My Players Are So Fierce

1601: 538.

If you ask, I will respond.

1601: 538.

If you ask, I will respond.

Triss had often delivered sharp critiques toward prophets, and Murphy suspected that her venomous remarks about prophecy must stem from being duped by it more than once before.

According to Triss, the prophets of the continent are a bunch of eccentric lunatics whose sanity has been shattered under the torment of gazing into the future, while their minds remain trapped, restless, by visions of catastrophe.

They are fish blessed by fate, able to poke their heads out of the river of time to steal a glimpse of the preordained currents of destiny, unclouded by ignorance.

But they are also cursed orphans, for the futures they steal glances at aren’t always true, and even if the vision turns out to be real, they can’t seem to figure out what steps to take to bring that future into being.

That’s an absolutely terrifying burden!

Understanding destiny has never been easy; a cryptic prophecy might need years, even decades, to unravel.

And the saddest part?

Many amateur prophets witness the emergence of the future before they’ve grasped the truth of their predictions.

Whether it’s fortune or doom, there’s rarely time for preparation.

How to describe that feeling?

It’s like dreaming about winning millions in a lottery—you even see the exact winning numbers—but you’re missing just one digit.

In your gleeful efforts to decipher that final number so you can climb to the peak of life, you find yourself at the lottery shop doorstep, staring at some jerk clutching the ticket of happiness as he squawks like a gorilla and mocks you to your face.

Ah, look here!

I was destitute when I couldn’t see the future, but I saw the future and I’m still destitute—so what did I bother looking for?

This is the core dilemma plaguing prophets.

They can only observe, but rarely alter—let alone the steep costs for every attempt to glimpse into the river of destiny.

In a continent teeming with psychic spells and fallen miracles, the price paid to witness the future is far from as trivial as missing out on a lottery ticket.

Such were the quirks of Triss’s prophecy tirade.

The Crimson Witch has always had this attitude toward prophets, soothsayers, and diviners.

Yet even someone as disdainful of prophecy as Triss couldn’t help but concede some begrudging respect when discussing the “signature unit” of the Shadow Elves—the Weaver of Destiny.

She had a few encounters with those fate-weaving maidens during her travels across the continent and admitted those spider priestesses of Lady Spider were undeniably skilled.

Now Murphy, too, had the chance to experience the formidable craft of the Weaver of Destiny firsthand.

Before him stood Veylanther, who hadn’t yet uncovered the truth—that Murphy was a cheat in disguise.

Yet she had, without any training at all, deciphered a prophecy that foretold the Vampire Governor’s inevitable role in reshaping the world.

Her decisiveness was unmatched.

Even before Murphy had made a name for himself across the continent, Veylanther had traveled thousands of miles to pledge herself as “vassal to the rising dragon.”

She’d chosen a remarkably perfect moment to sell herself to Murphy.

The Governor’s domain currently lacked elite forces.

Someone like her, upon acceptance, would immediately prove indispensable.

But therein lay the problem.

She had to convince Murphy to accept her—an exceedingly difficult task.

Because what she sought was trust.

And trust is far harder to earn than mere allegiance or acknowledgment.

To achieve this, Veylanther, meeting Murphy for the very first time, had nearly abandoned all the bad habits intrinsic to her Shadow Elf identity, presenting herself almost like a pristine Moon Elf.

Humbly, she stood before Murphy, awaiting her “future master’s” interrogation.

A crude metaphor for Veylanther’s current state would compare her to a groveling simp of the highest order.

Yet her humiliating humility only earned her Murphy’s skeptical gaze.

This was natural.

Any rational person in such a scenario wouldn’t bestow trust upon a woman they’d known for less than half an hour, particularly when said woman possessed six arms and was a Shadow Elf.

It was as if all her negative traits had stacked together into a full-blown debuff.

“First, tell me—what exactly happened in Mejewa City?”

Murphy rubbed his temples as he questioned:

“That’s one of the thirteen great clans of the Shadow Elves, a cornerstone of Shadow Elf civilization.

I’ve heard from a highly reliable friend that your family has guarded the key passage between the Eternal Abyss and the Dark Mountain Range for centuries.

You were a dominant force in the region; even the Wolf People dared not provoke you.

Mejewa City was a powerful metropolis with hundreds of thousands of loyal kin under your command—not to mention the smaller clans attached to yours.

You were the strongest among the Shadow Elves.

Why, then, such an abrupt downfall?”

“It was indeed sudden—like a disaster with no warning signs whatsoever.”

Murphy’s remarks prompted Veylanther, who had been meticulously maintaining her humble fa?ade, to reveal a trace of appropriately measured sorrow and anguish.

The cunning mistress sighed and said:

“No one knows when the first wave of attacks came, nor does anyone know what happened beforehand.

All I recall is that when I awoke amidst my consorts… ahem, my guards’ protection, Mejewa City had already fallen by a third.

And it had taken less than ten minutes since the battle started.

The earth wailed, the city trembled, and the Mejewa Clan’s Spider Temple was swallowed into the abyssal rift.

The entire city was torn apart by beasts surging from below.

Countless lives were lost before they could even comprehend what was happening.