Chapter 57: The other Bonecaster

Salser knew exactly what he was dealing with this time. This woman was a member of the Third Order of the Hounds—a group renowned for their proficiency in eliminating spellcasters, often operating in assassination squads and occasionally undertaking other covert missions that remained forever shrouded in secrecy.

Who knows how the Empress managed to create these things, even the Senate was oblivious to what happened back then.

Her appearance was a stark contrast to her tattered attire; her face was an immaculate oval, akin to polished white jade, adorned with sharp, icy blue eyes that brimmed with serenity. These eyes locked onto his, unblinking, as if delving deep into his essence, seeking something elusive. Many young men, upon first encountering such a gaze, would find themselves mesmerized, but Salser knew that these individuals had perfected their craft by observing living specimens—their mastery in deciphering emotions.

Her beauty was undeniable, evoking the romantic illusion of a legendary tale where one instantly falls for a distressed princess. Yet, legends don't make you bleed, legends don't decapitate you, and legends don't secretly transport you to the Empire's interrogation chambers after your limbs have been brutally amputated.

When you're a young man brimming with youthful hormones, you might conclude from legends that this damned world has a grand love in store for you, that no weapon stand in your way; that a beautiful, distressed princess is always waiting somewhere for you to rescue her, and that the sword in your hand can cleave through any obstacle; these legends can make your blood boil, wanting to immerse yourself in them.

Until you truly participate in war, or pay the price for your delusions of venturing into the world alone.

It's simply dreadful.

I'd rather step on fresh dung than old dung.

With deliberate care, Salser lifted his sword, cradling the young girl in his left arm. He inhaled deeply, the air tainted by the stench of fire burning stone, yet it was tempered by the delicate fragrances of Viola's golden locks and the nape of her neck, which soothed his spirit. His gaze flicked to the pitted road below—a shadow rested at the Shadow Throne priest's feet, quietly spreading towards them like ink dripping into a lake.

The Hound woman swiftly withdrew, her blade slicing through the oncoming flames with a single, precise stroke, followed by another sharp thrust. Salser, however, remained steadfast, unmoving as he concentrated on connecting with the Warren. In the blink of an eye, the clash of swords reverberated—but it was not his blade that engaged. Jeanne darted in front of the Dark wizard, her long sword descending with the force of a thunderclap. She stomped the ground, raising a plume of dust that rose to half a person's height, feigned a lunge, and then unleashed a fiercely horizontal sweep with her sword.

Salser chanted in a hoarse, ancient, and terrifying language, and white-hot light poured out from his mouth, which seemed to be laughing maniacally.

...

Astolfo moved through the shadowy corners of the street, his ghostly shadow oscillating in the mist. He quietly held his breath, and the energy of the Warren coursed through Algalia, seemingly directed by his breath, as ancient magic were channeled from the pristine white barrel into his body.

He walked on the vertical walls of buildings perpendicular to the road, with the black river standing to his left, and the blood-red night sky and the slowly descending full moon to his right. At this moment, the force that seemed to pull at Astolfo was emanating from the outer walls of the buildings—in other words, the world appeared sideways through his eyes.

Astolfo relied on this to avoid one bizarre apparition after another in the dream, after all, they were on the horizontal ground, whereas he navigated the vertical plane. The city's skewed layout made it challenging to discern distance—even for Astolfo, who was a seasoned traveler. This world was indeed peculiar, with everything defying the norms of reality. When you close your eyes, distance turns into bubbles of words and meaningless terms on you, and the dream carry your soul to thousands of miles away.

Astolfo leaped across the space between two houses once more and at last located the individual he sought: Taxar, standing with another Bonecaster.

The Bonecaster was short but robust. He was wrapped in a cloak made from the tanned hide of a deer or a similar animal, and wore a gray deer bone cap with fine fur underneath.  As the Bonecaster gazed up at Astolfo, his broad face revealed prominent knobby features beneath his smooth, golden skin. His heavy eyelids obscured his eyes, yet his amber pupils gleamed with a luminous intensity through the fog, impossible to overlook.

"Sir Taxar!" Astolfo severed the connection to the Warren. He landed over ten meters away, waving at Taxar: "I've completed the mission."

The Bonecaster silently withdrew his gaze, "Methinks the aim of thy sending him forth to deliver the token hath not been fully realized."

"What I can assure you is that I certainly included a directive in the token for Jeanne to escort this fellow out."

The Bonecaster shrugged, "He encountered Chavazon Turan and thence relinquished the token unto him."

"Is this information something you discerned through your magic?"

"Naturally, Taxar," said the Bonecaster, "Another Bonecaster, moved by her trifling personal whims, hath sent the veteran swordsman Chavazon Turan to lend aid unto those two. It is my belief that she did so, perchance, because she discerned from that Salser the potential to free the soul."

Taxar was noncommittal, shaking his head, "What offspring could possibly emerge from an encounter with a semi-demonized soul in a dream?"

"Perchance, only she shall possess the knowledge in the days to come."

"Isa, that Bonecaster appears to be as young as my own daughter."

The Bonecaster named Isa shook his head, also noncommittal, "Should her desires not bring harm to the clan nor transgress our sworn oath, then none among us possesseth the authority to meddle with her musings.—Her wish to receive the seed of that gentleman in time to come is not in breach of our tenets."

"Are you aware that my daughter is studying in the city of Cast?"

"There is no requirement for such extensive conjunctions, Taxar. This affair doth not necessitate your daughter's entanglement with that gentleman."

"I sent them to Cast! And they're also with a girl the same age as my daughter! It's possible they could cross paths one day!"

"Hast thou the ability to still thy agitation? It was my belief that Magistrates are impervious to the loss of their composure."

"..."

A tide of monsters followed Astolfo's steps, but Taxar showed no interest in turning to face them, simply waving his hand dismissively.

Suddenly, something heavy pressed against Astolfo's clothing, hitting the ground as if a giant invisible ceiling had fallen from the sky, nearly crushing him into the ground. Astolfo flinched, quickly leaping out and running to the side of the Magistrate. Behind him, the earth protested under the strain, creaking and groaning. The bizarre monsters on the road were all flattened, struggling frantically, as if buried under collapsed pillars in a fire.

Then, the Magistrate lowered his arm, and the pressure intensified, as if some heavy object had landed on the ground.—The monsters all froze, motionless, then suddenly crumbled, like blood-filled sacks crushed by a boulder, turning into a colorful abstract painting.

"The Shapeshifter hath arrived," Isa suddenly said.

A deafening roar reverberated through the ears, and Astolfo, upon hearing it, was struck by the unmistakable roar of a dragon. He halted, lifting his hand to shield his eyes, just as a massive black shadow soared above him.

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