Translator: CinderTL
"How... how is this possible?"
Roland stared at the corpses on the ground, which were rapidly "devolving" until they became indistinguishable from the grotesque humanoid creatures in the tunnels of Observation Post No. 7. His brow furrowed deeply, his mind filled with immense confusion.
When he had encountered these humanoid creatures in the depths of the observation post, their strength had surpassed ordinary humans, and their movements had been swifter, but they had never been as terrifying as this.
At that time, they had seemed like beasts hunting by instinct, never displaying such a terrifying ability to condense energy and shape it into attacks.
But—
The brief yet fierce battle he had just experienced was etched in his memory.
The crimson energy blades and whips that the enemies had conjured with a wave of their hands were clearly made of highly refined Battle Qi.
The fact that they could shape Battle Qi into various weapon forms was a clear sign of having mastered this energy to a certain level.
Yet the contradiction remained: Roland's Source Law Engine, with its keen perception, could confirm with absolute certainty that these enemies showed no trace of cultivating the Knight's Breathing Technique.
Their energy circulation systems were completely different from those of the breathing technique.
So, where did this Battle Qi, comparable to that of a high knight, come from?
Moreover—
What troubled Roland most was the faint yet undeniable aura of dragon bloodline within them.
"Dragonborn? And a whole group of them?"
The thought seemed absurd even to him.
In his experience and understanding, true dragonborn were exceedingly rare and precious.
He himself had obtained the dragon's blessing through a series of near-death experiences.
Even powerful figures like Mr. Graham achieved their "dragon transformation" through external means, lacking any genuine Dragon Blood heritage.
Throughout his travels, he had never encountered another naturally born dragonborn.
This alone demonstrated how rare it was to possess a pure dragon bloodline.
How could he, upon setting foot on Aetheron, immediately encounter so many beings wielding draconic power?
"Could it be... that the mastermind behind creating these enemies is a dragon itself?"
The speculation arose, only to be dismissed by Roland himself.
Based on the ancient texts he had studied and the semi-legendary, semi-historical sagas of Galvis, true dragons stood at the apex of the world.
Proud and reclusive, they rarely involved themselves in the affairs of mortals, let alone mass-producing such twisted hybrids.
"So... what exactly are these things?"
Just as Roland was lost in thought, trying to make sense of the tangled clues, an ancient, hoarse voice, heavy with exhaustion, slowly spoke beside him.
"They—are called the Ashborn."
Everyone turned to look. It was the old man Roland had questioned at the entrance to Rust Town, now leaning on a twisted metal staff as he shuffled forward, his body trembling.
His clouded eyes swept across the devastated scene and the "devolved" corpses littering the ground. A bone-deep terror flickered in his gaze, but his wrinkled face remained as expressionless as parched earth, a mask of numb stillness.
"No one knows when they first appeared, or where they came from," the old man continued, his voice like a creaky bellows. "It's as if they were born from this land's curse."
His gaze shifted to Roland and his companions, and in his numb eyes, a subtle hint of something akin to pity seemed to flicker.
"Veilbreakers from outside, heed my warning," the old man's voice deepened, carrying an undeniable weight. "The Ashborn have marked you. Once they've set their sights on a target, they will hunt it relentlessly, without rest, until one side is utterly annihilated."
"While you still can, leave Rust Town and this area immediately. If you wait any longer, it might be too late—"
The old man's words echoed like a cold curse across the silent battlefield, where the recently quelled conflict had left behind only survivors. They cast a shadow, thick and suffocating, over the fragile peace.
Hearing the old man's grave words, Roland exchanged a solemn look with Avril beside him.
He stepped forward, his sharp gaze fixed on the emaciated elder. His voice was steady, yet carried an undeniable weight of inquiry.
"Elder, how do you know so much about these... Ashborn?"
The old man's face, as weathered and impassive as a weathered rock, showed no reaction to the unspoken skepticism in Roland's question.
Slowly, he raised his head. His cloudy eyes seemed to pierce through the ruins before him, seeing something distant and bloody in the past.
"I used to live in a place called Redridge Outpost."
His voice rasped like sandpaper.
"Over ten years ago, three Veilbreakers like yourselves came here. They were injured and sought refuge at the outpost. The people in the stockade kindly took them in—"
He paused, his parched throat clicking as he swallowed a bitter memory.
"And then—that night, they came. Just like tonight. They appeared suddenly, silently."
The old man's voice dropped to a near whisper.
"Those three Veilbreakers fought desperately, and every warrior in the outpost joined the fight—it was useless, all of it. They—they cut through them like vegetables. I hid in the abandoned cellar, watching through a crack. I saw everything clearly."
"Besides me, only a few old and weak survivors remained. Every able-bodied person in the stockade—they all died."
Slowly, the old man raised his head, his eyes, which had seen both death and despair, fixed directly on Roland.
"That's why some people say—the Ashborn—are hunting you Veilbreakers. Wherever you go, death follows. In the eyes of many, you—are walking calamities."
As he uttered these final words, the old man seemed to have exhausted all his strength. Ignoring Roland's group, he propped himself up with his twisted metal staff and turned, his body trembling.
He shuffled back into the shadows of Rust Town, leaving behind a hunched and desolate figure.
Roland silently watched the elder's vanishing direction, then slowly surveyed his surroundings.
The Rust Town, momentarily silenced by the fierce battle, now seemed to come back to life.
Rustling sounds emerged from all directions.
Behind the cracked doors of dilapidated houses, through the shattered windows, and amidst the mountains of garbage, pairs of eyes lit up, their glow unusually bright in the dim light.
These eyes no longer held the detached indifference they had before.
Instead, they clearly reflected bone-deep fear, dread of the unknown power, and—
unconcealed, profound loathing for Roland and his companions, the outsiders.
It was as if they weren't the reinforcements who had just repelled the monsters, but the very source of the plague that had brought ruin to this place.
Seeing this, Roland let out a barely perceptible sigh.
He understood their emotions. In this wasteland where survival was paramount, any factor that could invite total annihilation would be treated as an absolute enemy.
Suppressing his complex feelings, Roland swiftly issued orders.
While instructing the shaken grey dwarves to help clear the battlefield, he hurried toward Durga, who was tending to the wounded.
"Durga."
Roland's voice pulled the Gray Dwarf Leader from his focus. "How's the research on that... Magic Net Disturbance Detector progressing?"
His meaning was clear: Rust Town was likely no longer safe.
Seeing several gray dwarves who had been thrown back by the energy blast being helped up by their companions, their faces contorted in pain and their armor dented but clearly not life-threatening, Durga finally relaxed. He withdrew his gaze from his people, brushed the dust from his hands, and stood up. In response to Roland's question, he replied gruffly, "Some progress, yes. That old contraption does have some tricks up its sleeve, but—"
He habitually scratched his braided beard, a flicker of frustration crossing his face as he encountered a technical bottleneck. He then waved toward the Gear Hall. "Hey! Mr. Bronson! Stop tinkering with your gadgets and come explain this to Rudolph!"
Avril, Galvis, and Bronson, who was hurrying over, were all accustomed to Durga calling Roland "Rudolph" and didn't react.
As light footsteps approached, Roland's gaze inevitably turned to Bronson, who had drawn near.
The gaunt scholar's face was pale from lack of sleep and intense research, his clothes stained with grease and dust. Yet his eyes burned with focus and curiosity, showing little fear from the recent attack.
Roland raised an eyebrow, a flicker of sentiment passing through him.
It seems Mr. Bronson has grown considerably.
He clearly remembered their journey from Blackwater Territory to Far Ocean Port, when this same scholar had turned deathly pale and cowered in the corner of the carriage like a startled quail at the mere sight of Roland slaying a few goblins.
Bronson, oblivious to Roland's scrutiny, first waved his hand in front of his nose with a hint of distaste, trying to dispel the acrid mix of gunpowder smoke, blood, and rust lingering in the air. Then, his face lit up with the characteristic enthusiasm of a researcher.
"Roland..." Bronson began, his words tumbling out in a rush. "Using the Magic Net Disturbance Detector, we've mapped the mana distribution and flow patterns across a vast area surrounding Rust Town. We've also successfully calibrated several stable spatial coordinates as reference points."
As he spoke, he pulled a freshly drawn parchment scroll from his robe and quickly unrolled it. The scroll was covered in clear lines and symbols, depicting intricate energy flows and nodes, the ink still fresh.
"But..."
Bronson's tone grew serious.
"Limited by the power of our detection devices, their effective range remains finite, unable to probe the more distant regions. However... we've discovered a crucial phenomenon."
"Recently, although the magic elements in the surrounding areas remain generally stagnant, their flow has exhibited a distinct directional anomaly."
"An anomaly?"
Roland's gaze focused on the parchment scroll.
"Exactly."
Bronson nodded vigorously, pointing to several energy streams marked in bright colors on the map.
"You see, these mana streams, which were once stagnant like dead water, are being slowly but persistently drawn by some force toward a common direction. This convergence isn't chaotic; rather, it exhibits an... indescribable regularity."
"Mr. Durga and I agree that if we can track these anomalous mana streams to their final convergence point, we might be able to detect larger-scale mana patterns using our devices. This could help us locate a stable spatial node that allows us to leave this sealed continent, or at least find an area with relatively normal mana conditions!"
Hearing this deduction, Roland's eyes sharpened. He carefully examined the parchment scroll in Bronson's hand, his gaze slowly tracing the marked mana flow trajectories. His fingers unconsciously followed the lines' paths through the air.
After a moment, his fingers stopped at the northwest edge of the scroll, where several major mana streams converged.
"Northwest, huh?" Roland said slowly, his voice low.
He looked up toward the distant horizon, shrouded by the Skyveil.
In his mind, the ancient Map of Aetheron that Duerden had given him upon their parting clearly materialized.
Considering their position after falling through the Skyveil, they were currently at the southeastern edge of this Lost Continent.
That meant the northwest direction—
If the ancient map was accurate,
Then that direction was precisely the absolute center of this continent, where eternal legends and countless mysteries intertwined. The glorious apex of a lost civilization, mentioned vaguely even in the ancient songs of Galvis...
Silverglow City.
(End of the Chapter)
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