Azure Scepter

Page 28

Noe nodded obediently and left the room with light steps.

Watching the nun's departing figure, Trier began to ponder again.

The next morning, while it was still barely light, the sky was still overcast.

After a hearty meal, almost all the survivors in the inn gathered in the courtyard—they were about to set off.

The golden banners of the Kingdom of Orco were fluttering in the wind, and the militiamen, armed with various weapons, stood beneath them in a chaotic formation.

Young Soms, barely able to carry a spear taller than himself, stood in the middle of the column. He felt restless due to severe insomnia.

He glanced around and a very bad feeling rose in his heart—everyone around him was a town resident who had been temporarily armed, and most of them had not even received the treatment they received yesterday afternoon!

Without a doubt, I've been thrown into the cannon fodder group.

"Perhaps we are the ones in the preparation?" he thought with a glimmer of hope.

But the next moment, several soldiers stepped into the ranks and began to reprimand the formation.

"Pay attention to your formation! This is crucial to your survival!" said the stern soldier who had come to find the dwarves yesterday. "Form will allow you to maintain a numerical advantage in certain areas. If you get separated from your group, the undead will tear you to pieces!"

"Crack! Like this!" As if to explain more clearly, the soldier with a serious face imitated the sound of a bone breaking in his voice.

People burst into laughter, but little Soms was in a terrible mood.

Worse still, the people around him were displaying an unusually abnormal excitement, their pale faces flushed with an unnatural red.

"I'm going to smash the walker's head in!" he heard a man with buck teeth say, "For my dad who got bitten to death by a ghoul!"

This man used to be the family cook—his honey-roasted quail was decent, but his other dishes were less than impressive.

Seemingly noticing his gaze, the cook revealed a mouthful of buck teeth: "Don't worry, young master, I'll protect you!"

"Haha." Little Soms let out a dry, bitter laugh.

Just then, he noticed a man in chainmail walk up to the banner—it was the paladin named Trier. The man grabbed the heavy banner, walked up to the stern-faced soldier, and handed it to him.

“Protect it,” Trier said.

The soldier, his face serious, nodded solemnly: "I swear, sir, I will protect it with my life."

After a brief exchange, the paladin and the standard-bearer surprisingly walked towards the chaotic militia group at the same time.

The solemn paladin stood in the front row without hesitation, while the flag bearer stood behind Trier.

Under the sun's rays, the paladin's armor gleamed, and little Soms inexplicably felt a very irrational sense of confidence.

Is it divine magic? He wondered.

"Kill the undead! Avenge the cultists!" the cook suddenly shouted.

"Kill the undead!" Shouts rose and fell, and Little Soms felt the air vibrate. The wound on his neck seemed to tremble. With each shout louder than the last, a kind of fanatical emotion gradually rose.

"Kill the undead!" he found himself shouting, and with that shout, the suppressed fear and unease in his heart seemed to be released.

"Kill the undead!" he shouted again, feeling a strange power surge from his heart, and his limbs and bones suddenly filled with strength.

"Kill the undead!" he shouted for the third time, but by this time he could no longer hear his own voice; everything seemed to dissolve into the howling sound.

At that moment, a deep, ferocious roar suddenly exploded in their ears, instantly drowning out the shouts of the crowd.

Little Soms barely managed to turn his head when a colossal dragon had somehow climbed to the top of the main hotel building. It suddenly spread its wings, and a massive shadow instantly enveloped the militiamen—those enormous dragon wings nearly blotted out the sky!

"Kill all the cultists!" the dragon roared furiously, its voice almost solidifying into a physical entity, the air itself distorting and warping in the face of its rage. "For revenge!"

Why does that voice sound so familiar? Little Soms suddenly felt confused—this voice...it sounds a bit like the tailor's voice from the south side of town?

Before he could think it through, the chaotic crowd started moving forward, and little Soms quickly turned his head.

The throng of people swept him along, pulling him forward. At that moment, little Soms couldn't see anything but the row of smelly clothes in front of him and the flag that seemed to be glowing.

"Knights of the Gel Highlands, listen to this ballad." The melodious sound of the lute rises, and the voice of the dwarven blacksmith appears faintly, "The glorious days have not yet faded, the banner of honor still flies high, hey ya, hey ya!"

"Hey ya, hey ya," the cook beside him hummed softly.

"Iron fist grips the gun handle, left hand holds the reins, victory is advancing! Heave-ho!" The dwarf blacksmith's voice became clearer.

The "hey-ya" sound grew louder, and the power surging within him inexplicably intensified, making the heavy gun handle feel incredibly light.

"Even in defeat, we are invincible, hey ya hey ya; it flies forward past the knights' robes and inspires us to fight, hey ya hey ya!"

At that moment, people's steps gradually synchronized with the singing.

"Hey ya hey ya!" Little Soms sang in an almost roaring voice.

The cold boots splashed muddy water as they stepped into the puddles.

With the sounds of "hey ya hey ya" echoing in his ears, Trier walked forward in silence.

He looked up ahead, where the town hall's tower was faintly visible through the thin morning mist. At that moment, the morning sun shone exceptionally brightly, and for a fleeting instant, its radiance illuminated the distant town hall's tower, a blinding flash that passed by in an instant.

Trier turned to look around and saw that everyone was extremely excited, even the experienced soldiers behind him were caught up in this collective frenzy—Trier knew very well that this was not an extremely high morale.

This is a very common pre-war stress response; once someone dies, this near-frenzied fervor crumbles at a faster and more intense pace.

On the street, a zombie was wandering aimlessly. When it saw the crowd that suddenly appeared, it paused for a moment, and then slowly walked over.

"It's time to get going," the paladin muttered to himself.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

P.S.: Sorry for the late update, thank you all for your subscriptions, comments, recommendations, monthly tickets, requests for more updates, and donations.

There are still 14 chapters missing...

Author's Note on Launch (Please do not subscribe)

Dear readers, hello, I am Tangbaihun.

Although it's been four days since it was released, as the saying goes, "the sun has set, but it's never too late." It seems like it's not too late to write this release message again. I also want to take this opportunity to chat with everyone. Therefore, apart from the sentence above, this release message should be entirely in plain language.

First of all, I would like to thank everyone for your continued support.

To be honest, I'm quite ashamed to admit that although I've been reading online novels for almost sixteen years, this is my first time actually writing. Before I started, I had mentally prepared myself thoroughly, but I never expected everyone to enjoy it so much. I feel extremely honored. Don't laugh, but I usually sleep very well, but since I started writing, I often wake up in the middle of the night in a state of excitement. The thought of providing some enjoyment for everyone makes me very happy. Therefore, I have plenty of motivation and drive to keep writing.

Therefore, there's absolutely no need to worry about the author abandoning the project. For me, writing novels is purely a source of positive emotional motivation. Although I usually face a lot of pressure from studying and working, the possibility of abandoning the project is very small. One of my direct motivations for starting to write is that several novels I've been following have all been abandoned. I feel that if I did abandon mine, the dramatic irony would be off the charts.

Also, I do read every comment from the experts carefully, and I'll answer those I can. However, please forgive me for not being able to answer questions related to future plot developments, as spoilers would seriously affect the viewing experience. (Of course, my bigger concern is that if I were to revise the outline after giving away spoilers, it would seem very strange.)

At the end of this section, I would like to bow again to express my gratitude for your continued support!

Secondly, I must thank the esteemed Bei Ming for his kindness. Looking back, the first D&D-like novel I ever read was "The Dragonwing Elegy of Saraph," and the author of that novel was none other than Bei Ming... To be honest, when I applied for a contract and discovered that my editor was Bei Ming, my first reaction was extreme surprise—to be precise, I felt a bit like seeing a character from a childhood story come to life.

Well, getting back to the point. Although I made a huge number of technical mistakes while writing the book, and the update speed was very much in line with my website nickname, the great Beiming still spared no effort in giving me a lot of support and guidance, for which I am very grateful.

Next, let's talk about the ideas behind the creation and the problems that exist.

On this point, let's first discuss the "Amber Flow" issue. As you can see, this is an Amber Flow novel, and quite fundamentally so...

Looking back now, it's been almost 13 years since *The Amber Sword* was written. What was once an unheard-of, cutting-edge work now seems almost outdated. Yet, even today, I can still recall the words of Scarlet Flame: "May the black pine remain evergreen, may Elune endure, may faith shine as brightly as ever, may the sword remain as sharp as ever." I can still remember Brando leading the militia in their charge against the skeleton cavalry, and I can still remember Princess Griffin, sipping her steaming tea and listening intently to Overwell's stories. (Princess Griffin is the best!)

I believe that a true "fundamental Amber Style" story must first and foremost be a game-based isekai (otherworld) story, secondly, possess a grand, epic feel, and finally, address any regrets. Of course, in my understanding, a broad definition of "Amber Style" should include all isekai games. And this book, as a self-proclaimed fundamentalist Amber Style work, naturally possesses all of these: a game-based isekai setting, an epic feel, and addressing any regrets.

Having discussed the Amber Flow, let's talk about the creative process. As you've probably already noticed, the backdrop for this first story is based on the Stratholme Crisis from Warcraft. In fact, my novel folder on my hard drive is named "Stratholme Survival Story." Since it's based on the Stratholme Crisis, someone inevitably has to face the same moral dilemmas Arthas faced (/wink).

In closing, I'd like to take this opportunity to summarize my writing problems and how to improve them. 1. My update speed is too slow, and it's sporadic, like squeezing toothpaste. Regarding this, I think it's necessary to have a sufficient stockpile of drafts. Although I currently have zero drafts, I believe this problem will gradually improve over time.

2. Pace issue. In fact, this is something I've always been worried about, because I often add a bunch of things that I think will be interesting while writing, so as the writing progresses, the story becomes completely different from the original outline; and sometimes I get so engrossed in meaningless conflicts between characters that a story that should have ended in 25 chapters is dragged out to double its length—solving this problem depends on strictly adhering to the outline.

3. Combat Power Issues. Based on reading the comments, I noticed that most people feel the concept of ritual magic is too far-fetched. However, I want to repeatedly emphasize that releasing a ritual requires magical winds, which are very scarce in daily life. Magical winds only accumulate in specific regions. Therefore, the purpose of this cheat is actually to create a dynamic balance in the power comparison between the protagonist and the Silent Whisperers. So, I will stick to my opinion on this issue.

4. Noy's problem. Many experts think this character is strangely portrayed, and I think you're absolutely right, he is indeed strangely portrayed (lol). This drastic change in the character's behavior can be attributed to two reasons: one is the author's inability to write a romantic subplot; the other is an attempt to foreshadow later events, which now seems a bit too forced... Regarding this issue, I can only say that I should read more romance novels.

In closing, I want to express my sincere gratitude to everyone for the third time, and also offer my apologies. Generally, publishing an article means a surge in updates—but unfortunately, the author is not able to keep up. It seems I'll not only be unable to publish at a breakneck pace, but will also need to take a few more days off. In short, the content I submitted last week requires some revisions, so it may take up some of my time this week. But don't worry, the author is capable of making up for the missed chapters.

That concludes my remarks regarding the product launch. Thank you for reading, and goodbye!

Chapter 51 The Listener

Castor felt someone calling him.

"Speaker, wake up! The dragon, the dragon is coming!"

"A dragon?" Castor murmured unconsciously in his drowsy state. He turned his head slightly, wanting to continue sleeping, but the next moment, he suddenly shuddered—a dragon was coming?!

His sleepiness vanished instantly, and Castor opened his eyes in astonishment. He instinctively asked, "Teacher, what should we do?"

No one responded to him. He was stunned for a moment before he remembered that his teacher was dead.

The teacher died a particularly tragic and bizarre death.

He couldn't help but shiver.

When Byron died, the terrifying, hoarse wail that seemed to be squeezing his heart seemed to echo in his ears again. The teacher's bulging eyes and rotting, foul fat after his death terrified him from the bottom of his heart.

However, deep down, Caster knew very well that what he feared most was not his teacher's horrific death, but the deep male voice that came from his teacher's mouth, a voice that did not belong to his teacher.

For some reason, Caster always felt that the cold and cruel voice seemed familiar. After his teacher's tragic death, he tried hard to recall the owner of that voice, but the answer that seemed so close was always just out of reach, as if separated by a thick layer of frosted glass.

Suddenly, a flood of negative emotions, such as unease, fear, and sadness, overwhelmed my heart.

"There's no one to guide me anymore; now I have to rely on myself for everything," he thought.

"Caution and patience," the impatient Castor muttered to himself unconsciously. "Teacher, I won't be impatient anymore."

"The speaker?" the person who woke him asked cautiously.

Castor sat up in bed, knowing that, apart from that terrifying undead, he now held the highest status among all the Silent Whisperers in Beaver Town.

The Silent Society is a tightly organized group. Its leader is a mysterious president, under whom are five "Thinkers" who are in charge of different areas. Below the "Thinkers" are the "Listeners," and below the "Listeners" are the "Silent Ones." Below the "Silent Ones" are the lowest-ranking members of the leadership hierarchy, the "Speakers."

The outer members—ordinary believers—speakers—silent ones—listeners—thinkers—and the president form a tight, chain-like organizational structure. This powerful organization brings exceptional operational capabilities; since Castor joined the Silent Whisperers, he has never witnessed the organization suffer a defeat.

This situation is too strange... Castor thought to himself.

In just two days, all the "Silent Ones" above the "Speaker" level in Beaver Town died tragically.

The sorcerer who was skilled in using rituals died from the backlash of the rituals, while the veteran mage Loft, who was extremely skilled in combat, died in battle. Even the teacher, who was always known for his caution, died, and his death was extremely bizarre.

In just two days, three skilled spellcasters died—and if you count the few more who were lost in the battle, then he was the only one left in the entire Beaver Town who could barely be considered a qualified spellcaster.

Castor tried hard to recall his teacher's mannerisms, deliberately put on a serious face, and said in a slow, deliberate tone, "Don't rush, speak slowly, where is the dragon?"

"It's right there in the old square to the south!"

“Alright, wake everyone else up immediately. You go and inform the Listener, I’ll go to the hall to wake up the Stitches.”

The person who woke him looked surprised, then shook his head excitedly: "We finished a long time ago! A long time ago! We're just waiting for you to lead the others in a joint spell to control the undead horde!"

Just as Caster was about to ask why they needed to combine spells, his teacher's dying words, "patience and caution," suddenly flashed into his mind like a ghost, and he forced back the question that was about to slip out.

After a moment's thought, he came to a conclusion—all the spellcasters capable of controlling nearly a thousand undead single-handedly were dead, and the remaining people could only adopt a joint spellcasting mode if they wanted to control such a large number of undead.

With that thought in mind, Castor nodded, and he inexplicably noticed that the other person's surprise seemed to have deepened.

“You’ve changed,” the other person said.

Although Castor didn't understand what the other person was trying to say, the sarcasm in their words was obvious. Already impatient, he instinctively felt a surge of anger. He was about to reply when, at that moment, another excited shout came from outside the door: "The group of survivors hiding in the hotel has come out too! I saw that golden flag! A large group of survivors is already coming along the road north of the old square!"

There is no doubt that the dragons and the survivors have joined forces.

Suddenly, Castor shuddered again.

A wonderful inspiration that made his brain tremble suddenly flashed through his mind—theoretically, apart from the high-ranking undead who were tasked with hunting dragons, he was the highest-ranking member of the Silent Whisperers in Beaver Town. This meant that if they could annihilate the remaining survivors and convert them into usable undead of decent quality, he would be the greatest contributor!

—This is too simple. Just order the undead to swarm in, squeeze the survivors who have lost the cover of the inn into a small area, and then throw a few fireballs and it's over!

These foolish non-spellcasters have no idea of ​​the immense power of magic!

"Boom! Boom!"

My heart started racing, and it kept getting faster and faster.

His hands and feet were a little cold from excessive excitement, and his brain was also a little oxygen-deprived from excitement, but Castor still quickly thought about the benefits of this matter: he might be able to take over the position of the teacher "Silent One" and then receive the opportunity to be blessed.

The mysterious president rarely appears in public, but every time she does, she brings blessings to the devout believers.

Her power is like that of a god, capable of bestowing unimaginably strong blessings: some grant unparalleled strength, while others enlighten the recipient's wisdom.

Even in some secret rumors, true or false, these blessings are enough to grant immortality—Cast knows this rumor is true—the mage Loft, who died in battle yesterday, is a living example.

That old man should have died of old age long ago, but after receiving the chairman's blessing, he actually regained his youth!

“I also want to live forever…” Castor murmured to himself.

Just as he was imagining a bright and promising future, a rusty iron glove suddenly landed on his shoulder.

Castor was startled. His eyes widened in shock as he discovered that his shadow on the wall was writhing. The next moment, a pair of eyes flashing with an unclean red light suddenly appeared in the shadow.