Chapter 93:

On the eve before entering the Blood Vulture Halls, the Witch Hunter camp was solemn and deadly silent. From Finoch Lawson, Lord of White Oak, down to all other members, everyone was preparing various items needed for the battle tomorrow.

The Witch Hunters who could be brought to Transia were the elites among those who survived the decade-long war, with the fewest missing arms or legs.

Err, except for Natalie’s squad who joined at the last minute.

These Witch Hunters no longer had any special feelings about war, viewing it as a daily routine, so they couldn’t be described as tense or anticipating it.

Around several bonfires, silent warriors were sharpening their weapons, mending their armor, and categorizing alchemical sword oils, potions, and bombs to be stored with members of different responsibilities.

Some chose to take a walk in the night.

Under the starlight, they prayed to Avalon, who no longer responded to them, or spent what could be their last night with their companions.

This was normal.

The Witch Hunters were human too.

They had their own emotions of joy, anger, sorrow and happiness. Naturally, they would develop feelings for the comrades they fought alongside. The luckier ones did not need to go through the ‘Verdant Trial’, so most of them still maintained normal fertility.

Unfortunately, due to the rebellion of the Avalon Church, they were stripped of their social status, making them no longer dare to pray to their god for a new life in this world that was no longer friendly to them.

By the deepest bonfire in the camp, old Finoch was carefully wiping the large Oak Blade laid across his knees with a cloth.

Excellent weapons always required special maintenance. Plus, this sword had a “temperamental” nature, so to ensure no issues during tomorrow’s battle, he had to appease the sacred blade’s restlessness in advance.

In the past, this was certainly a sacred process.

But in this chaotic year, there was no meditation room with laurel incense and purification pools for him to use with the Great Sacred Holy Blade.

“Battalion Commander, you were looking for me?”

Natalie’s voice came from the edge of the bonfire.

The gray-haired huntress had just come over while maintaining her weapon, still holding a combat longsword in her hand that gave off a slightly pungent smell of freshly applied sword oil. Her hip quiver was stuffed with alchemically-treated arrows that had become even more lethal.

The way Witch Hunters fought involved reasonably using all kinds of alchemical items and tools, a very important combat technique for them.

“Sit!”

Old Finoch said curtly, and Natalie sat across from him by the bonfire.

This action made the old knight glance at her, then shake his head and pick up a box beside him to hand it over. Natalie took it with some puzzlement.

Opening the box, she was astonished to find a pair of intersecting silver war daggers inside.

The blades were extremely long, a straight-edged style suited for chopping and slashing. They had finely polished black wooden handles and oval oak hand guards, one dagger was long while the other was short, clearly meant to be used as a paired set.

There were mysterious runes engraved on the dagger bodies, and the gleaming edges had beautiful cloudy patterns. The cold light they reflected under the moonlight showcased their formidable killing power.

But their beautiful yet chilling appearance wasn’t the focus.

The point was that Natalie could discern the weighty aura of these war daggers, they were undoubtedly among the 150 replicas of the Blessed Sacred Blades made by the Elder Council of the Avalon Church over a long period in the past.

In this current age, they were one of the few remaining “relics” of the old faith.

“The Blessed Hunting Sword your mother left you was confiscated. I know you would not let it end up in others’ hands, as to you it is more than just a simple sword. But tomorrow’s battle will undoubtedly face death head-on, so I am temporarily lending you the weapons I used before recovering the Oak Sacred Blade.”

The old knight continued wiping the sacred blade in his hands.

The fire blazed between them, illuminating his face that was no longer youthful. In the flickering firelight, he said:

“These paired daggers come from a realm beyond our understanding. During the Fourth Black Calamity that opened in Year 1000 of the Calendar, I was tasked by the Elder Council to lead the Gray Knights in ambushing the Gnoll tide in the Dark Mountain Range. There I happened to meet a Sword Saint from the Western Army of the Ancient Calum Kingdom and learned a special forging method from him.

These war daggers were forged through my collaboration with the Brass Dwarven blacksmiths of the Yellow Citadel.

Perhaps they are not perfect, but they were my final impression of that terrible ten-year Black Calamity.

They have their own names.

The shorter one is called ‘Guardian’, the longer ‘Punisher’, symbolizing my duties in the Church. Yet now, I no longer have a reason to wield them.

You use them instead.

Hopefully you’ll find something worth guarding in the future.”

Natalie listened silently to old Finoch’s descriptions, neither choosing to refuse nor accept as she closed the wooden box and slung it on her back. She bowed her head to thank the Battalion Commander before leaving.

After taking a few steps, she suddenly stopped and turned to look at the old knight still sharpening his sword by the bonfire behind her.

She said:

“What about Murphy? How do you plan to deal with him?”

“Isn’t he our ‘partner’? What do you mean by saying that?”

The old knight asked back without lifting his head.

“He’s a threat! If we let him be, even if we destroy the current Blood Vultures, a second Blood Vulture Clan will still be born from his hands!”

Natalie said decisively:

“I’ve never met Salrokdar or other Vampire Patriarch, but I’ve confronted vampires before, and none of those other Midnight Fiends have given me a feeling like Murphy did.

He.

He doesn’t seem like a typical arrogant vampire of the night clan. Beneath that humble appearance hides a soul that is difficult for me to describe.”

“When you were born, the Elder Council determined you were a child blessed by Avalon. Their prophecy proclaimed you would become a leader. At that time, I thought a solemn but glorious life awaited you.

No one could have foreseen the situation rapidly deteriorating afterwards. The collapse of the Avalon Church left your fate unclear and made me unable to see the future’s direction.

But if the Elder Council’s prophecy still holds true, then Natalie, that means you must fulfill your duty amid increasingly difficult circumstances!

The Church is gone, but the warriors remain.

I have strained every effort to keep them from sliding into darkness, yet many have still embraced dangerous temptations after losing their faith’s protection.

Now including myself, only 1419 people remain in the White Oak Battalion, the last three hunter Battalions. We are the final organized remnant of the old faith’s military, and you must prepare yourself! If anything happens to me, you will have to lead them and continue protecting them from the darkness’ encroachment.”

Old Finoch finally voiced the concerns in his heart.

In this piercing night, he looked towards the Goldflower Kingdom and said to Natalie:

“General Loren is trustworthy, he is my friend and I trust him. King Louis is a talented sovereign, his pardon may spare us demise, but the king’s orders cannot help us find a new life.

I’ve been searching for our final destination as the last Witch Hunters, but see nothing beyond the fog of war.

Natalie.

I could not find a way out for us, I’m sorry.

Perhaps this duty should fall to you.”

“Don’t talk like you’re about to die!”

Natalie finally spoke up.

She interrupted the old knight, saying:

“You drank water from the Holy Grail in the Avalon stone circle on Glamo Island. You can live as long as an elf! You still have enough time to find what you seek!

Be it hope or a destination.

Time has been so generous to you yet so harsh to others, and you seem immersed in that generosity, viewing life’s passing as mere tragedy, your only desire eternal service to your god.

Just as when my mother passed away, you were still fighting for the so-called faith’s duties!

In your eyes, she and I were never important!”

The gray-haired huntress finally erupted, displaying an anger she hadn’t even shown when captured, interrogated or tortured. She raged at the old knight by the bonfire:

“The day the Avalon Church was disgraced by the king for rebelling.

I thought you would come back, but you didn’t!

I was dragged off Glamo Island like a prisoner, forced as a fresh recruit into a war I didn’t belong in. My comrades and I fought aimlessly like beasts for six years before you reappeared,

Carrying that damned sacred sword you somehow recovered, appearing suddenly like a savior trying to pull us out of the wartime mire!

But you had aged!

As if time was no longer generous to you either.

You seemed to shift from that cold-hearted zealot back into a troubled human, but what use was that? My entire childhood memories have no place for you, while my mother was begging me to forgive you on her deathbed.

She said you had your difficulties!

But what difficulties could you have?

That your god abandoned you so you suffered more than others? Could that suffering compare to my mother waiting thirty years without even a letter?

I know what you want me to do!

But forget it!

I have no father!

He died when I was three years old.”

Intense panting represented the agitated emotions of the usually calm and reserved Natalie Finochia Lawson.

As a Witch Hunter required to remain composed at all times, such an outburst was clearly harmful to her mind and judgment. Years of training allowed her to quickly regain control, reverting to her curt, silent demeanor.

She turned away to wipe her eyes, standing up straight like an elite soldier to loudly tell the old knight:

“Then, Battalion Commander, I’ll go prepare for tomorrow’s battle. My squad and I will surely complete the mission you’ve instructed!”

With that, she turned and disappeared into the night.

The bonfire still burned.

The Great Oak Blade in the old knight’s hands also fell unusually silent, as if sympathizing with its wielder’s current dire situation. But old Finoch did not seem too saddened.

He appeared to have known it would turn out this way.

“God, if this is all Your trial.”

He closed his eyes and said softly:

“I shall continue upholding that Holy Grail vow, devoting everything to You. I only ask that You protect my poor daughter as You’ve protected me, allowing her to safely weather the storm that is about to arise.

Ah, I have truly aged. No longer the courage of my prime, merely facing the light winds before this storm’s arrival already burdens me unbearably.”