Chapter 130: The Cast-Off Scapegoat

Mention the Elven race, and even the bravest of the brave would fall silent.

If one were to identify the race that harbors the deepest hatred toward humanity in this world—it is not the Dragonkin, nor the Dwarves, nor the Goblins... but an unimaginable answer: the Elves.

The Dwarves are simply reclusive, preferring isolation and shunning contact with other races; they favor living in vast caves and underground tunnels amidst the wilderness and hills. The Dragons, proud of their supreme strength, dominate the far northern reaches of the continent with an air of arrogance. As for Goblins... who cares about those green rodents who only babble nonsense?

Yet, ironically, it is the Elves—innately kind, peaceful, and friendly—who harbor a deep-seated hatred for humanity. This enmity is beyond belief.

Legend has it that the Elves are a stubborn, almost rigid race. There is a saying on the continent: if an Elf dislikes you, it will hate you until death; if an Elf loves you, even if you thrust a sword into its chest, it will still love you.

Though exaggerated, this saying reflects the resolute nature of the Elven people.

The hostility of the Elves toward humans is said to originate from the ancient primordial era. It is believed that during those times, humans committed a grievous betrayal against the Elves, causing them enormous losses. Since then, their relationship has been defined by enmity. This ancient grudge has endured for countless millennia, to the extent that hating humans has become a tradition among the Elves—one they have never deviated from.

Because we have always hated you, though we may not know why, it is tradition... so we continue to hate you. Such an excuse might seem absurd. Yet, the Elves are not idiots; many reasons deepen their animosity toward humans.

For example, humans ravage nature, destroy forests, slaughter magical beasts and other races—grave sins to the nature-loving Elves.

More importantly, the practice of human slave trading!

Elves are naturally gifted archers, artists, and possess innate magic talents. Beyond these blessings, they are known for their inherent beauty.

Beauty is the original sin of the Elven race.

Coupled with the decadent and depraved nobility among humans, whose obsession with beauty takes a twisted form, the frail and exotic allure of Elvenkind makes them the most coveted trophies by these elites.

Yes, you read that right: trophies!

Every Elf, male or female, is born with delicate and striking features. The legendary Elves are nearly all accomplished singers and dancers, radiating the spiritual energy born of nature itself. Consequently, an Elven slave often becomes a prized commodity among the human nobility. A beautiful Elven maiden, once captured, instantly becomes an expensive item sold at exorbitant prices in human markets. Once enslaved, their fate is a lifetime of torment at the hands of gluttonous or lecherous nobles. Some become rare collectibles, traded among the elite, perpetually treated as mere playthings. Even the offspring born from unions between humans and Elves, usually blessed with beauty, often share a similar grim fate. This tragic reality has led to the emergence of a new race on the continent—the Half-Elves.

Intermarriage is strictly forbidden among the Elves, so the existence of Half-Elves stands as undeniable evidence of humanity's vile deeds.

What enrages the Elves most is that many human nobles harbor a predilection for male slaves, meaning that both female and male Elven slaves fall victim to these horrors. Male Elves, once captured, are often bought by some noble to serve as pederasts’ playthings. The Elven population is scarce; individuals are powerful but their reproduction rate is low, second only to Dragons. Hence, each Elven slave commands near-priceless sums, fueling an endless stream of slavers who risk their lives hunting Elves in the chaotic lands of forest and wilderness. Countless slave-catching teams have perished in these wilds; countless Elves have shed blood and tears, paving the way for the slavers’ prosperity.

Historically, this slave trade reached a peak centuries ago. Coveting the immense wealth from Elven slaves, the Byzantine Empire and the Odin Empire once formed a joint force of over ten thousand—comprising Odin berserkers, beast-soul warriors, and Byzantine elite cavalry—to campaign into the forest seas where Elves dwelled.

That expedition ended in failure. Less than one-tenth of the army survived the forest seas, most slain by the combined forces of Elven tribes with their bows and nature magic. The survivors returned with hundreds of Elven captives. Among them was said to be an extraordinarily beautiful Elven woman who was taken by the Byzantine emperor himself, beloved for her breathtaking beauty. She bore royal offspring but, being half-Elven, was denied legal royal status and, as a child, was ordered by the emperor to be drowned in a well.

After this, the enraged Elves declared humanity to be the most despised race among them. Any human daring to set foot in the forest seas would be driven out.

To drive the gentle and kind Elves to such fury, one can only imagine the depth of human sins against them.

Compared to traditional Elves, the Dark Elves represent a corrupted offshoot of the Elven race.

Known also as the Fallen Night Elves, these Elves betrayed the faith and abandoned the traditional Elven virtues: kindness, peace-loving nature, and harmony with the natural world. Cunning, cruel, greedy, and vicious, the Dark Elves were cast out by the Elven god and severed from the traditional Elven community. Their skin turned black, yet they retained Elven beauty and talents. They prefer to hide deep within forests, ambushing any race that trespasses—Elves included.

If traditional Elves merely declare that humans entering the forest seas will be expelled, the Dark Elves take it further: any human caught by them will be relentlessly hunted down.

***

Although Shaia grew up in Wildfire Town and knew of the sordid history between Elves and humans, if this so-called Magic Kiss Taro had been elsewhere—even within Dwarven lands—Shaia, confident in his knowledge of the terrain and cautious nature, might still have held some hope. But the Elven lands? It was better to give up entirely.

Sighing softly and glancing at the dejected Dodoro, Shaia said nothing, only gently patted the Mage’s shoulder.

Bidaldo led the two to a tavern west of the city, not far from the arena. Entering, the tavern was already bustling, thick with the scent of alcohol and tobacco smoke. Laughter echoed inside.

“Grell, what nonsense are you spouting? You say you want to challenge that fellow Shaia? Hahaha... that guy even defeated Hasting, a master!”

“Yeah! If you’re so great, why not challenge Hasting directly?”

“Hahaha! This guy must have been drinking too much horse piss!”

“No, I think it’s because he’s been with too many women—thinks Hasting’s a pushover like them... hahaha!”

Amid the boisterous laughter, Shaia spotted an old acquaintance: Grell, the Silver Swordsman of the Royal City’s Four Talents. The handsome but foolish man stood irritated at a table, a silver cross-sword beside him—not the one Shaia had shattered in the Wildfire Plains, of course. His face flushed purple with anger, Grell slammed the table and shouted, “Enough! Shut up all of you!”

With a swift draw, his silver cross-sword gleamed even in the dim tavern light. Clad in fine rhinoceros leather and steel-plated light armor, sword flashing cold light, he cut an imposing figure. The laughter quieted somewhat.

“Hmph! You fools! Wait until I, Lord Grell, defeat that rural bumpkin Shaia, make him kneel and admit defeat! Then let’s see who dares mock me!”

Most present knew Grell’s actual capabilities but, respecting his noble lineage, dared not press further. Silence settled.

Grell, pleased, slammed the table again, bellowing, “Bring the drinks!”

The tavern owner promptly served a large tray full of wooden cups brimming with strong liquor. Grell downed a cup in one gulp, then laughed drunkenly, “Great! I’ll buy a round for everyone! After we’re all drunk, tomorrow I’ll go and humiliate that bumpkin Shaia!”

Then, with a slip, Grell slid under the table. The patrons froze, then burst into laughter.

Grell’s antics were tiresome, but free drinks were prized. Drunken bums and down-and-out warriors scrambled for the cups, banging the tables to urge the owner on.

Shaia pushed through the crowd, pulled Grell out from under the table. Drunk and barely conscious, Grell blinked at Shaia but failed to recognize him. Seeing Bidaldo beside Shaia, Grell smiled hazily, slurring, “Ah, our mage has arrived... come, have a drink with us...”

Bidaldo frowned deeply. He had deliberately brought Shaia here to give him a lesson. The tavern was filled with drunks and washed-up fighters from Yan Capital. Grell, though a noble, was hot-headed and pretentious, often boasting skills he didn’t possess. The patrons flattered him for free drinks, and he was well-known here. Bidaldo expected Grell to attack Shaia on sight, with the tavern’s fighters backing him due to numbers. Shaia, though fierce, would be overwhelmed.

But seeing Grell drunk and unable to recognize anyone, Bidaldo’s plan faltered.

The patrons knew Grell but ignored Bidaldo, recognizing him as just a hanger-on. No one took him seriously.

Resigned, Bidaldo sat with Shaia by a wall and ordered several mugs of beer.

Shaia drank deeply, while Grell passed out on Bidaldo’s lap. Despite six mugs of strong liquor, Shaia’s face remained unmoved, his eyes sharp, occasionally glancing at Bidaldo with a meaningful smile, unsettling the mage.

After the eighth mug, loud commotion erupted at the tavern entrance.

A deep, booming voice shouted, “Why are you following me? Go back! I’m just out for a few drinks, won’t cause trouble!”

The tavern door was pushed open, revealing a massive, imposing figure clad in cowhide chest armor, bearing a giant battle axe. His wild red hair was braided into several small whips trailing behind him. This was Nigul, the towering giant of the Royal City’s Four Talents.

Behind Nigul, five robed warriors entered tightly, including a man with spiky gray hair resembling steel needles—a walking hedgehog. Medium in stature, clad in simple cotton warrior robes, his presence was fierce, like a leopard ready to pounce. Hanging from his waist was a sharkskin scabbard housing a long sword; one hand rested on the hilt, the other behind his back, his gaze sharp and intense.

Shaia’s heart skipped: this was a formidable opponent.

The spiky-haired warrior said nothing, trailing Nigul silently. Nearby, another warrior whispered, “Young master, the lord ordered: wherever you go, we follow. If we fall behind even half a step, we’ll be punished.”

Nigul scoffed, “Don’t follow me. If anyone gets the rod, I’ll take the beating for you.”

The guards showed disdain, thinking: as the young master, punishment is not his burden; if they got caught slacking, it would be them who suffered.

The tavern was dim and crowded. Nigul called out for Grell but found no one. The silent spiky-haired warrior suddenly squinted, locking eyes with Shaia sitting in the corner. The two exchanged a glance. The warrior’s eyes flashed with recognition, then returned to silence, staying close to Nigul.

Shaia’s heart sank. That brief eye contact sent an invisible weight crashing into his mind, making his back sweat. He nearly reached for his fire fork several times. The warrior’s gaze felt tangible, sharp enough to sting. Such overwhelming presence, Shaia had only felt once before—facing Hasting.

Nigul circled the tavern. Shaia made up his mind, suddenly standing with a shout. He smashed the table in front of him with a flying kick, shattering the sturdy wood and scattering wine everywhere. His roar silenced the tavern instantly; dozens of eyes fixed on him.

Shaia puffed his chest, hands on hips, bellowing: “The Royal City’s Four Talents—empty names! Clowns with empty reputations!”

His voice echoed throughout the tavern. Bidaldo stared, amazed and puzzled by Shaia’s sudden outburst.

“Empty reputation, hollow fame... haven’t you always known? Why shout it out now?”

Nigul finally spotted Shaia. The giant roared, face darkening, snatching his massive axe from his back, pointing at Shaia. “Ah! It’s you! You little scoundrel!”

Shaia laughed heartily, striking a pose, chin raised. “Hmph! It’s me alright! You still remember me... Shaia Thunder! Ridiculous! When you and your Four Talents arrived, that drunken cat Grell was supposed to challenge me! But now he’s a drunkard! Your Four Talents are full of hot air, daring to look down on me! Hmph! I’ve fought in the north, even beaten Hasting, and I still don’t take you small fry seriously!”

He stepped forward, clenching fists. “Come on! Four Talents, bring it on!”

The crowd’s expressions changed instantly.

Nigul was stunned to meet Shaia here—the infamous one who recently defeated Odin’s Hasting.

Bidaldo was speechless. Though he vaguely remembered a bumpkin named Shaia, he never imagined this petty thief who once robbed him was the legendary Shaia Thunder.

The tavern patrons, drunken gamblers and down-and-out warriors, were dumbfounded.

Shaia Thunder? That kid was the rising star who defeated Hasting? Why would he come here to challenge the Four Talents? Didn’t he know this would lower his status?

Nigul hesitated but managed, “You! You’re Shaia Thunder? What are you doing here? Know this: the Four Talents aren’t to be trifled with!”

Shaia sneered, “What am I doing? I heard in Yan Capital, there are four young fools with eighth-rate martial skills but first-rate bragging, who call themselves the Royal City’s Four Talents, deceiving people! I couldn’t stand it and, just arriving in Yan Capital, decided to test the so-called famous masters by taking you four down first!”

The onlookers exchanged puzzled glances: if you want to meet true masters, why pick these? Maybe Shaia was crazy to come here just to make a name.

“Enough talk! Let me see these so-called masters of Yan Capital!”

Shaia laughed, grabbed a chair, and flung it fiercely at Nigul from a few steps away.

“Honor challenges among warriors! No interference, or don’t blame me for being rude!”

The chair flew at Nigul’s head, who raised his axe with a crack; the chair shattered, wood splinters flying.

Nigul froze. Seeing Shaia charging, he recalled when the barbarian tore a tree out by hand in the Wildfire Plains, shivering with fear. His first thought was to drop his axe and flee, but surrounded by witnesses, pride held him firm. Gritting his teeth, he swung his axe.

Shaia drew his fire fork, black and gleaming, stepping quickly to close distance.

The spiky-haired warrior’s eyes flashed sharply but, seeing Shaia strike, he merely smirked coldly and took two steps back, hands behind his back by the wall.

Shaia’s fire fork clashed with Nigul’s axe. Nigul’s expression changed from confidence to shock.

“...What?!”

Though fully prepared, Nigul felt the fork hit like soft air—no resistance, no impact. Instead, a loud boom echoed as Shaia was launched backward, crashing into the wall with a thunderous crash, denting it deeply and causing chunks to fall. Shaia staggered, shouting, “Impressive!”

He quickly regained footing, adopting the shadow sword technique he had recently learned. His body weaved left and right, seeming to dance almost alongside the axe’s wild swings. To onlookers, it appeared Shaia was being battered and staggering.

Again, the fire fork struck the axe. Shaia’s body trembled violently as if struck by an invisible force. The fork was knocked away, and Shaia stumbled, crashing through several tables, spilling soup and wine over himself. He finally recovered his fork, stepped back, and glared fiercely at Nigul, shouting, “Ah! What powerful fighting energy!”

Nigul was bewildered.

“Fighting energy? If I knew that, would I have been so thoroughly beaten by this kid before?”

Shaia’s face twisted with a mix of unwillingness, helplessness, anger, and humiliation.

He stomped powerfully, sheathing the fire fork with a hoarse voice full of bitter grief, trembling as he stared at Nigul.

“Royal City’s Four Talents, you are indeed formidable. I concede defeat today. When I have honed my skills, I will return to learn from you!”

He then climbed atop a table, shouting loudly:

“I, Shaia Thunder, admit my inferiority in skill, and fairly concede defeat to the renowned Royal City’s Four Talents! I am convinced!”

His voice carried far beyond the tavern, reaching even passersby outside.

Nigul was still confused, not understanding how he had “won.” He lowered his axe, blinking repeatedly, unable to fathom this outcome. The fierce warrior who once dealt him a terrible beating had now inexplicably lost to him. Could it be that his strength had surged without his knowledge?

But Nigul was no fool; such wild thoughts vanished quickly. Shaia hurriedly jumped down, grabbed Dodoro, and bolted, fearing Nigul might relent. As they fled, Shaia shouted:

“The Royal City’s Four Talents are skilled! I, Shaia Thunder, have lost fairly and have nothing to say!”

They raced through the streets for hundreds of meters before Shaia glanced back, seeing no pursuit, and sighed with relief. Then he burst into malicious laughter.

“Hahaha! Perfect! The black mark is finally thrown off! Hahaha! This time I’m free! The Royal City’s Four Talents sure are good people!”

Dodoro looked perplexed. “Master, what exactly do you mean?”

Shaia glanced at him, grinning. “Ah ha, you don’t get it? Good, better that you don’t. Dodoro, just know that from today on, no more flies will buzz around to harass or ambush us in Yan Capital! Hahaha!”

He winked. “Because I’ve just dumped the black mark onto someone else! Hahaha! These days, it’s rare to find a fool willing to take the blame for you!”

Dodoro suddenly understood: those who had been bothering Shaia were after his fame as the “one who defeated Hasting.” Everyone wanted to best Shaia to raise their own status.

Now that Shaia had “lost” to Nigul, that burden shifted to the unfortunate Royal City’s Four Talents. Anyone seeking fame must challenge the “masters of the Royal City’s Four Talents,” not Shaia.

With his golden reputation shattered, Shaia was no longer a target for fame-hungry ruffians. And Nigul, who had dealt Shaia’s “defeat,”... Dodoro shivered recalling Shaia’s vivid display of humiliation, anger, and bitterness. The mage sighed, “Master, you are truly shameless.”

Shaia smiled faintly. “Thank you... I take that as a compliment.”

(To be continued)