The Kingmaker System Chapter 725 - 724. Death And Decay (1)

Rhylen’s expression gradually darkened as the battle dragged on.

The wound across his shoulder continued bleeding beneath the silver armor while several smaller cuts had already appeared throughout his body. None of them were life-threatening, yet each one served as a reminder of the same infuriating fact.

He still had not landed a single meaningful strike.

The black mist drifted through the woodland like a living thing.

It curled between the trees, swallowed sightlines and distorted distance. Even the sounds of the battlefield seemed muted beneath its influence. Every now and then Rhylen would catch sight of Zevran’s figure only to discover a heartbeat later that his sword had passed through another illusion.

The assassin’s power itself was not particularly overwhelming.

Had they fought in an open field under normal circumstances, Rhylen was confident he could have overwhelmed the man through sheer skill and strength.

Unfortunately, Zevran seemed fully aware of that as well and that was why this was an advantageous battle for him. An injured Captain and a dark forest, plenty of ways to gain his victory. The assassin never committed to a prolonged exchange but he wanted to have the satisfaction of having the blood of a strong Pure Mana Elf on his hands.

He appeared only long enough to attack before vanishing once more into the mist and Rhylen swung his sword again. The enormous blade tore through a nearby silhouette and shattered it instantly.

The image dissolved into black smoke as it was another illusion.

Before Rhylen could recover, a sharp pain suddenly erupted along his side. His body twisted on instinct and his sword lashed outward. But the blade met nothing as the real Zevran had already disappeared.

Warm blood trickled beneath Rhylen’s armor, the cut was shallow and deliberate. The realisation came upon him which annoyed him even further that the assassin was not trying to kill him quickly but he was wearing him down, testing him, taunting him like a predator circling a wounded prey.

Rhylen’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword. His breathing remained steady despite the irritation steadily building inside him. Around him, the forest bore the scars of their battle. Trees lay split apart, the earth had been carved open repeatedly and shattered branches littered the woodland floor.

Yet for all the destruction surrounding them, the actual enemy remained frustratingly untouched.

The faint sound of a chuckle drifted through the mist.

"Captain of the Elven Knights."

The voice came from somewhere ahead, then from behind, then from the branches overhead.

"You are far stronger than most."

Rhylen ignored him as his sharp eyes continued sweeping the woodland.

The voice persisted, "But strength becomes meaningless when it cannot find a target."

The black mist shifted and dozens of silhouettes slowly emerged between the trees.

Some stood motionless upon branches while others appeared between the trunks, each carrying the same black katana and the same relaxed posture.

An entire army of Zevrans.

Rhylen’s expression remained unchanged. He already knew none of them were real, the problem was determining which one was.

The figures began moving, some advanced slowly, others circled through the trees, several simply stood and watched.

The movement itself was enough to disrupt his focus.

For a brief moment, Rhylen genuinely understood why assassins were so hated on battlefields.

A knight fought what stood before him while an assassin forced him to fight uncertainty itself.

The instant that thought crossed his mind, one of the figures lunged, then another and then five more.

Rhylen’s sword erupted forward, shattering the first illusion, the second vanished right after and then the third.

Yet before he could finish the motion, another cut appeared across the back of his arm.

The real attack, again, came from an unexpected side. Rhylen clicked his tongue, this was becoming troublesome. He had wasted enough time.

At that exact moment, however, a loud war cry suddenly echoed through the forest. The sound did not belong to Elves. It was deeper and rougher, accompanied by the thunderous stomping of heavy boots.

Both Rhylen and Zevran paused as several figures burst through the woodland moments later.

Stocky warriors clad in heavy armor charged into the battlefield carrying axes, hammers and shields bearing the crest of Ortbon.

Dwarves.

The lead warrior immediately spotted the injured Captain and roared.

"Captain Rhylen!"

The dwarf swung his warhammer at the nearest illusion without hesitation.

The false figure exploded apart instantly, behind him, nearly twenty more dwarf soldiers poured into the battlefield.

The mist-filled woodland immediately became far more crowded.

Rhylen’s eyes narrowed slightly. The situation had changed. And for the first time since the battle began, Zevran’s calm expression showed the faintest trace of annoyance.

For the first time since the battle began, Zevran found himself genuinely inconvenienced.

The dwarves were nowhere near Captain Rhylen’s level individually, but they compensated for it through sheer experience and discipline. Unlike ordinary soldiers who would have hesitated inside the mist, the dwarves advanced without fear.

They fought as a unit. Shields overlapped. Axes and hammers covered one another’s blind spots.

Whenever an illusion appeared, three or four dwarves immediately moved to engage it rather than allowing a single individual to be isolated.

Zevran’s katana flashed through the mist.

One dwarf grunted as a cut opened across his thigh, but before Zevran could capitalize on it, a warhammer came hurtling toward his head.

He disappeared.

The hammer smashed through another illusion.

"Stop chasing him!" One of the older dwarves barked. "Guard the Captain!"

Rhylen immediately noticed the difference.

The battlefield was becoming easier to read.

Before, every illusion had demanded his attention because there was no one else capable of testing whether a target was real. Now the dwarves were doing it for him.

A silhouette appeared near the treeline.

A dwarf charged.

The figure dissolved.

Another appeared behind them.

An axe flew through it.

Mist.

Every illusion destroyed by the dwarves narrowed the space available to the real assassin.

Rhylen’s eyes followed the battlefield carefully, for a fraction of a second, one figure had stepped aside rather than allowing itself to be struck.

The movement was subtle, natural and instinctive unlike the others which prompted Rhylen to move. The ground exploded beneath his feet as he launched himself forward.

Zevran’s eyes narrowed as the massive longsword descended. The assassin barely managed to evade in time as the blade smashed into the forest floor, splitting earth and roots apart in a violent eruption.

The shockwave alone sent several illusions dispersing.

The dwarves immediately capitalized, three of them rushed from the side while another hurled a throwing axe toward Zevran’s retreat path.

For the first time, the assassin found himself forced into a direct exchange.

A dwarf cried out as a cut opened across his chest, but the others continued pressing forward relentlessly.

Rhylen followed immediately behind them.

The pressure steadily increased and for the first time since the battle began, Zevran found himself taking steps backward.

The situation was beginning to tilt, which was precisely why he smiled.

Rhylen noticed it immediately.

The expression looked entirely out of place, the assassin should have been irritated, instead, he almost appeared amused.

A sense of unease settled in Rhylen’s chest and then Zevran reached inside his cloak.

Several black objects appeared between his fingers.

Daggers. Small and thin.

Without warning, he flicked his wrist.

The daggers shot outward. Towards everyone around, from closest ones to the farther ones.

The projectiles tore through the mist with frightening speed, several dwarves reacted too slowly.

One dagger embedded itself into a shoulder, another struck a leg, a third pierced through a shield and grazed a warrior’s forearm.

Rhylen himself managed to knock two away, but a third sliced across his side before he could avoid it completely.

The wounds appeared minor, barely scratches but then the dead mana spread.

The injured dwarves immediately staggered, their faces turned pale. The black corruption spread from the wounds like poison flowing through veins.

One warrior dropped to a knee, another lost his grip on his weapon entirely.

Even Rhylen felt a sharp chill spreading through the cut on his side. His movements slowed, not significantly, but enough for a warrior of his caliber to notice.

Zevran spun the katana in his hand and stepped back into the mist once more.

The momentum they had built disappeared almost instantly.

The dwarves gathered around the wounded, confusion and alarm spreading through their ranks.

"What is this?"

"My arm won’t move!"

"The wound isn’t healing!"

Rhylen’s expression darkened, the corruption was eating away at their vitality and unlike ordinary injuries, these wounds refused to close.

The dead mana continued spreading no matter how much treatment they attempted.

The battlefield had shifted once again, and this time, it had shifted in Zevran’s favor.

The battlefield fell into an uneasy stalemate, neither side moved immediately.

The dwarves had instinctively formed a defensive perimeter around their wounded while Rhylen remained at the center, his sword still raised despite the growing numbness spreading through his side.

The cut was shallow, it should have been insignificant, yet every passing second made it feel heavier.

The dead mana seeped through his body like a stubborn poison, refusing to dissipate no matter how much mana he circulated through his meridians.

Several dwarves were faring far worse. One warrior had collapsed entirely onto a knee while another leaned heavily against his shield, his breathing becoming increasingly ragged.

"What kind of curse is this?" One of them growled through clenched teeth.

"Dead mana," another answered grimly.

The black mist shifted once more. Farther ahead, Zevran stood calmly amongst the trees, his katana resting loosely over one shoulder.

He made no effort to press the advantage immediately, there was no need.

The corruption was already doing the work for him.

Rhylen’s grip tightened around his sword. The assassin had been troublesome before. Now he was becoming dangerous.

The silence stretched for several moments before the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from deeper within the forest.

Everyone turned to see a group of figures emerged between the trees.

At first, the dwarves immediately raised their weapons, mistaking them for more enemies.

Only after the newcomers entered the clearing did their identities become clear.

Dark Elves, dozens of them.

Several carried wounded companions while others bore the signs of recent battle. Their armor was damaged, clothing stained with blood and ash.

At their front walked Xeveris behind him was Ermid whose curved daggers hung from his waist, still stained black from the fighting earlier.

He had been leading the surviving Dark Elves eastward in search of their rogue clansmen when the sounds of battle had drawn their attention.

Ermid’s sharp eyes immediately swept across the battlefield.

The injured dwarves.

The wounded Captain of Pure Mana Elves.

The black mist.

And finally, another Dark Mage.

Ermid’s expression hardened, "There’s another one here."

Several of the Dark Elves behind him recognized the situation almost instantly.

The Dwarves and Captain Rhylen seemed wary while Zevran looked rather amused to see the Dark Elves.

"Hm? Did you run away from Reikah?" Zevran asked.

Xeveris and others quickly raised their weapons against the dark mage who simply chuckled.

"You... You’re the one who misled our clansmen, didn’t you?!" Xeveris shouted.

Zevran tilted his head, "Did I?"

"I’m pretty sure, it was because you’re incompetent."

Xeveris gritted his teeth and Rhylen couldn’t help but feel a little confused. The Dark Elves’ leader and his clansmen were here injured like him. But didn’t they join hands with the Dark Forces?

"Why did you crawl out of your holes?" Zevran asked, "Your foolish youngsters are not even here."

Xeveris’s eyes widened hearing that and the Dark Elves behind him exchanged glances.

Ermid’s eyes suddenly narrowed as he pushed Xeveris out of the way just in time as the blade pierced through the black mist aiming clearly for Xeveris’s heart.

Zevran’s illusion which was talking to them vanished and Ermid glared coldly at the black mist that surrounded them.

Rhylen didn’t have time to process what he saw, he just witnessed as Ermid just managed to push the assassin back.

One of the older elves stepped toward a wounded dwarf and knelt beside him.

The moment he inspected the injury, his face darkened.

"It’s dead mana."

Another elf examined Rhylen’s wound from a distance and arrived at the same conclusion.

"It’s spreading fast."

Rhylen remained visibly wary, only hours ago he would have considered these Dark Elves enemies, now those same Dark Elves were standing beside him. The absurdity of it wasn’t lost on anyone.

Ermid clicked his tongue, "Fior didn’t come this way."

Several Dark Elves behind him visibly relaxed. The relief was brief but undeniable. For hours they had feared the worst, now at least they knew they were searching in the wrong direction.

One of the younger Dark Elves immediately spoke. "We should head east."

Xeveris nodded, "We will."

His gaze shifted back toward Zevran, the assassin hadn’t moved.

The black-clad figure simply watched them from within the mist, waiting and studying, just as he had been studying Rhylen.

Ermid narrowed his eyes, then he turned toward the others.

"Take the wounded and continue east."

Several Dark Elves looked surprised.

"What about you?"

Ermid unsheathed one of his curved daggers, the polished blade reflected faintly through the black mist.

"This bastard is using dead mana."

His eyes shifted briefly toward the struggling dwarves.

"If he keeps fighting, those wounds will only get worse."

The older Dark Elf who had been examining the injuries gave a grim nod.

"He isn’t wrong."

Silence settled over the group and Yttriva looked at Xeveris.

"Let’s keep moving, Xeveris."

Xeveris nodded, then several Dark Elves stepped forward, not many, only a handful veterans.

The ones still capable of fighting, one carried healing supplies while another immediately moved toward the wounded dwarves despite receiving suspicious looks in return.

Ermid rolled his shoulders once before fixing his gaze entirely upon Zevran.

"You’ve been playing with the Captain long enough."

A faint smile appeared beneath the assassin’s mask.

For the first time since the battle began, the amusement in his eyes disappeared completely.

Because unlike Rhylen, this opponent fought exactly like an assassin, and assassins were always the most troublesome enemies to deceive.