures."

Sylvira paused, then suddenly smiled. "If not for them, I might have forgotten. We elves built the Verdant Court through battle and struggle. Stone truly is the best vessel for memory.

"Now, we must go to battle once more."

With that, she left the stunned Grayshaw behind, slung her silver bow over her shoulder, and walked toward another stone dragon that was descending.

Grayshaw's lips trembled, as if he wanted to say something, but for a long while, no sound came out.

"Repent!" Lyman said, ending his life with the Blade of Revelation.

An invisible force surged from the wound at his neck, coalescing around a broken sword nearby.

"Name: Great Sacrifice"

"Description: From a man who could control blood, who only dared to sacrifice others, thus bearing a curse and ultimately facing divine judgment. Offer your blood, and this sword shall become razor-sharp. User, remember well: those who live by the sword shall also die by the sword."

Lyman sheathed the "Great Sacrifice" and followed Sylvira's footsteps.

More and more dragons landed in the clearing beyond the cordon.

One by one, elven stone statues walked toward the dragons and climbed onto their backs. The dragons beat their wings and soared into the sky, their immense force shaking the trees, leaving the distant elven warriors struggling to stay upright.

"Let's go," Sylvira said to the elven warriors.

Erowen watched in astonishment as a stone dragon obediently lowered its wing, forming a triangular ramp. The Elven Saint took the lead, climbing up the wing to its back and settling near the dragon's head.

Many years later, when Erowen's long life drew to its end, he would recall that evening when the Saint rode the dragon. In his lifetime, this elven warrior had witnessed countless incredible scenes, but this one—its strangeness and splendor—would forever rank first in his memory.

Something nudged Erowen's boot.

He looked down and saw a small deer statue hopping around his feet. It bumped its tiny antlers against his ankle, as if reminding the elven warrior not to leave it behind.

Erowen was stunned at first, then choked up, and finally wiped his eyes, grinned, and picked up the little deer statue, tucking it into his chest.

He walked toward a stone dragon with horns and a tail covered in spikes. The stone-carved elven warrior on its back turned its stiff head to look at him, then bent down and extended a hand.

Erowen took his hand and climbed onto the dragon's back.

Just as in the ancient, distant age, the elves once again sang war songs as they soared into the sky on dragons.

Author's Note:

Haha, who would've thought the Stone Path had this use!

How's that for Chekhov's gun with a side of vinegar, folks!