Chapter 306 — Communication and Exposure

Static crackled in bursts from the magical communication device, but Berna paid it no mind. She waited patiently with a smile for a few seconds, and then a hoarse, low voice came through the device, like dry branches scraping together:

"Today's wasteland is as dull as every day past, Pontiff Beyira. Why have you suddenly contacted us through the dark bridge?"

"I wanted to confirm the situation at the outposts," said Beyira—publicly known as Berna, in truth a mid-level leader of the cult—in a flat tone. "You should already know that those blind monsters attacked the borders of both Typhon and Ansu at the same time."

"...'This side' of the Wall is all under control. Accidents beyond the Wall are none of our concern, Your Eminence."

Beyira gave a soft scoff, clearly less than satisfied with the answer. "Mutated individuals with rudimentary intelligence and formidable spellcasting ability have appeared among the aberrations. Why was none of this mentioned in the earlier reports?"

The voice on the other end of the device fell silent for a moment, then the crackling returned. "...We have not observed the kind of mutants you describe."

Beyira's delicate brows drew together slightly; she was even less pleased with this reply. "Do you think I would fabricate something like this? Even the humans outside the Wall have now sighted entirely new mutant monsters. Do you truly know nothing?"

"Pontiff Beyira, do not question the loyalty of the 'Sacrificers.' We do not know what these mutants you speak of are, but we will investigate. If it is all true, then it can only mean those monsters are undergoing mutations never observed before. In the face of such change, patience until the investigation concludes is the wisest course."

"I will wait," Beyira said, her expression cold and stiff, "but I am running short on patience."

"Patience, patience. We have been patient for seven hundred years. Nothing can affect our plan now..."

The noise and the voices from the communication device gradually faded together. Beyira knew the dark bridge was reaching its limit, and that the illegal signal bleed in the channel would soon be noticed by the Silver Empire's mages. So before the connection cut out entirely, she hurried to say: "The elves will soon notice activity along the Great Wall. Our channel will be reset, modified according to the second contingency..."

The sky was covered in filthy clouds like a mire, and the restless chaotic magic within them spawned ceaseless lightning. The howling wind carried toxic gases and radioactive dust. All things withered and perished in this lethal environment, or else mutated and twisted—even the earth, regarded as the foundation of all things, had been reduced by corrosive magical energy to a wasteland of scorch marks. This was a place where life had been extinguished.

Yet still some "things" moved about in this lifeless land.

In the arcane-scorched region of the Gondo Wasteland, a "forest" was slowly creeping.

Pitch-black, twisted branches grew unchecked in the corrupted magic, sparse and messy gray-white leaves clinging to their tips. Pale or blood-red crystalline growths pierced the bark of these plants, embedded like inlays amid the horrifyingly twisted limbs. No naturalist in the world could identify the species or name of these "trees"; even in the most absurd and outlandish scrolls devoted to depicting the Black Forest, no one had ever painted "trees" of such bizarre form—and especially not trees that rattled and swayed their branches, walking on dense mats of roots. That went far beyond the impoverished human imagination.

Countless such "trees" crept across the wasteland, their roots writhing and pulsing like tangled knots of snakes. Every so often a "tree" would slow its crawl and briefly drive part of its roots into the corrupted soil, seizing the moment to absorb the last remaining nutrients—but even then, their pace never halted, as though their very purpose were to trek endlessly across this waste.

At the center of the creeping forest, an especially huge and ancient monster of a tree advanced slowly, surrounded by its companions. The wrinkled, pitted bark of its surface contracted into a strange pattern resembling an aged human face. That face, formed of bark, shifted slightly, and from "its" dry, cracked mouth came a hoarse, low voice: "Do not worry, Pontiff Beyira. Everything is under control..."

A moment later, the aged face closed its mouth. Yet around this giant tree, many smaller creeping trees swayed in unison, faces emerging from their wrinkle-ridden bark, and as their branches twisted, they turned to gaze beyond the forest.

Outside the creeping forest, across the wasteland scarred with filth and scorch marks, countless abominable flesh giants were moving slowly. A low muttering, enough to drive an ordinary person mad, rose from the chest of every giant and filled the whole expanse of wilderness.

And among those blind, foolish flesh giants, one or two especially enormous individuals could be seen from time to time—standing two or three times the height of an ordinary giant—making their slow way through the ranks, steadily drawing nearer to the direction the creeping forest was moving...

Every leaf of the creeping forest trembled, and amid the rustling came an ethereal utterance: "Everything is under control..."

Beyira ended the communication and stared fixedly at the magical device, now dim before her.

"Sacrificers..." The female pontiff closed her eyes, and into her cold, indifferent expression crept a trace of remembrance and bitterness. "Seven hundred years..."

But only seconds later, the pontiff reined in every unnecessary flicker of emotion. She opened her eyes, and her gaze turned cold and distant once more. After confirming that the dark bridge had been properly stowed and that nothing unusual remained on the magical device, she smoothed the wrinkles from her clothes and turned to leave the place.

Yet her feet seemed to have taken root, fixed dead in place; though her upper body had already turned, she could not lift her feet.

She glanced down in surprise, only to find that it was not her vines and roots holding her in place—it was her own legs, her own feet.

Beyira frowned and tried again to lift her foot, but this time not only did she fail, her hand even came to rest once more on the magical device that had already gone dark!

The female pontiff cried out in a low voice: "Berna? What are you doing?!"

Beyira's body went rigid, no longer moving in the slightest, yet a deep, hidden struggle unfolded within that body. Across her face—the pure, lovely face that belonged to a certain elf—expressions shifted ceaselessly: now fury, now agony, now resolve, now despair...

In the end, all expressions settled into a single layer of indifference. Beyira had regained control of the body.

Yet a faint sigh escaped her lips.

"Berna... this is the last time you get your way.

"Go, before I change my mind."

The elf girl's body staggered, then slowly walked toward the magical terminal in the room. She gently stroked the smooth alloy surface of the terminal, then somewhat clumsily placed her hand atop it.

Moments later, the elven runes brightened again, and a projection of luminous mist appeared together with a voice. A silver elf with a friendly smile waved before Berna.

"Windwhisperer 1015, greetings, sister far from home."

The elf girl hesitated, but slowly began to speak, breaking the silence: "I am... Berna Lightwind, from... Whitestone City."

"Very well, Miss Berna. How does it feel to be traveling abroad? Would you like to contact your family in the Empire? Or report what you have seen and heard out in the world? Or is there a special circumstance requiring a secure line?"

"I... no, I do not need to contact my family. I only have a few words I want to pass on to Master Thornheart of Moon Valley."

"Certainly, please go ahead. You will be recorded here."