Chapter Seventy-Three: Legends Are All Lies

(This chapter unexpectedly exceeded six thousand words. I looked at the length and originally planned to split it and post half tomorrow, but after some thought, I decided to release it all at once—no stockpiling—haha~)

Chapter Seventy-Three: "Legends Are All Lies"

At sea...

The general's words immediately reminded Shaya. When he and Kevin had ridden north with light cavalry and encountered resistance, that group of archers hiding on the hillside didn’t seem like Odins.

Judging by their individual skills, those archers clearly differed from Odins in appearance—they lacked the typical tall, robust build of the Odins. Though they too were agile, the height difference was impossible to ignore. It’s not that Odins couldn’t be shorter, but that group’s equipment was much too "refined" compared to what Odins usually carried.

Each archer wore lightweight, finely crafted metal armor, a style clearly not available to Odins—not that Odins never armored their archers, but the Odin Empire had always lagged behind the Byzantine Empire in metal forging and craftsmanship. Typically, Odin warriors’ gear focused on two traits: thick and heavy.

Their backward metalwork meant Odins couldn’t mass-produce good armor, and only elite units got quality metal equipment to boost defense. Most of the Odin army wore leather armor.

Then there were the weapons: the archers Shaya encountered all wielded top-tier horn bows, equipped with threaded ends to adjust the bowstring and mechanical aids to lessen strain—again, something Odins couldn’t craft. Though such weapons could be bought, it made no sense to arm a group of average-skilled archers with rare, expensive Odin gear.

Most importantly, their close combat weapons were all double-edged short swords, about a meter long, light and razor-sharp—Odins rarely used such short swords. With their imposing physiques and natural strength, Odins prided themselves on their valor, favoring axes, hammers, or massive two-handed swords. Few Odins would bother with short swords.

Finally, their marksmanship—hitting a galloping cavalry isn’t something learned in a month or two! Archer training is harder than for ordinary soldiers, and Odins never excelled at archery...

"Hmph, looks like it’s our neighbor on the sea," Adrick said, his face darkening, the scar twisting, his eyes full of menace. "Every time we fight the Odins, those pirates are lurking."

Adrick’s "pirates" were no strangers to Shaya—quite the opposite, he knew them well!

In Wildfire Town, Sofia, who had played the role of Shaya’s dream woman in his youth, had a husband—a one-eyed tavern owner from the sea.

West of the continent lies an island nation, its territory only as large as a couple of Byzantine provinces, yet thanks to its location, it often stands apart from the wars between the two great empires.

Byzantines mockingly call it the Pirate Nation. It’s not truly a den of pirates; its civilization matches the Byzantine’s. As a maritime nation, it’s famed for its navy, not its land forces, boasting vast fleets. By staying out of continental affairs, it trades with both empires and avoids the devastation of land wars. Maritime trade brings it immense wealth, and it’s a nation known for cunning and daring.

Of course, continentals aren’t fools. This island kingdom often fuels the flames of conflict between the empires, sometimes acting as an arms dealer during wars—feeding off the blood spilled by continentals.

"Hmph, last war, those pirates sided with us. Now they’ve sent troops to help the Odins," Adrick’s brows furrowed.

Seeing the general’s grim face, Shaya sensed he was troubled by something important. But as a non-Byzantine, Shaya couldn’t understand the worries of inter-nation intrigue from Adrick’s perspective.

After a while, Adrick snapped out of it and smiled casually. "Enough, go rest, boy. You did very well this time. Your task now is to heal. If you recover quickly, you might still make it back for the war."

***

Shaya was carried from the command tent. He stopped thinking about matters of the "sea"—such concerns belonged to generals.

He, Sharba, and Kato were all treated as wounded, their injuries too severe for further combat. That night, the three, along with the battered remnants of the Third Banner, left the front and headed south, to the base near Wildfire Town for recovery.

The Third Banner’s flag officer, Butler, was also forced to withdraw due to his wounds, though the silver-haired man was reluctant. With two arrows in his chest, he could hardly ride, and under Adrick’s strict orders, had no choice but to fall back with the group.

Unable to ride, Butler lay in a wagon with Shaya and other seriously wounded. The silver-haired man was deeply dejected from the ambush that decimated his unit.

Shaya, though, was indifferent. Truth be told, deep down, the war’s outcome didn’t concern him much: he wasn’t a Byzantine, and whether the Byzantine or Odin Empire won, it made little difference. His previous desperate fighting was simply because, as a member of the Thirteenth Cavalry, he couldn’t abandon his comrades.

Strictly speaking, until now, Shaya felt no sense of belonging to the Byzantine Empire. His loyalty was only to the Thirteenth Cavalry itself.

His injuries this time had cost him dearly. Though the army medics treated his wounds, the arrow that struck him had been devastating. After all he’d endured, in that instant, Shaya had truly smelled death up close for the first time.

That arrow easily pierced the dragon scale he’d believed to be unbreakable! Its power left a deep impression. He reminded himself: dragon scales are not invincible!

The arrow didn’t just pierce the scales—it left serious harm to his body. Shaya knew his constitution was far beyond ordinary, and though he’d been wounded before, his injuries always healed rapidly—burns from Wildfire Plain healed in two days.

But this time, the wound in his chest was ragged and bloody, showing no sign of healing overnight, only kept from worsening by medicine. It was as if Shaya’s abnormal recovery had been suppressed.

He recalled every detail of the moment he was struck: cold pierced his chest, spreading rapidly, and he felt the chill ravaging his body’s functions. During treatment, the medic had to cut away a large chunk of frozen flesh from his chest! The wound had turned black and cold, spreading ominously—had he returned any later, he might have died.

It wasn’t until the third day on the road that Shaya felt his body’s functions begin to recover.

It seemed his powerful regeneration had been suppressed by the strange chill invading his body. As the cold faded, his healing returned.

He endured a night of sleeplessness, suffering the maddening itch of muscles regrowing. Early next morning, while his companions slept, Shaya quietly unwrapped his bandages and checked the wound. Its color was normal, and the muscle was healing.

He breathed a sigh of relief…

Shaya was not broad-minded. He didn’t hold petty grudges, but the old man had taught him: if anyone bullies you, you must bully them back!

At fifteen, he’d encountered a bear in the mountains, which shattered half his shoulder with a swipe. Young Shaya escaped thanks to his tough constitution. He spent days recuperating, then trained with an axe for half a year. That winter, he returned to the bear’s haunt, lay in wait for two days, and finally chopped off its head himself!

The money from selling the bear’s gall let father and son drink for a month.

(No matter who shot that arrow at me, I’ll remember it!)

***

Though Shaya kept a low profile, by the sixth day he could move on his own. He couldn’t stand the boredom of lying in the wagon, listening to the wheels creak. Though banter with Sharba and Kato was entertaining, Shaya felt he was rusting from inactivity.

On the sixth day, he insisted on getting out.

Incidentally, because Shaya was honorably wounded and moved to the rear, his retainer, Dodoro the mage, was lucky enough to leave the front as well. As a retainer, Dodoro had been worried—he knew that his skills would only make him cannon fodder in battle. He’d seen the Odins’ terrifying prowess and doubted his frail body could match them in melee.

(Besides, I am a noble mage—noble mages are never good at close combat.)

Now that his master was injured, Dodoro had a perfect excuse to leave the battlefield: as a retainer, he had to stay by his master’s side.

(May the gods grant that this master gets injured often…)

Dodoro prayed devoutly from his horse.

***

"Dodoro!"

During a rest stop, Shaya got out of the wagon and managed a few steps. Though his wound still hurt, slow movement was possible. He immediately summoned his "loyal" retainer.

Dodoro’s sly face was wreathed in humble smiles. "Yes, my master."

Shaya eyed him askance. "You always claim to be a mage. I have a question only a mage can answer..."

Dodoro puffed out his chest. "Of course! Every mage is learned and wise!"

Shaya took a deep breath, steadied himself against the horse, and described the arrow incident in detail. He lowered his voice: "You’ve seen that dragon! You know how tough its scales are, but the sneak attacker’s shot pierced them with one strike! And most infuriatingly, I never saw the arrow! I need someone to explain—was this some kind of magic?"

Dodoro blinked, thinking hard. Just as Shaya grew impatient, the mage dredged up some relevant knowledge.

"Well, esteemed master, from your account, I suspect the attacker was a high-level warrior. I’ve heard that some powerful warriors, when they reach a certain level, can condense battle energy into a physical form to harm enemies. It’s not a myth—it’s real. I saw such a master in Osgiliath once. But to materialize battle energy, you must be an eighth-level warrior. However..."

"However?" Shaya frowned.

Dodoro swallowed, his face uneasy. "Even for eighth-level warriors, materializing battle energy is limited by range. In Osgiliath, I saw high-level warriors duel—battle energy could become a blade of pure light, but once it leaves the hand, in other words, if thrown or used for ranged attacks, it only works for about ten paces. Beyond that, the energy dissipates..."

Shaya stroked his chin, his expression unchanged, but a strange light flickered in his eyes. "Ten paces, you say... So the arrow wasn’t real, but condensed battle energy? But the shot that hit me came from much farther... Was the attacker even stronger?"

Dodoro’s face was unusually solemn. He shook his head. "Not necessarily. Warrior masters specialize in melee. Even ninth-level warriors struggle to materialize battle energy and strike from dozens of meters. Maybe they could—I've never seen a ninth-level warrior—but even then, the energy loses potency at distance, so it wouldn’t pierce dragon scales."

The mage thought carefully, then whispered, "Perhaps only those legendary saints who can fight thousands alone could achieve such feats."

"Saint-level?" Shaya was blank on this subject. "Was the attacker a saint?"

Dodoro scoffed inwardly: if the enemy were saint-level, killing you would be like killing a chick—they wouldn’t need to sneak. But Dodoro dared not say that aloud, so his expression grew more respectful. "Saint-level masters are rare on the continent. I doubt you encountered one. Besides, every saint-level warrior is extremely proud—they wouldn’t... um, wouldn’t stoop to sneak attacks."

"Wouldn’t stoop to sneak attacks," Shaya laughed, slapping Dodoro’s shoulder. "Just say what you mean."

He frowned. "But by your logic, how do we explain the sneak attacker?"

"Well..." Dodoro hurried to clarify. "I speak of warrior masters—since warriors specialize in melee, a shot from dozens of meters that pierced dragon scales suggests the attacker wasn’t purely a warrior. I think he was a magic master."

"Mages are different—they excel at ranged attacks. Condensing battle energy into an arrow from dozens of meters is hard for a warrior, but easy for a mage using magic. From your description, your injury had a strange freezing effect, which confirms the attacker was a mage—the added freezing is clearly a magical attribute."

"But... if a mage can shoot through my dragon scales from afar, doesn’t that mean mages are far stronger than warriors?"

Dodoro instinctively wanted to nod—he always felt proud as a mage and firmly believed mages were superior, at least in status.

But just as he was about to nod, he caught Shaya’s ambiguous smile. Dodoro instantly realized: this master is a true warrior! If he claimed to be superior, he’d suffer for it.

He quickly shook his head, thought for a moment, and forced a smile. "Not quite. Your dragon scales are strong, but mainly for physical defense—blades and swords can’t cut through. But magically, their resistance is average. If you were a living dragon, the scales would have magical resistance, but as shed scales, they’re just tough, not magically resistant. You’re not a dragon... Ordinary battle energy can’t penetrate your scales, but a mid-level mage could use magic to do so, since the scales lack magical defense."

"So you think I was wounded by an Odin mage?" Shaya stroked his chin.

"Uh... In the Odin Empire, they’re called priests, not mages..." Dodoro sighed.

Shaya thought for a moment, and his gaze toward Dodoro grew much friendlier.

(Hmm, seems this fellow is actually useful—not just a useless freeloader.)

***

On the afternoon of the seventh day, they finally returned to the base north of Wildfire Town, which was now nearly empty. Only a guard battalion and the logistics team remained.

The Thirteenth Army’s main battle banners had marched north four days ago, including the Thirteenth Cavalry’s strongest unit, the Second Banner—two thousand heavy cavalry.

And, of course, one important figure remained at the base under the pretext of garrison duty—the observer envoy from Osgiliath, the beautiful Sir Bonfret.

It was said that this envoy developed a sudden illness the day before the main force departed, so naturally stayed behind. But rumor had it that, on the second day after the troops left, the envoy was lively again, taking his imperial guards hunting in the woods...

Of course, these matters hardly concerned Shaya for now. After returning to the base, his only focus was recovery. The front was hundreds of miles away—for now, the war seemed far, far removed from Shaya...

The bald man hadn’t returned, and Shaya lived alone in his tent. After surviving a brush with death, Shaya began to rack his brains.

His first problem was the powerful "Crimson Killing Aura"!

No matter what, twice he’d unleashed it by accident, and its astonishing power left Shaya deeply awed. If he could master it, his strength would be...

Next time he met a sneak attacking mage, he’d cut that bastard in two!

Alone in the tent, Shaya held the crystal stone, lost in thought...

One must admit, Shaya was no fool. Though he didn’t know how to use the magic crystal, at least he’d heard many stories.

Wildfire Town’s taverns often hosted wandering bards and vagabonds. These fellows seemed useless, but always spun enticing legends to earn drinks.

In those tales, legendary heroes often stumbled upon strange treasures: magic artifacts, holy swords, magic gems, and the like.

He’d never eaten pork, but he’d seen pigs run.

At least the heroes’ experiences gave Shaya much valuable reference.

Staring at the dull stone, channeling his energy, Shaya had a thought...

Was he supposed to swallow it?

Damn! Wouldn’t that cause indigestion or choke him?

After hesitating a long time, Shaya abandoned the dangerous idea.

"Uh... Maybe it needs blood to fuse?" Without hesitation, Shaya pricked his finger and let blood drip onto the stone...

Time passed...

More time passed...

Still more time passed...

Shaya bitterly wrapped his finger.

(Damn it, legends are all lies! At this rate, I’ll die of blood loss first!)

***

Staring at the stone until his eyes hurt, Shaya drew his fire fork.

(If all else fails, maybe I’ll cut it open?)

Just then, a dry, emotionless voice abruptly sounded in his mind.

"Idiot!"