Mage Legend

Lynch stopped in his tracks, looking at the person blocking his way. Priest Kuboert was wearing an elf's chain armor, and in his hand, he still held his ceremonial Hard Head Hammer, usually used for decoration, smiling at the Mage.

"In this forest, there are only you and me, two humans," Priest Kuboert said. "I can't think of any reason why the two of us shouldn't fight side by side."

Lynch waved his Magic Wand and said, "I think, Priest, you should stay at the Holy Mountain. As far as I know, Pate the Priest, who has become the Main Priest, spends much more time performing rituals than fighting battles. Your age is too advanced for intense combat."

"I don't think so," Kuboert said. "When I was young, I already stood on the front lines against evil. And my skills have not deteriorated at all." With that, he touched the Pate's Holy Emblem hanging from his neck. "Moreover, the Light God is with me."

"I hope as you say," Lynch said. "Where did you get that armor from? I don't believe the elves of Heather would let such a guest like you join the battle."

"This elf chain armor came from a local elf. His face was youthful, yet he wanted to join the battle," Kuboert adjusted the obviously ill-fitting chain armor, pulling in his slightly protruding belly. "I couldn't just watch the child sacrifice in such a battle, so we switched places. Averaging our ages makes us young enough, doesn't it?"

"Even the stubborn Pate Priest would use such means?" Lynch laughed. "Still, with that, I do look forward to witnessing your skills."

"In any case, you can't leave me here." After saying that, Kuboert also took out a scroll. The golden scroll case and the sun pattern engraved on it indicated it was an exquisite scroll from the temple. The priests' ability to make Divine Scrolls is far inferior to that of mages, but they always excel in decoration. In Priest Kuboert's hand, it was merely a Flight Spell scroll.

"Then follow me," Lynch unfolded his Flight Spell scroll. "But don't expect me to take care of you."

"The task of taking care of others has always been ours, the Pate Priest," Kuboert smiled.

The two figures quickly moved away from Heather Holy Mountain, heading towards Residual Star Swamp. Although the battle there wouldn't commence immediately, good hunters had to always stay by the exquisite traps. Without Lynch's Spell power, the traps couldn't be triggered by themselves; if the undead easily passed the painstakingly laid ambushes, the safety of the Elf Kingdom would be in jeopardy.

Since the war initiated by the Great Arcanist did not affect the Elf Kingdom, most residents here had long been accustomed to a peaceful life. The elves, engrossed in poetry and art, had somewhat deteriorated in their skills. Only a few residents still retained the past combat traditions, but their numbers were not enough to change the overall situation of the war.

In the last undead invasion, this deficiency of the Salantir elves was starkly highlighted. Their slow combat reactions made the elves, known for their agility, fall victim to the undead striking first, losing the initiative right away. Although they eventually drove the undead forces away, it came at a high cost.

The Great Druid promptly deployed personnel and used past Elf Clan warriors' stories to boost morale. Night after night following the first battle, the bards kept chanting ancient ballads in small theaters: using elegies to soothe the pain and war songs to inspire a long-forgotten fighting spirit among the elves.

So this time, the trained elves were clearly more skilled in battle than before. The blood of heroic ancestors from a thousand years ago rekindled their exquisite prowess, and their bows and arrows could always hit the enemies' most vital points.

The advancing vampires and ghosts surged forward like an overwhelming tide; they required no strict organization and were unlikely to heed any tactical orders. Upon seeing living flesh, these undead had nothing but thirst and hatred in their eyes, and would never heed so-called commands. The delightful memories of their former lives were long gone, leaving behind only all the pain and injustice they experienced in their lifetimes, coupled with the agony of an eternal lack of rest.

The way to transfer pain is to share it with others. This expression, however, holds a different meaning in the undead world. Only by tearing apart the living before them with their own hands, torturing them in the most agonizing ways, and eventually killing them to let them feel the cold of death, could the undead find any pleasure — the only slight relief for the twisted souls of the undead monsters. Driven by this force, even arrows capable of easily causing death became mere minor obstacles on their advancing path. As long as they avoided contact with the Erutalon River, these ghosts would not halt their progress simply due to the elves' heroism.