Translator: CinderTL
Far from the suffocating main battlefield, in a relatively secluded grove, Galvis gasped for breath, his hunched back making it nearly impossible for him to stand straight.
He narrowed his eyes, now clouded by the ebbing of his life force, and strained to look at the distant figure. The man stood motionless, eyes closed, like a statue, even amidst the sporadic attacks.
Tula.
"What... what is that man doing?"
Confusion filled his mind, and a wild, absurd thought flashed through it.
Could it be... he's terrified of the power Roland has displayed, and is too scared to advance?
But the moment the thought surfaced, he immediately and vehemently dismissed it.
"Mr... Galvis..."
A hesitant voice interrupted his thoughts.
Standing beside him, Phyllis clenched her fists tight, only to let them fall limp again.
After several attempts, she finally mustered the courage to look at the old, decaying elf before her. Her gaze was a complex mix of pleading and reproach.
"Please... don't stay here any longer. Mr. Roland has strictly instructed me to get you to safety as quickly as possible. Please... don't make this difficult for me."
Galvis slowly turned around, his movements exceptionally sluggish from weakness.
He clearly caught the complex, unreadable expression in Phyllis's eyes.
It wasn't simple concern or obedience. There seemed to be a trace of... struggle mixed in.
Even a fleeting, suppressed hatred.
He coughed heavily several times, until the taste of rust spread through his throat, before asking in a hoarse voice.
"Are you... hating me?"
He paused, his gaze calmly fixed on the drow elf.
"Did I unintentionally offend you just now?"
Phyllis remained silent, offering no answer. She only shook her head slightly, averting her gaze from him.
Seeing her reaction, Galvis understood instantly.
He sighed softly, his voice low.
"I see. It's... because of your drow bloodline, you instinctively hate this body and soul of a surface elf, isn't that right?"
The bard paused, as if gathering his thoughts or perhaps untangling a long-held confusion.
"Actually... this has always seemed strange to me."
Galvis continued, his voice dropping to a murmur as if speaking to himself. His gaze seemed to pierce through Phyllis, looking far beyond her and into the distant river of racial history.
"I grew up listening to the teachings of our clan elders. The drow they described were always linked to words like cruel, cunning, and treacherous."
"And to be honest, when I first saw you and felt the drow aura clinging to you, my heart... it did indeed stir with an instinctive wariness and disgust."
He shook his head slightly, a look of genuine curiosity crossing his face.
"But... at least since I was born, this is the first time I have truly met and spoken with one of you, a living, breathing drow. I imagine... it is the same for you, isn't it? Between us, there is no actual personal grievance."
His voice carried the characteristic inquisitiveness of a bard, a quest for the root of the matter.
"Then where did this seed—this seed of mutual hostility and hatred, rooted deep within our bloodlines and requiring no reason—come from?"
"Who, in the distant past, planted such a vile fruit? How could it cross the vastness of time to affect us still, narrowing the countless possibilities of our meeting to a single outcome: blades drawn or cold indifference?"
As Galvis was lost in thought, his senses, dulled by age and the depletion of his vitality, finally caught a ripple from the heart of the distant battlefield.
"No!"
He snapped out of his reverie, halting his inner speculation. He whipped his head around, his clouded eyes staring fixedly in Tula's direction, his voice trembling with alarm.
"He's... gathering strength? Is that... the aura of a God... condensing?"
Though the vague sensory signals couldn't let him grasp Tula's exact intentions, the divine essence—constantly ascending and collapsing inward—triggered a profound sense of dread and alarm deep within his soul.
An instinct screamed in his mind.
Tula must not be allowed to complete his preparations!
Forcing his frail body to hold, Galvis leaned most of his weight against the gnarled trunk of a weathered ancient tree.
He slowly closed his eyes, shutting out all external distractions to concentrate his remaining mental strength. He muttered to himself, his voice a mixture of relief and grim determination.
"Thank goodness... that madman Tula, though he stole almost everything, failed to completely strip away Lady Shuni's gift. A single, faint spark remains..."
His voice faded to a whisper, and a strange silence descended, broken only by his shallow breaths and the distant, muffled clamor.
A moment later, Galvis's tightly shut eyelids twitched. He snapped them open.
His eyes, once dull with age, now flickered with a faint, warm light.
"Found it!"
With a low exclamation, the bard made a strange gesture.
He extended his gaunt hands, hovering them in the air. His fingers curved slightly, their tips trembling.
He seemed to be searching and stroking invisible "threads" in the void, or perhaps tuning an unseen harp string. His expression was one of intense focus and solemnity, and a fine sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead, betraying the immense mental effort this action demanded.
Finally, his fingers seemed to touch a specific "node."
The next moment, his hovering hands suddenly yanked apart, as if he were pulling a heavy bowstring or tightening a rope with all his might.
Voom!
A faint yet profound thud echoed, resonating directly within the soul.
It wasn't a sound heard by the ears, but a vibration of space itself—the jarring sensation of a "string" that maintained some unseen balance being stretched to its absolute limit.
With that invisible thud, something in a realm beyond mortal perception seemed to be briefly disturbed.
At the center of the battlefield, Avril drew her bow once more.
An arrow, infused with her entire being's strength, whistled through the air, only to strike the invisible barrier surrounding Corellon.
Like a bird striking a mountain range, the arrow was instantly deflected, leaving not a single mark.
On the other side, the Shadow Nova unleashed by Duerden was like a pebble tossed into a deep pool, dissipating completely after stirring only a faint ripple.
"Damn it!"
Avril gritted her teeth, a surge of intense regret flooding her heart.
If I hadn't given up on myself after leaving Eversong Forest, if I had kept honing my skills... maybe... maybe I could have found a way to pierce this damned defense!
Just as her emotions peaked, the elf girl's eyes narrowed.
She noticed it—Corellon, who had stood as still as a stone statue, his face as calm as a well, had his brow twitch almost imperceptibly.
The first crack had appeared in his flawless expression.
Then, the seemingly indestructible, all-isolating invisible barrier before him began to fluctuate violently, as if disturbed by some unseen force from within, sending out rings of chaotic ripples.
The next moment, under the stunned gazes of Avril and Duerden, the barrier shattered like ice struck by a heavy hammer, emitting a series of faint yet distinct cracks.
Finally, it shattered completely, dissolving into a shower of shimmering shards that vanished into the air.
"Now's our chance!"
Avril didn't know why the once-impenetrable barrier had suddenly collapsed, but her combat instincts left no room for hesitation.
She drew her bow again in a flash. An arrow, honed to a lethal point, tore through the air and aimed straight for Corellon's exposed form.
Duerden was only half a beat slower. He swung his staff, and a twisted bolt of shadow energy shot out like a viper from its hole, striking the same target from another tricky angle.
Faced with this sudden assault, Corellon's newly opened eyes flashed with the annoyance of being interrupted.
"Shuni..."
Feeling a sharp, intense pain in His chest, He was forced to temporarily halt the inward condensation of His divinity.
Yet, even without His absolute defense, Avril and Duerden's all-out assault still seemed...
Insignificant to Him.
He didn't even move His feet. He simply raised a hand with elegant grace and flicked His fingers, as if swatting away a bothersome fly.
Avril's arrow, streaking like a meteor, struck an invisible, yielding wall less than a foot from Him. The shaft bent into a staggering arc before snapping with a sharp crack, its fragments falling limply to the ground.
With a slight outward wave of His other hand, Duerden's vicious shadow energy met its bane. A faint hiss echoed as the energy dissolved into wisps of black smoke, vanishing into nothingness before it could even reach His robes.
The entire exchange was executed with such effortless grace that it seemed to cost Him no strength at all.
In this moment, the vast gulf in their power was laid bare.
Meanwhile, Roland remained oblivious to the brief yet intense skirmish beside him. His entire spirit, will, and even his soul were focused solely on the Radiant Moon Longsword held upright before his chest.
A low, rhythmic chant resonated with uncanny clarity amidst the battlefield's chaos and the roar of energy. Each syllable seemed to stir the primordial mana of the surrounding space.
"With the essence of wind as my guide, shake the mountains, awaken the slumbering roar."
The Radiant Moon in his hand trembled slightly. The blood-colored battle qi surrounding the blade resonated with the invisible wind element in the air, emitting a low, mournful wail.
Corellon deflected another volley of Avril's arrows, his posture still composed, yet he could no longer maintain his still, focused stance.
Faced with the relentless assault—like a swarm of annoying gnats, each arrow precisely disrupting his spellcasting rhythm—he was forced to divert his attention.
"When the stars and moon fade, tear asunder the ancient pact."
The blood-red glow on the blade suddenly withdrew, as if swallowing the surrounding light, causing the space around Roland to dim. A resolute aura of breaking bonds and shattering shackles spread.
The shadow tentacles unleashed by Duerden were effortlessly annihilated by the divine power flowing naturally around Corellon. The old Drow's face was pale, yet he gritted his teeth and persevered, fighting for every precious second.
"Awaken the slumbering spirit, reshape the form of old."
The hum of the Radiant Moon grew high-pitched. Along the sword's spine, an ancient and powerful consciousness seemed to be awakening, as profound runes lit up from the hilt to the tip.
The sword's "form" seemed to undergo a subtle transformation under the surging energy.
Meanwhile, Avril gritted her teeth. Her quiver emptied at a visible rate, each draw of her bowstring draining nearly all her strength.
"When the threads of fate intertwine, witness the Dawn of the End."
Roland's voice rose sharply, carrying a solemn, proclamatory weight.
A blinding light erupted from the hilt gripped in his hands, as if he held a star on the verge of exploding.
Countless fine, fate-like energy strands began to frantically weave and entwine between him and the blade.
Avril fired her final arrow with all her might, then drew the dagger from her waist and lunged forward, only to be casually blocked by Corellon.
At that moment, Roland finally recited the final words of the Incantation.
"Henceforth, this is the Blade of Shattered Shackles,"
"Piercing through falsehood, reflecting the Mirror of Truth."
As the final line of the inscription thundered across the sky like a judgment, the Radiant Moon Longsword in Roland's hand erupted.
It was no longer the boiling blood-colored battle qi, but an endless surge of azure wind element.
As if summoned from the far reaches of the Astral Plane, they transformed into countless shimmering vortexes of light, entwined with a pure, vast, and all-dispelling positive energy radiance, letting out a roar that resonated with heaven and earth.
Debris and shattered wood on the battlefield were swept up by the torrent of pure energy, disintegrating before they could even touch the blade.
All the power—the wind's wild fury, the light's purification, and Roland's own unyielding will—converged and compressed upon the blade of the Radiant Moon in an unprecedented frenzy.
The sword became as clear as transparent crystal, its core surging with an unbearable torrent of azure and pure white.
It was as if Roland held a solid fragment of the Milky Way, a newborn firmament.
At this moment, Corellon finally abandoned his attempt to condense his divinity.
With a surge of his arms, a wave of majestic divine power rippled outward, violently throwing Avril and Duerden—who had been desperately clinging to their last strength—aside like fallen leaves.
They crashed heavily into the distance, temporarily incapacitated.
Corellon gazed at the longsword in Roland's hand, a weapon that had already transcended all mortal concepts. Feeling the monumental power within it, capable of shaking the very laws of existence, his flawless face betrayed a pure, unadulterated admiration for the first time.
"Such radiance... such power..."
His voice seemed to pierce through the barriers of space, echoing directly within Roland's consciousness with a distant, lingering resonance.
"If this were the age when gods walked the earth, when Godhood was not an unreachable dream... with the will and potential you display now, perhaps... you truly could have won the world's recognition, seized that supreme authority, and become one of us..."
The voice had barely faded.
The energy gathered by the Radiant Moon had already reached its critical point.
The sheer magnitude of the power distorted the space around Roland.
Light was devoured, and sound was severed.
He seemed to stand alone in a newly born, endless void where only wind and light existed.
Without a shout, without warning, Roland simply swung the "Radiant Moon"—which bore the weight of the starry river and the firmament—downward toward Corellon.
It was no physical strike, but a release of energy.
A torrent of cerulean and pure white, indescribable in its majesty, surged forward like the primordial light that created the world. It tore through space, annihilating all matter in its path, carrying an absolute will of judgment and purification.
In Corellon's eyes, his eternal indifference was finally replaced by an unprecedented gravity.
His hands swiftly traced complex, ancient divine runes in the air before him, channeling all the divine power he could muster.
The Goddess of Life's emerald protection, the united barrier of the Elven Gods, and even Corellon's own Primal Divine Power as a Great God...
...all converged to form a dazzling, multi-layered barrier, shimmering with countless runes and chains of cosmic law.
The next instant, the torrent and the barrier collided with a deafening roar.
BOOM!
There was no sound—or rather, sound was erased the very moment it was born by a far more powerful force. Only the pure, unadulterated sensation of energy tearing through all senses remained.
The center of the collision became a singularity that devoured light, before erupting in a flash so intense it would make the sun itself pale in comparison.
A brief stalemate ensued.
The Holy Barrier twisted violently, its runes flickering and fading as it frantically drained divine power to hold back the destructive torrent. Corellon's figure stood firm within the light, arms thrust forward as if bracing against a collapsing sky.
Yet the torrent—a fusion of mortal will, the essence of wind, and the very nature of positive energy—was far more immense than anyone could have imagined. It was no single strike, but a continuous, vast deluge, as if connected to an inexhaustible source of power.
CRACK—SHATTER!
The crisp sound of breaking was like a funeral bell tolling for the collapse of a divine realm.
The first layer of the divine barrier shattered. Then the second. Then the third...
Like ice melting under the sun, the barriers dissolved layer by layer.
Cracks began to spiderweb across Corellon's perfect body, as if a piece of exquisite porcelain were being shattered from within by an overwhelming force.
A flash of disbelief crossed his eyes, followed by...
...a hint of resignation.
Finally, the last barrier shattered before him, turning into a sky full of shimmering divine shards.
A vast torrent of energy completely engulfed his figure.
There was no explosion—only purification, annihilation, and a total scouring.
Wherever the torrent passed, the earth did not crumble; instead, it vanished as if erased by a rubber, sinking flatly into a smooth, bottomless chasm that stretched to the horizon.
The light faded, and the wind began to howl once more.
All that remained was the horrific, abyssal trench, as if a god's giant axe had cleaved the earth open.
Roland knelt on one knee at the trench's origin, his Radiant Moon Longsword plunged deep into the scorched ground, supporting his nearly collapsed body.
He gasped for breath, each inhalation tearing through his body with excruciating pain.
The dark gold dragon scales had long since receded, revealing skin as pale as paper, crisscrossed with countless fine, bleeding cracks.
His clothes were tattered and ruined, and the wound on his left shoulder—a grazing blow from the Disintegrate spell—still radiated an ominous, ashen decay.
The glow of the Primal Core within his body had grown extremely dim, as if all its energy had been drained, leaving only the faintest warmth to sustain his life.
Waves of weakness crashed against his consciousness like a tide, yet his hand gripped the sword's hilt with unwavering steadiness. Though his eyes were weary, they remained sharp.
He was not in mortal danger, but he was at the very end of his strength.
Just as he tried to steady his churning qi and blood—
A voice.
It was as soft as a whisper, yet it seemed to defy space and distance, resonating clearly within his mind. And...
It seemed to echo in the hearts of every sentient being across the entire continent.
"Human..."
The voice belonged to Corellon.
It was calm, distant, and carried a hint of...
Admiration?
"I acknowledge your strength, Name."
Roland's brow furrowed. Forcing himself to overcome his weakness, he strained to spread his dulled senses outward like a spiderweb.
Nothing...
For miles around, there was no trace of Corellon's vast divinity, only the smoldering embers and chaotic energy currents.
He had truly vanished—at least, on the material plane.
After a moment's silence, Roland spoke his name softly to the empty air.
"Roland."
"Very well... Roland..."
Corellon's voice echoed again, as if savoring the sound of the name.
"...A fine name, indeed."
Following a brief pause, the voice continued, its tone now nearly that of a formal proclamation.
"Hereby, thou, Roland, by mortal strength alone... hast vanquished a 'False God' in this battle."
"I look forward... to the possibility of meeting thee again, some day in the future."
"When that time comes, I hope thou shalt bring... even greater surprises."
The voice faded away, as if it had never been there.
Yet, the moment the sound completely vanished, an elderly surface elf—who had just recovered from his shock and was about to help a companion to his feet—suddenly froze.
He lifted his wrinkled hands in disbelief, feeling the air...
The lively and gentle magic elements, so familiar yet so long forgotten, were flooding back into his long-parched mana circuits like a rising tide.
"Mana... mana..." he murmured, his voice trembling with emotion.
Nearby, another young Elven Warrior instinctively reached out. A faint but steady halo of emerald-green natural energy flickered to life at her fingertips.
More and more surviving surface elves—warriors and spellcasters alike—sensed the crystal-clear reconnection to the magical network.
The once-dormant magic elements in the air had become unprecedentedly active and abundant. It was as if some invisible shackle that had been suppressing them had been shattered by the defeat and proclamation of Corellon's avatar.
Confusion, shock, and then ecstatic joy.
A primal, blood-deep thrill of rediscovery began to surge in the hearts of every surface elf.
At that same moment, another force—more subtle, yet carrying a bone-chilling cold and a profound aura of darkness—slid across the battlefield like a homing serpent guided by an invisible hand. It sank precisely into the body of Avril, who had just struggled to her feet, her stance still unsteady.
"Ugh!"
Avril let out a short, stifled groan as her body convulsed violently.
A long-lost, familiar, yet heart-pounding strength, like a bursting dam, instantly flooded her entire being, washing away the weakness and emptiness left by the previous battle and the stripping of her divine favor.
She stared down at her hands in disbelief. Her fingers, which had grown gaunt from the loss of her power, were now trembling slightly.
It wasn't from weakness, but from the sheer exhilaration of reclaiming this surging strength—and...
...a deep-seated, instinctive awe for this complex gift bestowed by Lolth.
Then, an even more wondrous transformation occurred. She felt a vigorous, almost savage vitality pour in alongside the divine favor, swiftly healing all the hidden injuries and exhaustion left by her premature aging.
She raised her hand instinctively, her fingertips trembling almost imperceptibly as she gently touched her face, which was still concealed beneath the heavy fabric.
The sensation...
It was no longer the rough, finely wrinkled, and aged skin she remembered. Instead, it had returned to its former firmness, smoothness, and elasticity.
The discovery sent her heart racing.
The elf girl abruptly reached up and, in a flurry of haste, yanked off the oversized hood of the cloak that had always kept her wrapped tight, exposing her face completely to the air.
Without even pausing to tidy her disheveled brown short hair, she hurried to Roland, who had just stood up, leaning on his sword, his face still deathly pale.
Her eyes were filled with urgency, trepidation, and a flicker of unbelievable hope. But upon seeing Roland's wretched state, she instantly cast her questions to the back of her mind and spoke urgently.
"Roland? Roland! Are you alright?"
Meanwhile, just as others were overjoyed by the restoration of their strength or the return of their mana, Galvis, at the edge of the battlefield, was also trembling with excitement.
His eyes, now clear again, shimmered with a nearly fanatical excitement.
Yet the source of his turmoil was not the faint but warm power of divine favor from Shuni flowing through his veins once more, nor the wrinkles that had silently faded and the vitality that had returned to him.
His entire focus was locked onto the thick notebook in his hands.
More precisely, it was fixed on the blank space on the last page, just below the name he had signed himself: Galvis.
The soft light that had previously gathered there did not dissipate. Instead, as if imbued with life and will, it transformed into a translucent quill made of pure radiance.
Though no hand held it, the Pen of Light danced across the blank page with elegant resolve, leaving behind lines of clear, fluid ink that seemed to pulse with some primordial law.
In the year of the New Era's dawn, at the Ruins of Eversong Forest, the mortal Roland, with mortal iron and will, pierced the void and vanquished the remnant soul of the false god Corellon here.
As the final character was inscribed, the Quill of Light and its ink dissolved into a shower of warm, shimmering particles.
They drifted with a life of their own, gently sinking into the notebook's pages as if they had always belonged there, becoming an inseparable part of the epic.
In that very instant, Galvis shuddered.
A gentle yet irresistible wave of warmth surged through his body.
This was no divine favor from Shuni, but a more ancient, more fundamental "Rule" itself, silently flowing into the depths of his soul.
Though he felt no sudden surge of power, he sensed a connection—to the land beneath his feet, to the countless stories flowing through the river of history—becoming unprecedentedly close and clear.
An epiphany dawned upon him.
He, Galvis, was no longer merely a chronicler and singer of tales.
He had been "recognized" by this land, by this very legend. He had truly stepped into the ranks of official bards—those who could evoke miracles with poetry and song, and glimpse the threads of fate.
The impact of this event extended far beyond Galvis himself.
At the center of the battlefield's ruins, just as Roland took a deep breath to answer Avril's question, a sudden anomaly occurred.
His vision blurred for a fleeting moment.
Then, lines of golden text abruptly materialized in the void before his eyes, obscuring Avril's concerned face.
Major Legendary Event Node Detected... Analyzing Event Energy Level... Judging... Milestone Confirmed: Mortal God-Slayer (Pseudo)... World Reputation System... Activating... Calculating Initial Reputation...
The unexpected messages left Roland momentarily stunned.
He instinctively tried to focus his mind, to read and comprehend the meaning behind the cold, mechanical words.
However, he was already at his absolute limit.
The forced activation of the Primal Core , the full dragon transformation, and the final, limit-shattering strike had already drained his physical strength, mental energy, and willpower to the very last drop.
The moment his guard dropped, the exhaustion and weakness he had been ruthlessly suppressing surged forward, instantly shattering the fragile lucidity he had fought to maintain.
The golden text in his vision began to warp and dissolve, and the sounds around him grew distant and blurred.
A wave of vertigo swept over him. The last shred of strength supporting his body vanished, and he fell backward, completely out of control.
The expected impact with the ground never came. Instead, he fell into a warm embrace that carried a faint, familiar fragrance.
Avril's panicked, urgent cries reached his consciousness, which was already being swallowed by darkness, sounding as if they were filtered through a thick curtain of water.
"Roland? Roland! What's wrong? Wake up!"
Her voice was the last thing he perceived before the infinite darkness claimed him.
(End of the Chapter)
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