Feink fell into a long silence again.
Farushil stood quietly, waiting for his judgment.
She knew her words sounded heretical, but they struck at the heart of the issue.
After experiencing a painful betrayal, using a group of outsiders for the most secretive mission became the safest choice.
“What you said… does make some sense.”
After a while, Feink’s hoarse voice sounded again.
“Using wood that doesn’t rot to build the most dangerous bridge… That is indeed… a very interesting idea.”
He seemed to have accepted the explanation.
“But,” he changed his tone, “how will you ensure your own safety, traveling alone with those wild, untamed foreigners? You are a God’s Chosen.
Your safety concerns the morale and faith of the entire kingdom. I cannot let you take this risk.”
Here it comes.
Farushil’s heart tightened.
This was the reaction she had been waiting for.
“My safety is not a concern, Your Majesty.”
She answered calmly.
“Recently, two apostles appeared on the outskirts of the Demon Domain Forbidden Swamp. The Abyss Lord was severely wounded by Yingyue and shouldn’t reappear for a while.
Zecheriel was also injured by my Frostsnow Pull, and the divine power on the blade has strong corrosive effects on him. He should also be recovering.”
“For this operation, we will act in the smallest possible units, drawing no attention. The mission is only reconnaissance. If we encounter danger we cannot handle, I will withdraw immediately.”
“Moreover,”
She lifted her chin slightly, a glint flashing in her ice-blue eyes.
“I also want to take this opportunity to personally understand the group known as players.”
“To know your enemy and yourself is the only way to never lose a hundred battles. Since they have become a force that cannot be ignored on this continent, avoiding or ignoring them is not wise.
Taking the initiative to approach, understand, and even… control them is what we should do.”
Her words elevated her personal actions to the level of exploring future strategies for the entire kingdom.
Under the hood, Feink’s face seemed to move, as if he was smiling silently.
“Control… Well said, Farushil. Very well said.”
There was a hint of approval in his voice.
“It seems you are no longer the girl who only knew how to charge on the battlefield. You have begun to understand how to use power and strategy. This is good.”
He slowly raised a hand, pale as ivory, fingers long and neatly trimmed.
“Since you have considered so thoroughly, I have no reason to object.”
“Your plan is approved. But remember, your life belongs to the gods. Do not waste it on meaningless risks.”
“I will obey your teachings, Your Majesty.”
Farushil bowed deeply again.
“But for this mission, I have one more request.”
“Speak.”
“My sword, Frostsnow Pull, was lost in the last breakout battle. I currently lack a weapon to wield, and my strength is reduced. I would like to request a few Holy Word Runes from His Holiness the Pope for self-defense.”
The Holy Word Rune was a defensive talisman infused with Lishen’s divine power into a magic crystal.
Once crushed, it would form a shield strong enough to defend against apostle-level attacks and send one’s location to the church.
It was not only a means of protection but also a way to show loyalty to the church—using it meant being completely exposed to the church’s surveillance.
“No problem, my child.”
Feink’s gaze seemed to soften.
He waved his hand, and a stack of small golden talismans floated from the long table in the shadows, landing in Farushil’s palm.
“I’ll think of something about your weapon later.”
This, too, was within Farushil’s expectations.
For these high-ranking old foxes with unlimited power, a little weakness could earn more trust and favor.
“Thank you for your grace, Your Highness.”
Farushil bowed her head in thanks.
“Go.”
Feink waved his hand.
“May the gaze of the gods always be upon you.”
Farushil said no more.
She turned and walked steadily out of the room.
When the huge ebony doors closed softly behind her, she finally let out the breath she had been holding in her chest, almost imperceptibly.
The plan… begins.
—
The depths of the Demon Domain Forbidden Swamp.
At the center of a huge nest made of living flesh and black crystal, a massive amber-like insect cocoon pulsed in rhythm with the earth below.
Inside the cocoon, a slender figure floated in dark green nutrient fluid, countless faintly glowing flesh tubes connecting to his body, slowly repairing the wounds beneath his pale skin.
Especially his right shoulder.
There, a wound that pierced front to back still seeped with cold air, stabbing constantly into his flesh and magic core, bringing a pain deep to the bone.
It was a wound from the holy sword Frostsnow Pull.
Suddenly, a thread of soul imprint connected to the depths of his consciousness began to tremble slightly.
Closed eyes slowly opened.
Zecheriel’s pupils were pure abyssal black, without a trace of color.
He listened quietly.
It was a fragment of thought transmitted directly into his mind through a magic thread connected to his informant far away in the capital of Arslan.
…Alone…
…Cooperation…Reconnaissance…
…For that foolish teleportation gate…
The information flow cut off.
Zecheriel continued to float motionless in the nutrient fluid, but his mind was already spinning rapidly.
Alone…No followers…
The core of that ambush was exploiting her internal betrayal.
As a competent commander, before rooting out the traitor, narrowing the range of those in the know to the extreme, even trusting only oneself, was the most logical—and helpless—choice.
For humans, their greatest weapon and fatal weakness always lay in their complicated and fragile bonds with companions.
At this moment, her greatest aid—the night dragon country woman whose blade was terrifyingly domineering—had been confirmed gravely wounded and sent back east.
This meant that beside Farushil, there was no longer a high-level force to make apostles wary.
Without the claws of that she-dragon, she was like a lioness with her fangs pulled.
Secondly, she had lost her weapon.
This Frostsnow Pull was connected to Farushil’s will and was her best medium for channeling holy magic.
Without it, her combat strength was reduced by at least thirty percent.
She could still cast magic, but those powerful moves that required the sword as a medium could no longer be used.
A God’s Chosen barehanded?
It was like a gift from the gods themselves delivered to him.
Zecheriel slowly raised his left hand, his pale, slender fingers brushing lightly over the pierced right shoulder.
The cold touch and the sting of holy magic traveled along his fingertips, bringing a strange sense of pleasure.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
It was a high-stakes gamble Farushil made in desperation and pride.
She bet she could complete the reconnaissance using those players, and that she wouldn’t be unlucky enough to run into him again.
She thought he was still healing, thought her secret route wouldn’t be exposed again.
How foolish.
How utterly human in her arrogance.
A dark flame began to burn in Zecheriel’s eyes.
Last time, his goal was only to wound her, seize the prophecy stone, and shatter human morale.
But this time… he wanted more.
Her will, so tenacious and pure—if he could break, corrupt, and twist it bit by bit, watching those cold eyes fill with despair, fear, and downfall, it would be a sight of incomparable beauty.
He could even use her to transmit false oracles to that self-righteous church and decaying kingdom…
“Farushil…”
Zecheriel whispered the name, the sound dissolving into a string of tiny bubbles in the thick liquid.
A cruel, expectant smile spread across his face.
“This time, you won’t escape.”