Black Hearted Mage

Chapter 332: Lacio 2

The night spread like an inky black, a hazy mist covering the Emerald River. A burly figure galloped across the wet cobblestones of the riverbank, his leather boots thumping dully on the damp path. Moonlight filtered through a gap in the clouds, casting dappled shadows on the sharp-edged face—it was Wrathion, the instructor at the Paladin Training Camp.

Suddenly, he froze. A faint clink of metal armor could be heard from behind the reeds in the distance. By the scent of rosin torches carried by the night wind, he immediately identified it as a standard patrol of twelve men from the Church of Saint Laurent. The old instructor's calloused fingers swiftly unfastened the leather shoulder straps, and the entire suit of steel armor sank into the riverbank mud with a soft click. As the last piece of his linen shirt slipped off, the cross-shaped scar on his neck stood out in the moonlight.

The church members were looking for him everywhere and seemed determined not to let him go. He saw his cabin being demolished and several hounds sniffing at things he had used.

Hidden in the shadow of the boulder, Wrathion produced two potions. He first drank the agility potion, which shimmered with the faint glow of fireflies. As his Adam's apple rolled, he could feel the liquid transform into a thousand icy needles in his veins. Then he bit open the crystal cork of the orange potion, and a familiar burning sensation immediately exploded in his stomach. This was the high-level strength potion, which he had given to his paladins in training for decades.

The river breeze blew his seventy-year-old white hair, and the old instructor's wrinkled eyes twitched slightly. With the strength of Wrathion, the "Anvil," he could easily dispatch this patrol like snapping a dozen reeds. But remembering the inscription on the Paladin's oath tablet: "Thou shalt not swing the sword against comrades," his stout arms finally loosened their grip on the hilt.

As the torchlight faded into the distance, Wrathion's bronze form plunged into the Emerald River like a javelin. The surging waters immediately engulfed the sturdy figure, leaving only a few bubbles to rise to the surface, quickly shattered by the swirling waves. In the moonlight, a dark figure could be seen swimming upstream like a fish, diving towards the other side of the Emerald River.

Ten minutes later, five scouts in pitch-black leather armor, leading three panting hounds, arrived at the banks of the Emerald River. Their armor was smeared with mud, and the soles of their boots were stained with the red clay characteristic of Bitterwater Farm. The bearded scout in the lead kicked hard at the riverside pebbles—this elite tracker had been tricked by Wrathion for quite some time. The cunning Wrathion had deliberately circled the outskirts of Bitterwater Farm, leaving behind his scent and luring them along dozens of miles of winding paths.

Little did they know that Lasio was hiding in the crevice of the riverbank less than 500 yards away from their cabin, watching the training camp through the dense maidenhair fern.

"Send the message to the High Priest."

The middle-aged scout captain removed his leather gloves, revealing the backs of his hands scratched by thorns. "They said Wrathion had no other options and jumped into the river." He squinted at the emerald-colored waves surging across the river. Swaying reeds on the opposite bank were faintly visible in the twilight. The undercurrent in this section of the river harbored whirlpools capable of crushing waterwheels, but for the tough old paladin, crossing the rapids was just a dangerous little game.

As the first rays of sunlight pierced the clouds, Count Caesars was awakened by the rapid banging on his door. As he pulled himself to his feet, the puppy beside his bed merely wagged its tail perfunctorily. If the head maid had knocked on the door, it would have been the courtly rhythm of "dong-dong-dong," never the pounding of a war drum.

"Sean?"

Caesars grabbed the velvet robe embroidered with astrological charts from the foot of the bed, the silk lining rubbing against his left shoulder. The butler's voice, damp with swamp air, pierced the oak door: "My Lord, a visitor calling himself Wrathion stands dripping outside the castle, claiming you killed all his apprentices..."

"That Wrathion across the Emerald River?"

Caesars paused as he fastened his belt. In the morning light filtering through the crystal window, his pupils constricted. Lacio's coming to the Roland Empire was tantamount to betraying the Church of Saint Roland—his name would be on the Roland Church's wanted list, and he would be hunted for the rest of his life.

"That's exactly what he claimed." Sean's voice came from outside the door.

Caesars kicked away the puppy that tried to chew his slippers, and the hem of his magic robe swept across the wine stains left on the floor last night. As the footsteps faded away along the spiral staircase, he said to the puppy that was pulling at the curtains, "You damn dog, you should sleep in the garden tonight. That way, you can keep thieves out!"

Caesars slipped into soft leather boots, their soles making a gentle sound on the castle's stone slabs. He slowly walked through the long corridor and into the spacious living room. The flames in the fireplace danced, dispelling the dampness from the castle. His gaze passed through the living room and fell on the castle gates. Sean stood there with his arms folded, his sharp eyes fixed on Wrathion, watching this uninvited guest change into dry clothes.

Caesars said nothing, simply sitting quietly on the velvet sofa. The puppy that always clung to him immediately came over, rubbing its furry head against his boots and chewing its dried meat with a satisfied crunching sound. Caesars reached out and rubbed its head, but his eyes remained fixed on the door.

Not long after, Wrathion finally arrived, dressed. His rugged face still wore a hint of embarrassment, but his eyes remained defiant. Sean followed him like a shadow, his eyes fixed warily on the rude visitor. Just then, a maid entered with a silver tea set and gently placed a steaming cup of black tea on the table.

Kaisas picked up the teacup, the steam blurring his vision. Through the mist, he looked at the old instructor of the Paladin Training Camp in front of him—Lacio. His temples were already gray, but his burly figure was still as powerful as in his youth.

Caesars put down his teacup, the porcelain clattering against the silver tray, and said, "Wrathion, why on earth have you come to my territory?"

Wrathion wiped the water droplets from his face and replied in a rough voice: "You killed everyone, and I would be dead if I stayed there! The Surao Valley is now a death trap. Where else can I escape to except crossing the Emerald River?" There was some resentment in his voice, but also a hint of helplessness.

"I have good reasons to kill them, but your reasons for coming to me are not so good!"

Caesars's slender fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of the sofa, a hint of amusement flashing in his dark eyes. He looked at the ragged old man in front of him, and his cloudy yet unusually calm eyes made him feel a little uncomfortable.

Wrathion was a little embarrassed, his cracked lips trembling: "I'm at my wit's end now, this reason should be enough!" His calloused hands tightly grasped the crooked oak staff, and his knuckles turned white due to the force.

Caesars rubbed his temples. The old man's soul was as calm as a pool of stagnant water, completely unlike the others who were filled with desire and ambition. He suddenly had a brilliant idea - why not bring that stubborn old man Depero over as well, and let the other old guys torture each other in the castle.

"Okay!" Caesars waved his hand lazily, "I'll give you a job in the future, guard the castle gate for me!" He deliberately said it lightly, but secretly observed Lasio's reaction.

The old wizard's wrinkled face showed no emotion; he simply nodded slightly. Caesars continued, "In a few days, I'll bring Patriarch Depero and his student Barov over, and you can both retire here together!" A mischievous smile played at the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

"That old guy isn't dead yet!"

Wrathion's eyes suddenly opened wide, a long-lost radiance flickering in those cloudy pupils. He grinned and laughed heartily, "I knew it! He was the one who told you about the Surao Valley. He's a Surao too!"

The old man's laughter echoed in the empty living room, a laughter filled with so many complex emotions—relief, nostalgia, and a deeper meaning that Caesar couldn't decipher. Wrathion laughed so hard he collapsed, even crying, as if this sudden news had brought back a long-lost joy.

Under Wrathion's almost hysterical pleading and repeated urging, a slightly shabby carriage creaked out of the castle half an hour later, raising a cloud of dust and galloping towards the Violet Alliance. Wrathion waved his whip frantically, blessing the horse with strength from time to time, as if a demon was chasing him.

"Wrathion, stop! The wheels are about to burn!"

Caesars pounded on the rickety carriage door with such force that the sound threatened to rip his throat. Under the scorching midday sun, the iron and wooden axles of the carriage creaked ominously as they spun frantically. Wisps of green smoke rose from the axles, and faintly visible dark red sparks danced.

The bearded Wrathion turned back to investigate, his face pale with fear—flames were already bursting from the wheels! He hurriedly tightened the reins, and the carriage lurched to a halt on the side of the road with a sharp brake screech. Wrathion frantically pulled out his water bottle, pouring clear water onto the scorching axle with a sizzling sound, sending a white mist rising, and the air suddenly filled with a burning smell.

"Oh my god, Lacio, are you going to fight Depero to the death? This is the first time I've seen someone drive a carriage so hard that it spontaneously combusts!"

Caesars jumped off the carriage, walked quickly to the shade of the oak tree on the side of the road, squinted his eyes and looked into the depths of the woods - the dark red puppy got off the carriage before him and had disappeared long ago.

"I thought it was a carriage with magic steel axles..." Wrathion tugged at his wrinkled linen shorts and scratched his greasy hair anxiously. The carriage couldn't move forward for the time being, at least until the axles completely cooled down and some grease was added to lubricate them.

Caesars leaned against the rough tree trunk, muttering thoughtfully, "It seems that next time I go to Bitterwater Farm, I have to grab a decent luxury carriage."

"Ha!" Wrathion perked up immediately upon hearing this, a cunning glint in his eyes. "We can easily afford eight or ten carriages inlaid with gold and jade, not just three or five!" He spat fiercely on the ground. "Those hypocrites who covet the Pope's throne are nothing but sanctimonious liars! Their storage rings are filled with gold and gems looted from believers!"

As Wrathion spoke, he became more and more excited, and the scar on his face turned red. It was obvious that he had been holding a grudge against the ascetic for a long time.

"Wrathion, how do you tell if an ascetic is genuine? I mean, tell by appearance!"

Caesars posed a question to the old paladin. There were two types of ascetics within the Church of Saint Laurent. One was the Pope's lackey—the Zealot. The other was known as the Gilded, who simply assumed the identity of the ascetics so that after the Pope's death, they could directly participate in the selection of a new Pope and ascend to the pinnacle of power.

"It's easy to identify. The ones with black necks are the mad dogs of the church—the fanatics. Asceticism can also be interpreted as suffering. The fanatics only bathe once a year, and they smell terrible. The ones with white necks are the gilded ones. They bathe almost every day. Although their linen clothes are also worn, their clothes are deliberately made to look old. They are very clean and sometimes even smell of perfume!"

Wrathion leaned against the wheel, his fingertips rhythmically tapping the wooden hub. He squinted at the rising dust in the distance and quickly explained the details to Caesars: "You've got to be careful with the fanatic's storage rings. Those gray iron rings look shabby, not even bothered to carve a pattern. But those upstarts of the Gilders..." He scoffed, pulled out half a piece of dry food from his pocket and began to chew. "They'd love to embed an entire gem mine in their rings, especially those red flame gems with flowing flame patterns—"

Kaisas suddenly interrupted, "If I destroy the Paladin training camp...will the Gilded Ones flee upon hearing the news?"

"Ha!" Wrathion spat out a few crumbs and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Don't take advantage of the fanatics, kid." He suddenly lowered his voice and made a strange gesture with his fingers at his neck. "Those three old monsters living in the cave, if they join forces, even I have to avoid them. Their triangle battle formation..."

He suddenly broke out into a violent coughing fit mid-sentence. After a while, Wrathion continued, panting, "Pay special attention to Edmund's scythe. I heard it's an ancient artifact taken out from the Cursed Vault by a necromancer..." He ripped open his collar, revealing a hideous old wound on his collarbone. "See? Even healing spells can't stop the bleeding from a wound inflicted by this thing!"

Kaisas slowly raised his hand, and a wisp of dark blue fighting spirit condensed from his fingertips, outlining the outline of the weapon in the air. The jagged edge of the blade looked particularly ferocious under the reflection of the fighting spirit, and the cracks on the handle were clearly visible.

"That's not a sickle, Wrathion," he said in a low voice, his gaze icy. "It's a serrated knife with a broken handle. The blade looks as if it's been torn open by something."

The old knight's pupils suddenly contracted, and the wrinkles on his face tightened with shock. "How...how do you know so much?" His voice trembled slightly, and his fingers unconsciously touched the old scar on his collarbone, as if the scar still ached.

"It's Abyssal Iron," Caesars said word by word. "Some also call it 'Abyssal Demon Iron Ore'. This material... carries a strange energy!"

Wrathion's breathing quickened, and a trace of sweat formed on his forehead. "That's why my body protection spell..."

"That's right." Kaisas interrupted coldly, "The evil iron will cut through energy. Whether it's fighting spirit, magic, or body protection, they are as fragile as paper in front of it. Those who are not strong enough to use it will eventually be killed by it bit by bit!"