Chapter 598

【 QUEST REGISTRATION 】

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“Your Holiness, is there something wrong with those elven Chosen Ones?”

Noticing the faint crease forming between the High Pontiff’s brows, Tonglu voiced his concern.

The High Pontiff of the National Dwarven Church gave a small, deliberate shake of his head.

“No, not exactly,” he replied, his tone calm yet thoughtful. “I have simply heard a number of peculiar rumors about them, which has stirred my curiosity.”

As he spoke, he slowly raised his gaze toward the statue of Dorft, the God of Dwarves and Forging, that stood in solemn reverence within the temple. His hands tightened slightly around the golden staff he’s holding, its ornate head gleaming faintly in the candlelight.

“It is said that they are a people who embody contradictions… both wicked and virtuous, both chaotic and orderly.”

“Wicked? Virtuous? Orderly? Chaotic?”

Tonglu’s eyes widened slightly at the paradoxical description.

The High Pontiff’s lips curved into a faint smile as he turned to face him.

“It does sound contradictory, does it not?”

“Yet this is precisely the information our church has gathered from all across the continent. Every faction that has had contact with the Elves speaks of them differently, often in ways that are entirely contradictory.”

“There are even rumors that appraisal magic is completely ineffective against them. You simply cannot discern what truly lies in their hearts.”

“However, there is one point on which every faction agrees: the elveb Chosen Ones’ legion is likely the most powerful force currently in Seigües.”

“It is said they are like a raging wildfire sweeping through the wilderness, leaving nothing unburned, or like a legion of undead descending upon the world as a natural disaster, devouring and annihilating all enemies in their path.”

Tonglu’s eyes widened in surprise.

“They are truly that powerful?”

The High Pontiff inclined his head in confirmation.

“Indeed. That is why they interest me so greatly, and why I am equally fascinated by their patron deity, Her Grace the Goddess of Life. The upper echelons of various churches have also taken note, and certain… unusual rumors regarding the Elven Deity have begun to circulate among them. You are a legendary figure yourself, Tonglu, so I imagine you have heard at least some of these rumors.”

Tonglu arched an eyebrow, the memory of hushed voices at the royal court surfacing in his mind—suggestions that the Goddess of Life might be… less than sound in mind.

It was a dangerous thought.

Speaking ill of a true god, even in private, was a grave taboo. Yet human nature, and indeed the nature of all intelligent races, had a curious flaw: the more forbidden a topic, the more irresistible it became to probe and test the limits.

And when it came to the rulers of heaven and earth, there was an almost universal fascination with their private affairs. Rumors and idle gossip spread with remarkable speed, whispered in taverns and behind closed doors, and carried even faster through black market channels. The faithless, in particular, seemed to take a perverse delight in collecting and embellishing such tales.

Blasphemy, however, was another matter entirely.

Having said his piece, the High Pontiff placed the statue of the Goddess of Life, entrusted to him by Tonglu, in a side alcove of the temple.

Offering a bow in the elven manner, he asked,

“Have the elves said when the summoning can begin?”

“They have. In two days.”

“Two days…”

The High Pontiff closed his eyes for a moment in thought, then turned to a nearby attending priest.

“Inform His Majesty the King to gather as many magic stones as possible within the next two days,” the High Pontiff instructed firmly. “The more the better, and place particular priority on high‑quality stones.”

The attending priest bowed deeply in acknowledgment, then withdrew from the chamber in measured steps.

“Magic stones?” Tonglu repeated, a note of puzzlement in his voice.

The High Pontiff turned his gaze toward the statue of the Goddess of Life, its serene features bathed in the soft glow of temple lanterns.

“I have already examined the matter thoroughly,” he explained. “To use this sacred statue as a medium for summoning, the price to be paid seems to be mana. The greater the reserve of mana, the stronger and more complete the summoning will be.”

After a brief pause, his tone deepened into one of solemn authority.

“Go and take your rest for now, Tonglu. Then, when you are ready, return to the sealed lands. In two days’ time, we shall perform the summoning and call forth the Chosen Ones.”

Understanding the gravity of the moment, Tonglu straightened, his expression turning resolute.

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

Leaving the central temple of their kingdom, Tonglu let out a long breath.

The sky was already dimming toward twilight. Nestled deep within the protective embrace of the surrounding mountains, the dwarven capital of Sparksteel City lay bathed in the golden‑red hues of the setting sun, its rooftops catching the fading light like embers in a great forge.

This venerable city, standing since the Silver Era, still bore the marks of its long history. Ancient stone structures weathered by centuries, carvings rough yet dignified in their artistry, and palaces scarred by both time and battle all testified to the resilience of its people.

There had been a time when the city thrived beyond compare, its forges roaring day and night, its markets alive with merchants from every corner of the southern continent. It had been a hub of trade, industry, and culture, the beating heart of Seigües.

Alas that time had long passed. Now it merely stood as the capital of a kingdom in decline, a proud relic slowly fading from the memory of the wider world.

Looking at the sparse number of pedestrians on the streets, Tonglu felt a faint sense of melancholy.

Currently, he was already over one hundred and thirty years old.

Although he was a legendary‑rank expert with at least another century of life ahead of him, being in a race whose average lifespan barely reached a hundred years, he was already considered old—a living relic of another era.

In his memory, even when the dwarven kingdom was in decline, Sparksteel City had been lively. A hundred years ago, the streets were filled with nightly celebrations. People sang and danced, drinking ale with wild abandon, enjoying life to the fullest.

Sadly, those days now only existed in his memories.

With the loosening of the seal on the evil fallen god Barolte, everything had begun to change.

Was it only a little over ten years ago…?

Or had decades already passed?

In truth, the unraveling of the seal had been underway far longer than most realized.

In the early years, the weakening of the seal was subtle, almost imperceptible—like a frog sitting in water slowly brought to a boil, unaware of the danger creeping upon it. But in just the past one or two years, as mana across the world had surged with alarming speed, it had accelerated the collapse of Barolte’s prison.

What had once been a distant, creeping threat now crashed down upon the Dwarven Kingdom like a scalding bucket of boiling water, searing away any lingering illusions of safety.

The friends of Tonglu’s youth had long since been claimed by time, their bodies worn down by age until, one by one, they returned to the eternal embrace of their patron deity.

His disciples and juniors had fared no better. One after another, they had fallen in battle at the sealed lands, their blood spilled to hold back the awakening fallen god.

It was only he, the oldest survivor, who had outlived them all.

Each familiar face that vanished from his side became proof of the Dwarven Kingdom’s further decline. Even Sparksteel City, which had remained vibrant despite the kingdom’s waning years, had now grown desolate. The city’s current state was a clear reflection of the kingdom’s rapid decay.

The effort to reinforce the seal had placed a crushing burden on a kingdom already in decline, pushing it beyond the brink.

Now, it was truly at its limit.

Tonglu gave a small shake of his head, casting aside his heavy thoughts.

He chose not to rest. Taking a deep breath, he made his way toward the sealed lands.

The sealed lands lay hidden beneath the southern mountains, deep within the ancient mining tunnels of the Dwarven kingdom.

Long ago, this subterranean expanse had been a thriving part of the underground. But when Barolte succumbed to the corruption of the Abyss, the entire region became irreversibly tainted. The Dwarves back then, guided by their Patron Deity, had been left with no choice but to seal it away, entombing the blighted place and thus transforming it into what was now known as the ‘sealed lands.’

As Tonglu made his way deeper into the old mines, the number of dwarves he encountered steadily increased.

These were the warriors assigned to guard the entrance to the sealed lands, their duty to hold back any demons that periodically surged from its depths. Yet many of them had, until recently, been ordinary citizens iving quiet lives in Sparksteel City only months before.

A closer look revealed a sobering truth: among their ranks were not only battle‑hardened veterans, but a growing number of the elderly and the very young. Many were even women, their faces resolute despite the weight of the weapons they now carried.

These were people who, in better times, should have never been asked to fight. Alas the seal had to be maintained at all costs, and so they had taken up sword and axe in defense of their homeland.

It was the grim reality of a race in decline.

The warriors lined the sides of the tunnel, their armor dulled from hard use. Some sat with eyes closed, stealing moments of rest where they could. Others drank deeply from battered mugs of ale, the sharp scent of it mingling with the stale air of the tunnels.

The atmosphere was heavy and oppressive, as though the very stone above pressed down upon them. Every movement, every breath seemed weighed with fatigue. They were taking what little rest they could before the inevitable call to arms.

The demons from the sealed lands attacked in waves. Between each assault came only a short reprieve, a fleeting window of calm that the warriors used to recover.

No one spoke.

No one wasted energy on idle chatter.

Each faces around Tonglu bore the same marks of weariness carved deep into their expressions, and a hollow numbness within their eyes.

In hindsight, such result was only natural.

After fighting battle upon battle, watching their fellow comrades fall one by one, yet seeing the seal not strengthen but further weaken and widen with each passing day—what heart could remain unshaken?

In such a grim reality, no spark of resilience could survive for much long.

Just the mere fact that they could still maintain their discipline in the face of such relentless pressure was already a testament to the dwarves sheer resilience and unyielding spirit.

Yet Tonglu could see it plainly.

…This was their limit.

Without outside aid, Tonglu was certain that within a month at most, evil god Barolte would tear through his failing seal and would finally break free.

That day would mark disaster for the dwarves.

Perhaps their race would not be driven to extinction outright, yet the dwarven kingdom which had stood for thousands of years would almost certainly vanish from the maps of the world. Their last homeland would be lost and their people be scattered like embers in the wind. They would likely be forced to seek refuge among other factions, most probably in the human kingdoms, and perhaps even deeper underground.

The faith in Dorft, the God of Dwarves and Forging, would likely suffer a severe blow as well.

No sentient race wishes to become a wandering people without a permanent home.

They, the dwarves were no different.

Even with their mastery of forging, which made them welcome among almost every civilized race, the truth remained the same.

As Tonglu entered the mine, more and more dwarves turned to look at him.

Their eyes lit with recognition.

“It’s Lord Tonglu!”

“Lord Tonglu has returned!”

“Lord Tonglu, they say you went to seek aid. What news do you bring?”

Their gazes held both respect and hope.

As one of the Dwarven Kingdom’s few remaining living legends renowned as the “Sky Knight” and a veteran who had battled the horrors of the sealed lands for decades, Tonglu’s name carried great weight.

Word of his recent summons by the High Pontiff and his mission to seek aid from beyond their borders had already spread among those with an ear for news. Many here knew, or at least guessed, that the fate of their kingdom might well hinge upon what he had accomplished.

Meeting their expectant eyes, Tonglu felt a knot tighten in his chest. Their trust was heavy, a burden he could not shrug aside.

He drew in a deep breath, forcing away the shadows of doubt that threatened to cloud his heart, and let a confident smile touch his lips.

“Rest assured,” he declared, his voice steady, “by the oracle of our god, we have found powerful allies. In two days, they will arrive.”

“Evil can never triumph over justice. In the end, victory will surely be ours.”

His voice rang with determination.

Hearing his words, the nearby dwarves straightened in their seats, their eyes brightening as if a fresh spark had been kindled within them.

For a moment, the oppressive weight hanging over the tunnel seemed much lighter.

I only hope the elves will not disappoint…

Tonglu thought, his gaze sweeping over the faces of his fellow kinsmen, memorizing the flickers of hope that had returned to their eyes.

But even as he let them hold on to that hope, a small thread of unease coiled itself quietly in his heart.

༺⟐༻

In the city of Winterhold, a priest‑class player burst excitedly into a modest room within one of the local inns, nearly throwing the door off its hinges.

“Jasmine! Did you see the announcement? The new update just went live! Battlefield Summoning is finally here!”

Inside, a red‑haired elven warrior sat by the window, her light silver armor gleaming faintly in the afternoon light. She was bent over her work, carefully running a cloth along the edge of a silver‑gleaming blade, the weapon catching flashes of cold light with each motion.

At the sound of the intrusion, she glanced up. The priest, whose in‑game username was Caesar, stood in the doorway grinning from ear to ear, practically vibrating with excitement.

“I saw it, I was just about to tell you myself.”

She was none other than Jasmine Under the Moon, famed across the server as one of the top five players on Elven Kingdom’s combat leaderboard.

Like many few fortunate players who had long since attained Silver rank, Jasmine had already reached level 50, which is the current max-level cap in the game’s present version.

Her in‑game partner, Caesar, had likewise reached level 40. Remarkably, he had achieved level 40 in both the Priest and Druid classes, needing only a Silver‑rank advancement slot to progress further.

Within Elven Kingdom, the Priest class was unique in that it was the sole class capable of adopting a secondary profession.

It is important to note, however, that while a priest could indeed acquire and level a secondary profession independently from their primary class, the combination of the two did not yield a substantial increase in overall power.

At most, this dual progression provided slightly greater mana reserves and a modest selection of additional skills.

Still, even a small boost in mana and skill variety was enough to make most players eager for it, especially when they had already reached the level cap.

It was simply that advancing as a priest required meeting exceptionally high standards, and not every player was capable of achieving them.

For example, Jasmine herself had attempted to qualify for the priest class multiple times without success and had ultimately abandoned the idea altogether.

“Have you signed up yet? If not, would you like to go together? The guild is forming a team right now, and we plan to head to Sandstorm City to register,” Caesar asked.

“You mean to see Thranduil, correct?” Jasmine replied.

“That’s right. We need to speak with him to register for the Seal Beneath the Dwarven Kingdom quest and opt in for participation. When the time comes, we will be summoned directly,” Caesar explained.

Jasmine gave a small nod.

“Give me a moment. I’ll join you once I finish polishing the Blade of Repentance.”

The newly announced battlefield summoning quest, Seal Beneath the Dwarven Kingdom, promised highly valuable rewards.

Rumor had it there was even a chance to obtain a Silver‑rank advancement slot and a voucher for divine artifact restoration.

While Jasmine had no personal need for the first reward, Caesar was in great need of it. As for the second reward, it intrigued her just as much.

She had recently been making frequent forays into the Shattered Divine Kingdom Dungeon, to the point that even the human adventurers from other factions there had already knew her by name. Over the course of these ventures, she had claimed a fair number of damaged artifacts from them.

Her current silver armor was one such prize.

She had been fortunate enough to steal a piece that had sustained only moderate damage, requiring roughly two hundred thousand contribution points to fully restore—a task she had completed long ago.

Once she repaired it, the armor revealed its true name: the Wind Spirit Secret Armor. Along with its restoration came a record of its history. It was originally an elven creation, a mid‑golden‑grade sub‑artifact, said to have once belonged to a god‑blessed ranger.

While it was not the most powerful artifact ever obtained by players, it remained an object of envy to many.

As for why she stole it instead of scavenging it herself…

Well, scavenging was never as fast as stealing it directly from someone else, and besides, fighting for it was half the fun anyway.

The battlefield summoning event required participants to be at least level 40.

After taking care of her remaining tasks, Jasmine wasted no time in joining Caesar and their guild’s main party for the trip to Sandstorm City, where they would seek out Thranduil and register for the quest.

“Geez, they’ve let just one NPC managed it again…sigh, I wonder how long the line will be this time. I heard all the major guilds are flooding Sandstorm City right now,” Caesar muttered as he scanned the quest description while stepping into the teleportation array.

In Elven Kingdom, few things frustrated players more than a highly anticipated quest being managed by just a single NPC.

This was especially true now that the player population had exponentially grown.

Events like this, which drew attention from the entire server, always caused chaos during the initial registration phase. In the worst cases, the crowding became so extreme that the overworked quest‑giver NPC would reach a state of “exhaustion” and collapse on the spot.

While this usually provoked laughter in chat and made for amusing screenshots, it also added a strange sense of realism to the game’s world.

Jasmine, however, merely shook her head.

“Relax. If it’s Thranduil handling it, it probably won’t be that bad.”

Caesar gave her a questioning look.

“Why?”

“You’ll know when you see him. Any female player will understand.” Jasmine’s lips curled into a sly, knowing smile.

The teleportation network made travel quick and seamless.

Their party leapt from Winterhold to Chosen City, then from Chosen City to Mountpeak City, and finally from Mountpeak City to the sprawling desert hub of Sandstorm City.

When they arrived at the registration point, Caesar’s steps slowed. His eyes widened as a surreal scene unfolded before him.

There sat Thranduil, the primordial elf himself, leaning back in a reclining lounge chair as though presiding over some private garden party rather than an important registration. Surrounding him, dozens of female players from various guilds bustled about, cheerfully organizing the lines. Several were even well‑known personalities, recognizable even to casual players like him.

“Don’t push, don’t push. One at a time!”

“If you’re not in a party, form one! Only the party leader needs to register.”

Their voices rang bright and clear, brimming with good‑natured energy.

Behind Thranduil, two strikingly beautiful players attended to him like royal handmaidens, their hands moving with practiced skill as they massaged his shoulders.

Seeing this, Caesar froze.

His mind went blank for a moment.

For the first time in his life, he felt an overwhelming urge to punch an NPC who was supposedly on his side.

Unfortunately, he knew without question that those girls would immediately leap to Thranduil’s defense without hesitation if he chose to do so.

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