Pillar of Yita

Fang Hong’s first battle in life was somewhat one-sided.

He had heard from Sicape that most people in their first battle in Eteliria were excessively nervous. It was as if their minds were doused in ice water, bone-chillingly cold, a complete blank; their hearts flustered and restless as if whispered to by the devil, making the brave hesitate and the cowardly go mad, ultimately sending their lives away in vain.

Of course, here it was a waste of a precious resurrection opportunity.

But he himself was fine, save for being a bit confused at the beginning, he mostly managed to keep his composure. It was just keeping up with the others that proved difficult, holding the icy and cumbersome Model Seven flintlock gun, the cold air bit like a file, causing a stinging pain in his lungs and a slightly fishy taste in his throat.

In front was a row of human walls.

The forest was as bright as day, inside the forest, both sides were chaotically slaughtering each other, the sharp whistles drowning out the clashing of metal, Fang Hong saw an Imperial Knight chasing a Dual Sword Swordsman, the latter of a much lower level, forced to lift his sword to meet the attack, one strike, two strikes, and after three strikes he was decapitated, his head falling to the ground, eyes wide open in death.

Fang Hong stared into the eyes of the dead, their complexions as pale as wax, their eyes blood-red like agate, motionless, like hollow shells, until the bodies dissolved into points of light, scattering like butterflies flapping their wings of light into the darkness.

The Silver Forest Spear was in retreat.

Kroid led his men into their left flank, like a stone thrown into water, causing ripples. That direction erupted in a cry, overwhelmingly powerful, the line crumbling like dry leaves. Wherever one looked, the cold sharp blades reflected light, swords piercing metal, and rose-colored blood spattered over the fallen leaves, steaming hot.

Fang Hong was in the ranged row.

Suddenly, someone on his side shouted, ”Forward three steps, line up from left to right, unarmored targets, prepare!”

The archers in chainmail and the crossbowmen, the gunners in bright breastplates and the rangers in green cloaks took steps forward on the soft, leaf-covered ground, rustling as they came to a stand. Then uniformly, they raised their war gear—bows, crossbows, and firearms.

Fang Hong hastily crouched down like the other gunners, fishing out a paper cartridge from his dusty bullet pouch. He had some experience with firearms, thanks to his time as an artisan apprentice in Kapuka.

The archers drew their bows, with a grating sharp sound that set one’s teeth on edge, like a tightly twisted rope.

Fang Hong clumsily pulled out the copper piece protecting the core of the firearm—the Red Crystal, bit open the paper cartridge, spat out the paper slip. Then he poured the blood-red catalyst into the chamber before lifting his firearm, using an iron awl to push the bullet into the rifled barrel—since the Non-Attribute Crystal was much more fragile, they had to use a muzzle-loading method.

This task was time-consuming and laborious; he had only gotten halfway through, drenched in sweat, when he heard a low shout,

”Fire!”

As the bowstrings were released uniformly, Fang Hong felt only a ’buzz’ ringing in his ears, the arrows flying like a sudden downpour into the forest.

The Silver Forest Spear’s counterattack was weak and feeble, only a few stray arrows flew over Fang Hong’s head.

”Second round, third from the left, Natural Historian, finish him off,” the voice shouted again.

Fang Hong then raised his firearm, covered the flintlock with the crystal cap and pulled back the firing pin, kneeling to prepare for the shot. But the left flank of the Silver Forest Spear had already collapsed, retreating like a receding tide.

He lost his target, as did everyone else. He glanced to the side, that decisive voice commanded, ”Advance one hundred feet.”

Fang Hong reset the trigger, got up, and followed the others. But it was then that he felt a sharp pain under his ribs, somewhat seeing stars—the rush of adrenaline having faded, a wave of weakness irresistibly surged up.

After all, life professions did not have the physical fitness of combat professions.

He tried twice but failed, panting and half-kneeling on the spot, pale as a sheet. The others did not notice someone had fallen behind. However, two cold gazes in the forest were the exception.

Two rangers of the Silver Forest Spear, who had been lurking outside the battlefield since the battle began.

”Be careful!” Sicape’s voice came from ahead.

Fang Hong looked up, just in time to see Sicape drawing her bow, the bowstring with a trace of residual light, the arrow cluster shimmering with sharp blue light in the cold air, ”Duck down!” she shouted. An arrow flew straight at him, Fang Hong ducked, a muffled groan followed, then the sound of a body hitting the ground.

He turned around, in his field of vision a ranger in frayed leather armor lay on the ground, clutching his chest, the arrow feathers divided into four, tea colored with black tips, clearly of high quality Griffin Feather. Fang Hong took another look at the face of the dead man, lifeless like a wax statue. In the corner of his vision, another figure faded gradually behind the ancient trunks.

Those were White Oak Woods, the Holy Tree of the Numelin Elves.

The other ranger. Fang Hong instinctively raised his gun, ”Don’t shoot!” Sicape, fearing he would fire rashly, the smoke from the firearm might interfere with her.

But Fang Hong did not act like a newcomer, calm and composed, he aimed unwaveringly in that direction.

The wind and the forest mist had come to a standstill.

The foe moved half a step—the movement of the dry leaves made a rustling sound like ripples spreading on water. Sicape’s keen ears twitched slightly, and she instantly fired an arrow into the dark, blocked by the branches of the oaks. She cursed under her breath; the foe was just inside her shooting blind spot.

This was no coincidence, Sicape quickly realized it was a seasoned wanderer—

”Ade...”

She was about to warn him. Fang Hong suddenly turned, his head tilted, somehow having pulled down his Wind Goggles. ”Wait, don’t—!” Sicape blanched.