Chapter 133: A Line Drawn in Gold
Golden’s glowing eyes scanned the clearing, his rat-like face betraying no emotion as he addressed the four gathered individuals. “For the Star Chart and Nomad’s Trek, I will accept nothing less than items of equal value. Something… exceptional.”
The man in white robes stepped forward first, his silver mask glinting faintly in the ambient yellow light. He extended his hand, producing two magical artifacts—a cracked blade that pulsed with dark energy and a small crystal orb exuding faint blue mist that looked to be dissipating. The artifacts hovered before him, glowing faintly as an offering.
Golden observed them but made no move to accept. “Interesting,” he said flatly, his tone betraying disinterest.
Abel stepped forward next, pulling out the pseudo’s feathers that he had obtained after their battle and the broken magical shell from his robe. He held them up, their faint magical essence shimmering under the yellow glow. “And these?” Abel asked, his voice calm but probing.
Golden’s gaze flicked to the items. The rat's face curled into a slight smirk. “Closer… but not enough,” he replied, his voice carrying a tinge of amusement.
The tension thickened in the clearing. Having already secured their purchases, the two other attendees sat silently to the side, watching the exchange unfold.
Abel’s mind worked swiftly. He knew the book's value and how much the knowledge within might benefit him—and he wasn’t about to leave without it. “I’ll add these,” he said, producing the ice fangs looted from the pseudo. The crystalline fangs shimmered with an unnatural cold, their frost cutting through the night air. Abel didn't want to part with these just yet as there might be some research value within those fangs but if it helped acquire the book, he was fine with it.
Golden’s eyes narrowed slightly, his glowing gaze fixed on the items. “Now that’s interesting,” he said, his tone shifting to one of approval. “Very well.”
The ancient book floated from the bush, surrounded by a yellow aura, and drifted gently into Abel’s hands. Abel wasted no time, tucking the priceless tome securely into his robe. He stepped forward, placing the offered items into the glowing bush, which swallowed them in a swirl of yellow light.
Abel felt no regret for the trade. He would have given away all of his loot if necessary. Pieces of lost history and knowledge like this were worth far more than the fleeting power of artifacts. This book was a treasure, especially given its connection to the stars and the nomads—topics that resonated deeply with his affinity and his growing understanding of mana.
Golden’s voice echoed through the clearing, carrying a weight of finality. “With that, the auction concludes. The next gathering will be canceled—I have... important matters to attend to.” His tone was cryptic, leaving no room for questions or objections, only an unsettling sense of mystery about what these matters might entail.
Suddenly, the yellow bush that had served as his conduit ignited, its flames burning with an unnatural silence. The fire consumed the enchanted plant swiftly, the yellow glow dissolving into ash as if it had never existed. The embers flickered briefly before disappearing into the cold night air, leaving no trace of the strange phenomenon or Golden’s presence.
The four individuals exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of caution and calculation. Though no words were spoken, the air between them buzzed with unspoken tensions. Each one silently assessed the others, wary of lingering too long in the presence of potential enemies or unknown dangers.
One by one, they began to part ways, their movements deliberate and stealthy. The silver-masked figure slipped into the shadows first, his white robe blending into the dim light. The gauze-wrapped man followed, his cane tapping lightly against the ground as he hunched forward, disappearing into the dense foliage. Even the Murman family member, still tense from the unsettling aura of the auction, gave a final wary glance before vanishing into the night.
Abel remained still, his gaze following their departure, but his mind was elsewhere. He wasn’t concerned with them—their movements, their motives, none of it mattered now. His focus was singular, entirely consumed by the ancient book tucked securely against his chest. The weight of its knowledge, the potential it held, pressed against him like a heartbeat, steady and insistent.
The night stretched out around him, cold and dark, yet Abel felt a simmering anticipation. The mysteries of the Star Chart and Nomads Trek beckoned, promising answers, power, and perhaps even more questions. He pulled his cloak tighter, shielding the book from the chill as he began his silent journey back to the Starry Villa. His mind raced with thoughts of what the pages might reveal, the secrets they might unlock, and the dangers they might bring.
As he descended the ridge, the night sky above him was shrouded in thick clouds, blocking the stars he often found solace in. His thoughts wandered to the two Pseudo Apostles he had encountered. Who were they? Could they be residents of Reinhart, or perhaps dwellers on its outskirts?
His steps slowed as a familiar feeling washed over him. His senses picked up the faint trace of a vile aura, lingering deep beneath the earth. It was the same oppressive force he had felt before, and its presence sent a faint shiver down his spine.
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What could it mean? Abel wondered. The changes beneath the earth felt unnatural, ancient, and far beyond his understanding. For now, he pushed the unease aside, quickening his pace toward the Starry Villa,
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The following morning on the border between Bask and the Central Region, a group of robed figures moved with an air of precision and unwavering purpose. Their movements synchronized as though part of a greater, unseen mechanism. Golden pillars rested on their backs, their surfaces adorned with intricate, ancient designs—symbols and glyphs that whispered of forgotten eras and hidden power. The pillars exuded an aura of profound energy, radiating a subtle hum that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath their feet.
As the group advanced, they began to splinter off at various junctures, each figure heading toward a preassigned location. Some stopped abruptly, their work commencing in silent determination, while others pressed forward with focused intent, their destinations hidden beyond the horizon. The weight of their mission hung heavy in the air, the gravity of their task apparent in their every action.
Among them was a young woman with blonde hair and two pigtails on her head, her posture composed, her expression a mask of seriousness and resolve. Her purple robe flowed elegantly around her as she rode atop a floating turtle head, its ancient surface cloaked in a layer of moss that glowed faintly with a gentle blue aura. The light pulsed rhythmically, like the steady beat of a heart, imbuing the creature with an aura of age and mystery. It was as if the turtle had borne witness to countless centuries, a relic from a time long forgotten, carrying its rider with a serene but undeniable power.
As the turtle's head floated to a halt, the woman moved with practiced grace, leaping from its back and landing softly on the ground. The golden pillar remained securely strapped to her back, gleaming faintly in the dim light. Without hesitation, the turtle drifted away, its glowing form slowly fading into the distance, leaving the woman alone with her task.
She turned her attention to the ground before her, her movements deliberate and methodical. Carefully, she unstrapped the pillar and placed it upright, ensuring it stood firm against the cold, unforgiving terrain. The weight of her duty was palpable as she began the ritual preparations, her fingers tracing symbols in the air, murmuring ancient incantations that seemed to harmonize with the gentle hum of the pillar.
The air around her grew still, heavy with an unnatural quiet, as if the world itself was holding its breath in anticipation. The green aura from the pillar began to interlace with the faint golden light of the glyphs, creating a mesmerizing dance of energies. Each movement she made was precise, each chant spoken with a reverence that underscored the importance of the ritual she was about to perform.
This moment carried an overwhelming gravity.
In her forty years of life as an Apostle, she had only read of the Sacred Treasure of Humanity. It was a relic spoken of in reverence—a protector of the human race, deployed only in times of dire need. The fact that she now played a role in their activation filled her with a mix of awe and determination, she would be part of history.
Her orders had been clear: Bask had betrayed the Central Region and was to suffer the consequences of its defiance. The calamity brewing in Bask was a punishment by the heavens, and the towers of the Central Region and the Royal Family would ensure it didn’t spread into their sacred land. To her, the reasoning was simple—Bask’s corruption had reached its limit, tainting the purity of humanity’s six affinities by delving into vile, lesser magics.
Such behavior was repugnant to her, an affront to the very nature of the gifted. In her eyes, it wasn’t just treason—it was a crime against creation itself.
With focused hands, she retrieved a small vial from her robes, pouring a shimmering golden powder onto the ground. The powder glimmered in the dim light. The pillars planted along the border—thousands upon thousands of them—would combine their power from a royal ritual that once activated, formed a barrier so impenetrable that no one from Bask could pass through, not even whatever calamity might befall them.
It was a shield forged and powered by the Sacred Treasure and its rituals, capable of holding its own against a Stage 2 Magian and above. She felt assured of its strength, as did the Tower Masters and the King. With this measure in place, the Central Region would avoid the coming calamity. With the riches of the Northern Isles, they would not only endure but thrive.
As she worked, her thoughts lingered on the fate of Bask. Its destruction was inevitable—an eradication of weakness, a necessary sacrifice for humanity to evolve. She felt no pity, only disgust for the lowborn pests who clung to their degenerate practices.
Her concentration broke at the sound of shuffling footsteps.
From the Bask side of the border, an elderly farmer appeared, his simple clothing marking him as a man of humble means. He held a basket filled with herbs, his face kind and weathered by years of toil.
“Pardon me,” the farmer called out politely, his voice soft but clear. “I’m just gathering some herbs for my granddaughter. Please, don’t mind me.”
The Apostle’s expression hardened. Her face twisted as wrinkles of disgust spread on her face Her orders echoed in her mind—no one from Bask was to be allowed to cross the border. These people were disease-ridden and weak, tainted by their pathetic existence.
As the farmer took a step closer, nearing the border, she moved with swift and merciless precision.
Slash!
Her blade cut through the air, striking the farmer down in an instant. His basket of herbs fell to the ground, scattering its contents across the dirt. He collapsed with a soft thud, his lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky.
The Apostle’s gaze was cold as she nudged his corpse back across the border with her foot, her movements devoid of hesitation or remorse. The lifeless head rolled over leaving a trail of blood behind.
“These lowborns have no place here,” she muttered under her breath, her voice laced with disgust followed by a sense of pride and duty.
Satisfied, she returned to her task, resuming the ritual around the golden pillar she had stuck into the dirt. As the shimmering inscriptions began to hum faintly, she took a step back, her face serene. The Sacred Treasure would ensure their safety, her actions justified by the greater good.