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Leylin strode purposefully toward the inn, its weathered sign swaying gently in the damp evening air, proclaiming its name: "Ghosts With Grive(Grievances) Don't Weep." (Image)
He pushed the door open, the hinges groaning faintly as they gave way to reveal a cavernous interior shrouded in neglect.
The inn was a desolate husk—no laughter or chatter filled the space, only the faint creak of floorboards beneath his boots and the musty scent of disuse hanging heavy in the air.
Dust motes danced lazily in the dim light filtering through grimy windows, and the furniture—a scattering of rickety tables and chairs—stood like silent sentinels in an abandoned realm.
He approached the counter, its surface scarred and stained from years of careless use, and tossed a handful of gold coins onto it. They clinked and rolled briefly before settling, their gleam a stark contrast to the drab surroundings.
"Give me ten private rooms," Leylin said, his voice cutting through the stillness with quiet authority.
"Yes, sir!" The shop owner, a wiry figure with a pinched face and eager eyes, perked up at the sight of the coins, his surprise evident at such lavish spending in a place so forlorn.
He fumbled with a rack of keys behind him, each one slick with a greasy sheen, and barked, "Pinky! Pinky! Get out here now, or I'll peel your hide off!"
Bang! A dwarf burst into view, his grey pointed hat slightly askew atop a head barely reaching Leylin's waist. Clad in a garish green outfit adorned with oversized floral patterns, Pinky looked like a jester plucked from a child's tale. (Image)
"Respected Sir, Pinky is here for your bidding," he chirped, touching his hat with an exaggerated flourish that bordered on comical.
"Take our esteemed guests upstairs to rest—you know which rooms," the owner snapped, delivering a casual smack to Pinky's shoulder before handing over the keys, their oily surfaces glinting faintly in the candlelight.
"Dear guests! Please follow Pinky! Mind the steps!" The dwarf turned with a bounce in his step, leading the way up a narrow, creaking staircase. Leylin and his retinue followed, their boots thudding softly against the worn wood, the sound echoing in the hollow space.
"Here, choose your rooms among yourselves," Leylin said, handing nine keys to Greem with a flick of his wrist. "Greem, Fraser—come to my room after settling down." He turned and entered a room with Anna trailing behind, her presence a quiet shadow at his side.
The room was sparse and utilitarian—a sagging bed with a threadbare quilt, a small table marred with scratches, and a single chair that wobbled faintly when touched.
The air carried a faint tang of mildew, and the lone window offered a view of the rain-streaked town below, its glass streaked with years of grime. Leylin ordered Anna to prepare tea, the clink of porcelain soon mingling with the soft patter of rain outside.
She moved with practiced grace, boiling water over a small brazier in the corner, the steam curling upward as she steeped the leaves, filling the room with the earthy aroma of black tea.
Leylin sank onto the bed, stretching out with a sigh as the tension of travel eased from his frame. Moments later, Greem and Fraser entered, bowing low.
"Young Master," they intoned, their voices steady with deference.
"I need you to purchase a house nearby—a base of operations," Leylin said, his tone clipped and precise. "Go tonight, take Anna with you. She'll oversee the details and relay my instructions. Discretion is key."
"As you command, Young Master," the trio replied, nodding in unison. Anna set a steaming cup of tea beside him, its warmth seeping through the cracked ceramic, before stepping back to join the knights.
Leylin dismissed them with a wave, sipping the tea as its bitter warmth spread across his tongue. His thoughts drifted to his soulbound summons, a subject he'd explored extensively over the past months.
The Great Withering Mankestre possessed a remarkable ability: it could consume and store items within its astral form, a makeshift vault of sorts. The catch was that anything stored would be lost if the summon was destroyed or recalled to his soul space—a limitation, but one he could work around.
Lacking a spatial bag, this trait was invaluable. He planned to harvest rare herbs from Dylan Gardens, stash them in the snake's body during the journey, and transfer them to a safehouse later, holding off on sales until he achieved Rank 1 Magus status.
'I must visit the academy,' he reflected, setting the cup down with a faint clink. 'Kroft's advanced potion formulas, Dorotte's Branded Swordsman scripture, spells dirt-cheap from the bloodbath, and the advanced lab for refining the serpent bloodline—all worth the detour.'
The bloodbath held no real peril for him; he'd emerge with spells and Grine Water, paving an outward appearance to reach Rank 1 without any suspicion.
The academy might tempt him with core meditation techniques if he aligned with a faction, but Leylin had no intention of tethering himself to their lesser paths—his own trajectory was far superior, a road he'd carved with precision and foresight.
Ten days later, under a sky awash with dim starlight, nine black shadows slipped from Zither Moon Town like phantoms.
Sou Sou Sou! Their movements were a blur, too swift for mortal eyes to track as they raced toward the Zither Moon Mountain Plains.
Leylin led his slave knights, minus Greem and Fraser, who'd departed with Anna to secure the safehouse.
The night was a shroud of pitch-black, the tangled branches and vines of the plains no obstacle to their relentless pace.
Towering trees stretched skyward, their canopies a dense lattice that swallowed the stars, save for faint slivers piercing through the leaves. The air was thick with the scent of moss and damp earth, a primal perfume that sharpened Leylin's senses. (Image)
Past a gnarled black tree, its bark peeling like old skin, he spotted a dark green marsh, its surface a graveyard of dried branches, wilted leaves, and the skeletal remains of unfortunate beasts, their bones half-submerged in the mire.
They pressed deeper, covering ground swiftly, and within hours reached the heart of the plains. The landscape had transformed dramatically from the border's mundane flora. Here, the vegetation was alien and striking—white shrubs with spiraled leaves dominated, their pale forms swaying in the breeze.
Each gust stirred them into motion, producing a chaotic Ding Ding Dong Dong!—a piano-like cacophony that tugged at Leylin's instincts, urging him to charge heedlessly forward.
"Careful! Piano Key Bushes," he warned, his voice cutting through the sound. "The noise lures humans and can unsettle even acolytes."
His slaves, dosed with enhanced tranquilizers, were immune, their minds shielded from the hypnotic call. He'd also equipped each with a Berserker Pill, an advanced derivative of his knight life-nourishing potion.
It doubled their strength for five minutes—a potent edge—though he concealed its fatal flaw: the unstable formula would shatter their life seeds post-effect, a death sentence they'd never suspect. Their trust in his alchemy was absolute, forged by the nourishing potion's proven efficacy.
The plains grew treacherous deeper in—poisonous miasmas drifted like ghostly veils, and swarms of venomous insects buzzed in relentless waves. (Image)
Leylin's potions—antidotes brewed from rare roots and repellents distilled from crushed petals—saw them through unscathed, their efficacy a testament to his skill.
They trekked across muddy flats and waded through shallow streams, the water cold against their legs, until two days later they reached the cliff marked on his map.
The cliff's edge was a carpet of bright yellow Beta Daisies, their red hearts vivid and oversized, each bloom as large as two fists clasped together. Their heavy, cloying aroma saturated the air, a floral haze that hinted at danger.
The Zither Moon Mountain Plains teemed with such perils—beauty often masked lethality, especially near their goal. The A.I. Chip confirmed the flowers' identity, aligning with the map's clues: Dylan Gardens lay beneath this precipice, guarded by these very blooms.
The cliff loomed high, its granite walls jagged and sheer, a descent impossible for ordinary men. Leylin murmured the Curagerian inscription, his voice low and deliberate: "Only those who carry courage and respect will see the Dylan Gardens."
A faint smile curved his lips. "The secret is the Beta Daisy—without it, the plane stays sealed."
"Pluck and jump!" he ordered, securing a flower to his chest with a swift motion. His slaves obeyed without hesitation, their expressions blank as they followed suit, years of slave training rendering them extensions of their master's will.
"Jump!" Leylin commanded, and they leapt as one.
Bang! The wind roared past, pressing Leylin's skin inward as they plummeted, his eyes reddening from the strain, blood surging in his veins. Yet a grin split his face, exhilaration coursing through him.
Halfway down, a circle of light flared on the cliff face, rippling the air to unveil a hidden dimension. A weightless sensation gripped them, the world tilting wildly. When the dizziness cleared, they stood in a dark cave, the air cool and damp against their skin.
Leylin rose slowly, his slaves drawing swords with a chorus of metallic rasps. They knew what awaited—the Black Horrall Snake—and Leylin braced himself, his senses sharp, ready to meet it head-on.