Chapter 291
Chapter 291
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 291
Chapter Title: The Key to the Nine Myriad Long River (7)
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Leia's banquet was a nonstop parade of shocks for the elves of the Jerolen royal house. They didn't hide their discomfort, serving the food gruffly yet cautiously.
Dozens of dishes filled the table. It was a lineup befitting the Gaimeirn royal family, whose reach extended far and wide. Local specialties from every region were combined in entirely novel recipes, ensuring everyone could find something to their taste.
Their king seemed utterly unconcerned, but the Jerolen knights were stunned to be sharing a table with the Serpent King and huddled in tension.
"A truly splendid feast."
Jerolen wiped his mouth, his face flushed from the strong liquor. He marveled at Leia's retainers lifting their utensils together at one table, regardless of rank or status.
"So this is the new era..."
"Don't keep using that phrase, Jerolen. Calling me a kindly neighborhood granny won't make me listen."
"I don't need your approval, little one."
Jerolen and Leia clinked glasses with a laugh. The sticky golden liquid slid down their throats. It burned all the way down the esophagus—liquor far from a young man's taste. Jerolen guffawed.
"It was an uninvited summons and an unforeseen meeting, but I thank you for your hospitality, Queen of Gaimeirn."
"Don't call me by my castle. Call me Leia. That title's annoying."
"Hah. Right. A union of two peoples, was it? Then you can't represent just one royal house."
Goodwill flickered in Jerolen's eyes. He nodded readily, pouring liquor into his empty glass and Leia's.
"The mood is ripe now, and you haven't poisoned me yet, so my retainers will respect your words too. I'd like to hear why you came to my domain and acted so rudely."
"Poison...? Hah, if you were worried about that, why accept my invitation?"
"From the moment I saw your dragon, it became pointless."
He had known the risk of poison from the instant she proposed the meal. But he couldn't refuse. He had his own dragon, Lisir, yet Leia inexplicably had one too—and decisively, their naval power dwarfed his.
If talks collapsed and he returned to his flagship, he might survive short-term, but his people's doom was inevitable. War's casualties couldn't be undone.
If this was all a trap and Leia meant to poison him, escape was impossible. Resistance would just waste his subjects' lives. From the start, Jerolen had steeled himself: if poisoned, he'd submit without fight and let Gaimeirn absorb them.
"...Remarkable. To think the Serpent King harbored such thoughts? Weren't you three the ones who shoved your own kin into the abyss for your own sake?"
"You serious? Did Gaimeirn or Malern just offer their necks without a word? They're not the type..."
Jerolen stared wide-eyed at Leia, then burst into laughter upon realizing her ignorance of those days. He placed a hand over his glass.
"Our three... back then. In the continental wars, we weren't even kings or generals, Queen Leia. Just three adventurers. We'd handle quests, slay monsters, rescue refugees. Yeah, mercenaries selling our swords for coin."
A bit exceptional, though. Jerolen set aside his Serpent King's arrogance for a moment, thinking it still. Exceptional. Even surveying the whole race, none matched them. Together, their personal might could sway battlefields.
Was it divine favor, the pinnacle of racial potential, or mere coincidence piled on miracle? Individuals who could reach demigod realms alone—three born in one era, becoming friends.
"No old tales. The old way."
-Whoosh!
Jerolen snapped his fingers over his glass. Flames bloomed atop the liquor. He smiled wistfully, raising his glass and clinking Leia's. The fire spread.
Leia realized then: before her sat a man over a thousand years old. Those eyes held wisdom amassed by time—and equal madness and melancholy. The history of his race incarnate.
She matched Jerolen's pace, downing the drink. The fire wasn't hotter than the liquor. Nor was the liquor as fierce as the sorrow of the man she'd shared a glass with.
"Back then, we loved the world."
Like a bard's verse, his voice spread low and vast through the hall. Without command, knights from both houses set down utensils and turned to him.
* * *
Separate from the elven royal houses' recognition. If asked who saved the race later, three unbound free knights stood out.
Gaimeirn, shield of the earth. Knight wielding a spear forged from lava giant flames and blessed by the earth goddess Larisha herself. Hero who blocked a dragon's breath, saving an arrogant army.
Malern, keeper of the vault. Grand scholar bearing the ark of the pantheon, bestowed by heavenly god Eidaar. Master of all seven elven magic schools.
Jerolen, knight of the skies. Era's finest griffon rider. Wandering knight who pierced a demon archduke's heart in one charge, saving five cities and two hundred thousand souls—demanding no reward before departing.
Active worldwide, saving kin, slaying beasts, repelling other races, they preserved elven lands in the Great War. By chance, they met on one battlefield.
"Of course, none trusted each other at first."
Even half the rumors true made them unbelievable. All true? Then outright threats. Power too overwhelming for one being carried that meaning.
For a time on the same field. They faced mighty demons, rampaging ancient dragons, dwarves hurling endless explosives. No allies, and that was normal then.
As the saved equaled the dead kin. They finally acknowledged each other. These, at least, could guard one's back. Finally, one sharing the same view.
"Funny thing. Once we recognized abilities, this thought hit."
They acknowledged the power. Around then, all three thought it simultaneously. As strong as me. As dangerous. So—
"Better keep them in sight to check each other."
Elven-style conclusion. From that day, they called each other friends and traveled together. News of the race's mightiest heroes forming a band swept the continent fast.
* * *
When, how did the Heavenly War end? Most records buried in ash, survivors mere folktales. But Jerolen remembered. He who walked that era.
"The world's end?"
"Yeah."
Fine topic while cleaving demon skulls. Jerolen chuckled, taking Malern's words.
"Wanna bet? Tomorrow?"
"No. One hundred fifty-two years from now."
"Specific number."
"Gods ordained it, Jerolen."
Malern whispered, caressing the ark's edge. Priests are such a hassle. Jerolen grinned, thrusting his spear into a charging demon's chest. Flesh exploded like a bomb.
"What's the cause? No, let me guess. Dwarves. Those diggers finally shatter the continent, right?"
"Not a joke."
"If serious, so what? World's ending—what can we do?"
Malern waved at smirking Jerolen. Mana coalesced instantly; charging demons turned to ash. He shook his crackling, discharging hand.
"In this war between demons and gods, just wasting away. What future do we have? Correction: I petitioned the gods for our race's remaining lifespan."
"Remaining lifespan?"
"Yeah. How long our race can endure. How much time we have to survive this war."
In immortals' clashes, how long for mere mortals? Their race rode a clear decline. Gentle, but unstoppable.
One skirmish cost five thousand kin. For their sparse numbers, unbearable. And war demanded such losses constantly.
Anyone could predict short time left. But Malern sought the exact span.
The pantheon's answer: one hundred fifty-two years. Time to survival collapse if war continued.
"...Yeah, fair. If we all die, our world ends at least. Got a solution?"
"Stopgap remains."
Malern narrowed eyes at bloodied sunset. Demon hordes approached; his lined soldiers visibly fatigued.
"Build arks to evade the immediate end."
"Arks...? You mean, ships floating on sea?"
"Greater demons eye the continent's prime material plane; heavenly pantheon's gaze fixed there too. Dwarves, humans... their civs continental. Flee to sea first."
"A few ships won't hold us all?"
"Plan's underway, Jerolen. All three dynasties agreed. Fortress-city afloat, proof against all but greater demon curses, dragonfire, dwarf cannons directly."
Absurd jest. Greater demons too focused continent-side for personal curses. Dragons guarded nests. Dwarves never left land to shell seas.
Reprieve. Delay racial doom till material world's end. Malern bitter-smiled. Chose slow decay over flashy extinction. After losing continental foothold, only drifting left.
"Why tell me?"
"You, Gaimeirn, and I. We three set out to perfect the stopgap."
"...What?"
"Hiding lifelines at far seas means nothing if continent falls or one side seizes hegemony. All die after. So we stop it, Jerolen."
Merely staving material doom insufficient. Elven survival hinged two: world not fully destroyed. Or no hegemon grasping it.
Evade chaos briefly, let factions exhaust in war. Then reclaim land, rebuild. Three dynasties' and Malern's prophecy-based plan.
Not bad. But how? Can't block uncome doom or check nonexistent hegemon.
"So what do I do?"
"To the pantheon."
"...What?"
"Open pantheon gates. You and Gaimeirn lead, I petition. Our existence divine design. They can't refuse."
Elven pantheon haughty. Direct answers demanded sacrifice—usually priest's life. Self-divide soul wholly; gods' reply shadowed above.
But no mere priest. Malern, Gaimeirn, Jerolen: pinnacles of racial potential. Hailed 'pantheon's blessings embodied.' Their plea undeniable.
So they thought. For they loved world, race. Arrogant enough to believe only they could save.
* * *
"...What happened meeting the gods?"
Leia, drawn into the tale, sipped liquor. Banquet silent, all hearing legend's ancient tale from living relic.
The weary-eyed survivor of that age spoke.
"Killed them. Not one spared. Every last one."