Morgana: Everybody Loves Large Chests (Vol.4)

by Iliev, Neven

  “The ‘Black Tower’ just used his Ultimate!” someone yelled in the busy war room. “I’m getting reports the south-facing wall is collapsing from the sudden earthquake!”

  “We’re pulling back!” the Legate decreed from the back of the room. “Order the close-ranged fighters to break off the engagement and return to the keep at once!”

  “Yes, sir!” came a chorus of replies.

  Flares shot into the air and orders barked into Comm-crystals as the entire room flew into action.

  “Those on the walls and in the trees should focus on covering the vanguard’s retreat, and then join them on their way inside the keep!”

  “Yes, sir!” another division replied.

  “Prepare the northwestern gate. Make sure it’s ready to fly open the instant we need it to.”

  “Yes, sir!” shouted a third group of elves.

  “Prefect, let’s arm our little surprise!”

  “On it, sir!” Vera replied in a spirited manner.

  It was still a bit early, but the Legate decided it was time to put the final phase of Operation Honeytrap into motion. Those close-ranged soldiers and adventurers under the effects of Tempest of Rage would get pincered and annihilated at this rate. Even if the Ultimate gave them a massive edge in combat, which resulted in many casualties on the Empire’s side, it didn’t mean the Republic’s fighters were invincible. Not to mention that none of the troops fighting on the southern side of the wall were under the effects of Hilda’s Skill, so the Republic had little hope of pushing them away on that front without significant losses. Prefect Vera anticipated this turn of events, as the cube in her hand was already showing Keira’s face by the time Aidun had given her the order.

  “What’s Imiryl doing?” Silus asked one of his assistants. “Wasn’t she supposed to keep that Shaman away from our walls?!”

  “She had to withdraw once that staff-wielding angel returned, sir. She barely made it out of there alive.”

  “Damn,” Silus cursed under his breath.

  That stubborn Monk was a nuisance that nobody seemed capable of stopping. That wasn’t entirely true, actually. Imiryl might have been able to do something about her, but not when she had to contend with two of the Empire’s VIPs at once. She most likely wouldn’t have been able to escape if the winged woman hadn’t suddenly flown off after the Sandman. Her taking that opportunity to retreat to safety was the right choice. The Republic had already lost one irreplaceable asset at the Monk’s hands, and they were lucky to avoid another blow like that.

  Of course, none of that rationalization helped alleviate Underwood’s urge to drive a knife right through that angelic bitch’s face.

  The elf took a deep breath to reign in his seething emotions and asked in a deadpan voice, “Any news regarding Faehorn?”

  “None, sir,” came the expected answer.

  “I see.”

  Even a high-Leveled Ranger wouldn’t escape falling off from that high a drop unharmed after taking a blow to the head from that winged powerhouse. No amount of AGI would allow someone to dodge the ground, after all. Even if he miraculously survived that drop, he would have been gravely injured and surrounded by the Empire. The only way he would still be alive was if he surrendered and let the enemy take him prisoner. However, Silus already knew that stubborn man would never allow such a thing. Milo Faehorn was the sort of fool who would rather fight to his bitter last breath than be imprisoned in the Emperor’s dungeons like some kind of war trophy. And since nobody has seen hide nor hair of him since his fall, then it was safe to assume he was already just another nameless corpse on the ground.

  Just another morsel on those dryads’ dinner plate.

  Well… At the very least we can add some seasoning!

  A grim and slightly sarcastic thought went through Silus’s head before he focused his attention to coordinating the next phase of Operation Honeytrap. It may have been only for an instant, but in that brief moment Underwood found agreed with a certain unhinged catgirl’s assessment of the Imperial army as ‘bags of high-grade fertilizer.’ Even after that flash of cruelty passed over him, he still felt a strong sense of resentment. He had some reservations regarding the wholesale slaughter soldiers who were following orders, but the only ones they could blame was their nation’s leadership. Who, rather ironically, would no doubt make for excellent plant food if they had been out here in the field.

  It was, after all, hard to describe the ones who had orchestrated this damned war as anything other than sacks of shit.

  Part Seven

  Among the thousands of souls on the battlefield surrounding Fort Yimin was a certain elven Druid. A man in his mid-thirties, with dark green eyes and hair, clad in a padded gray robe held a gnarled wooden staff tipped with a globe carved out of jade. This individual had been drafted into Republic’s army along with his adventurer comrades. His role was primarily of a healer, while the rest of his party consisted of a Wizard to serve as a ranged attacker, a Rogue charged with scouting, and a Paladin to act as a vanguard. It was a balanced, flexible combination when it came to adventuring, but was ill-suited to open warfare.

  The Wizard had no MP to spare for offense and focused entirely on providing cover for the Druid and other Republic forces immediately around him with defensive magic. The Paladin had gotten separated from the group during the chaos, and his teammates had no idea where he was or if he was even still alive. The Rogue had completely failed to report back after her scouting assignment four days ago, which meant she was most likely either dead, captured, or a deserter. Regardless of the reason for her absence, it was unlikely they would see her anytime soon, if at all.

  In short, the party of four was cut in half, and the most its last two members could offer the rest of their comrades-in-arms was support. Keeping as many people alive as possible was hardly what one would call glorious, but it was the best use of their combined magic. It was hardly fitting to the Wizard’s specialization, though.

  The man was one of the hundreds of humans who’d been drafted into the 3rd Legion to stand against the Empire. While some of his people had refused the draft and were summarily deported or imprisoned, this man would have chosen to stand against his former countrymen regardless. He was in his early twenties, his scalp shaved bald, and bore a cross-shaped scar on his right cheek. These made him look much older and meaner than he actually was. He had a robe identical to his Druid companion’s, but used a short, copper-plated wand instead of a staff. Wands were a type of magic item that did not boost their wielder’s magical power, but funneled it into a ranged weapon. Channeling one’s MP through the short rod would allow the user to instantaneously invoke a singular magic attack that would change depending on the make and material of the wand. Streams of fire, shards of ice, and sprays of acid were but a small fraction of what a wand was capable of.

  “Elyon!” the Wizard called out.

  “Healing Rain!” the elf finished his chant. “What is it Nottley?!”

  The two of them were practically back-to-back, yet they still had to shout with all their might if they hoped to be heard over the cacophony of the battle.

  “It’s the signal!”

  Elyon shifted his field of vision upward and to the side, confirming that a series of bright red flares had been launched into the air from the keep’s turrets.

  “That quake from earlier must’ve knocked down the walls,” he muttered as his feet carried him back through the sand-filled gap in the wall.

  He knew that event had been no natural occurrence. The force behind it was exceptional, and the elf was quite positive those tremors were probably felt kilometers away. At the same time, the power behind it was oddly focused and contained. It was most definitely caused by a person, and a troublesome one at that. The Level 42 Druid had, at the time, reflexively used a Mend Soil Spell to try and calm down the angry ground beneath his feet. However, this action was about as fruitful as a child trying to stop a landslide with a toy shovel. This gap in power proved t
hat the one causing those tremors had a much, much higher AFF than his own.

  And the culprit behind it was unquestionably that Shaman Ranker mentioned in the briefing.

  After all, Natural Affinity (AFF) was an advanced Attribute similar to Faith (FTH) in that only certain Jobs—namely Druids, Shamans and Monster Tamers—had access to. Unlike FTH, however, it showed one’s devotion when it came to serving and protecting the natural world, as opposed to furthering some deity’s agenda. This difference in perspective was the reason those three naturalist Jobs sometimes butted heads with the clergy comprised of Paladins, Monks and Priests. Well, the Republic was a place where such quarrels didn’t really happen. Unlike other deities, the teachings of Nyrie almost completely aligned with the interests of those ‘Godless pagans.’ That’s why Elyon and his Paladin comrade got along far better than one might expect.

  The elf quickly scanned his surroundings, but did not see that reliable man’s figure anywhere. Then again, the Republic’s retreat was not exactly orderly, so it was quite difficult to spot a specific individual, especially with everyone wearing the same colors. He and his Wizard friend had already made it inside the wall and had some breathing room. The absolutely wrecked state of the southern fortifications showed the Druid’s hunch was spot on. It wasn’t a small gap either, as pretty much the entire stone structure bridging the gaps between the two southernmost hylt trees had turned to rubble.

  “Here, Clarity Potion,” Nottley offered the distracted Druid.

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  The Druid accepted the crystal vial filled with milky liquid and downed it in one go. It was a sickeningly sweet concoction that quadrupled the user’s automatic MP recovery rate, but its effects ended the instant said user invoked a Spell or activated a Skill. It was more or less useless during combat, but was a cost-efficient way of drastically shortening downtime between fights.

  “You think Durothil survived?” the hopeful Wizard asked.

  “I was just thinking about that. Normally I’d say yes, but… Seeing him flip out like that, I honestly can’t say.”

  The calm and stoic Paladin charging into enemy lines while screaming ‘Fucking KILL!’ was unexpected to say the least. It would seem that the Tempest of Rage not only boosted one’s physical performance, but could also have adverse effects on their psyche. The vast majority of Republic troops could handle the influx of anger, but a few of them—such as the elf named Durothil—had gone mad with rage. No, perhaps this was merely their pent-up and repressed resentment finally boiling over beyond their ability to hide or control it. Nottley might not have noticed, but Elyon was certain that Durothil had taken the sudden absence of their female Rogue quite hard. Miria was his sister, so it was only natural her disappearance would leave the Paladin disturbed and distraught.

  “Look alive, people!”

  A clear voice rang out over the buzzing crowd, which immediately went silent. This was a natural reaction, as the one speaking was a Centurion—a mid-ranking officer in the Republic’s army. One could easily tell his station by the large, crescent-shaped brush on his helmet and the knee-length cloak on his back, both of which were black in color. He’d look like just another rank-and-file legionnaire without those trappings.

  “The enemy will be upon us in minutes!” he continued shouting. “Everyone here is to head inside the keep and aid in its defense! Those who can use magic or attack from a distance are to occupy the south and east-facing turrets and towers and hold your fire. I repeat—all of you are to hold your fire at all costs! The rest of you line up the walls and deter the enemy from scaling up them. You are to focus on defense and stall the enemy as much as possible, just as before. Now, move!”

  “Yes, sir!” came a chorus of disorganized voices.

  A number of Wizards flew into the air with magic, many carrying their allies up to the fortifications. A Wizard’s Flight Spell was very tricky to control, to the point where very few Wizards could use it competently in combat. Well, not unless they had the Aerial Combat Skill like Imiryl. Unfortunately, that was a Skill only available at Level 65 of the Job, and very few of them had had the chance to learn it yet. The same applied to the Level 36 Wizard named Nottley, who floated upwards with Elyon clinging to his back.

  “Tch. ‘Hold your fire’ he says,” he grumbled with a click of his tongue. “That’s my bloody specialty!”

  “Hey, at least you’re not a Pyromancer,” pointed out the Druid with a humorless grin. “Otherwise, you’d be almost completely useless.”

  “Yeah, I guess… Still, it’s odd that we were told to not use fire.”

  “The higher ups probably have some strategy in mind.”

  “Something involving those green kids?”

  Nottley jerked his head towards the still-smoldering hylt tree that got enveloped by dragon fire earlier.

  “Probably. However, I wouldn’t really put too much… stock in…” the elf’s voice trailed off as he squinted at the crowd far below his feet. “Huh? Durothil?! Nottley, look! He’s alive!”

  “He is? Where?!”

  The Wizard stopped the two’s ascent and his eyes followed Elyon’s outstretched finger. It pointed directly at a heavily-armored elf among the crowd of Republic troops making their way into the keep. His gilded and inscribed equipment was either horribly dented or outright cut through in several places. The gray tabard on his chest bearing a black eagle was dyed red with blood. He had lost his helmet along the way, revealing his scruffy brown hair and a fresh scar across his face. He was missing an eye, limping heavily, and his right arm hung loosely from his shoulder, but he still carried himself with an air of dignity.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” the Wizard smirked.

  “Quick! Drop me off and go pick him up!”

  “Huh?! But he’s so heavy!”

  “Nottley, he’s injured. He’s not climbing up all those steps without aid,” Elyon stated the obvious.

  “Fine, but you’re paying for the next round of Clarity Potions.”

  “Whatever, just go!”

  The Druid dismounted from his teammate’s back, landing atop one of the four corner towers of the keep. Nottley returned to the ground to pick up their no-longer-missing comrade, as Elyon silently watched over the Empire’s movements from his vantage point. The tower was a twenty-meter-tall structure, which made it one of the highest points in the area, barring the five gigantic hylt trees’ branches. Needless to say, it gave him a rather unobstructed view of what was happening on the ground.

  Now, Elyon wasn’t a Ranger or anything, but even he could tell how screwed his side was. The Empire’s soldiers regrouped and reformed ranks. It was only a matter of seconds before they started flooding through the holes in the walls to completely surround the keep and block off any hope of escape. This naturally narrowed down his options for the future to being killed in action or taken prisoner. Unlike certain overly zealous individuals, he would unhesitantly pick the latter if he was allowed to choose.

  After all, if there was anything the natural world had taught him over the years, it was the ability to survive no matter what.

  “Still, those dryads really had too little impact,” he muttered under his breath. “I know they probably don’t care much about us elves, but they should be able to do more than that ‘catapult garden,’ right?”

  Honestly speaking, while the appearance of those dryad quintuplets had been quite awe-inspiring, their effectiveness had been anything but. Elyon was one of many Druids assigned to tending to those hylt seedlings in the initial stages of the siege, so he had more insight into the matter than the vast majority of his allies. Flinging rocks over the walls was a creative use of their power, and probably could’ve done a lot more damage if they didn’t chew through ammunition so quickly. Granted, he didn’t see first-hand what damage those rocks actually did, but he doubted their effect on the battle had been all that significant.

  Was that really the extent of those legendary creatures’ abilities, though?
It certainly seemed like it considering the way those ‘green kids,’ as Nottley called them, both looked and acted completely like innocent children. Naive ones with poor judgement, to boot. It was bad enough they were following around a beastkin, of all things, but incessantly calling her ‘mummy?’ That was downright preposterous. Outrageous. Heretical, even.

  Incidentally, he wasn’t having such bitter thoughts just because they completely ignored him when he tried to introduce himself. This and that were completely unrelated.

  His envy aside, there was also the possibility that the higher-ups were keeping a lid on those dryads’ true purpose in this siege. If they hid a trump card of some sort, they would not dare show it to grunts like Elyon. That just begged for the information to leak out, after all. It was widely believed that Underwood fellow had done everything in his power to weed out the Empire’s spies among the 3rd Legion’s ranks. However, the veteran Druid had no doubt that a few of them slipped through the cracks regardless.

  “Elyon! Huff, huff! I’m back!”

  Nottley returned with the near-crippled Durothil on his back. The Wizard’s face glistened with sweat, showing just how heavy his comrade and his equipment truly were. Elyon abandoned his attempts to analyze things far above his pay grade and proceeded to apply his healing magic to his long-time friend. Even if his HP recovered, the fact he had fractured bones was a problem. Long-lasting injuries like those did not heal as quickly as battle wounds, and would take weeks to recover without magic. Although Durothil may have been a Paladin, he lacked the means with which to heal himself. He fancied himself a warrior who focused on martial combat while championing Nyrie’s name, so he hadn’t branched out into the magical aspects of his Job.

  In the first place, Paladins didn’t usually have a lot of INT or WIS, so said Spells would be quite weak under normal circumstances. Well, that mithril gnome in the fort had healing magic as potent as a Priest’s, but that was mostly because she had gained a good deal of those two Attributes from her Artificer Job. That and her fanatical devotion to that loony God of hers probably meant she had an abnormally high amount of FTH. After all, it was an Attribute that could easily be raised or lost depending on the individual’s actions, same as Elyon’s AFF.