Chapter 80: Chapter 80: The Paladin’s Ambush

The triumphant, brassy echoes of the horn had not yet fully dissipated from the air when an oppressive, suffocating silence suddenly fell over the banks of the Nura River. The birds that had been chirping in a chaotic, joyful chorus only moments ago seemed to reach a silent agreement to vanish. The rustle of the leaves stilled, and even the rushing water of the river seemed to lower its volume, as if the very forest were holding its breath.

Dayat reacted instantly. He reached into his tactical vest and pressed the stop button on the digital music box. The dramatic, swelling piano melody of Indila’s “Love Story” was severed right in the middle of a poignant verse, leaving behind a silence so sharp it felt like a physical weight.

In an eye-blink, Dola was on her feet. She moved with a fluid, pre-programmed grace that bypassed human reaction times, positioning herself directly in front of Dayat. Her hands were curled into tight, controlled fists at her sides. Her electric blue eyes weren’t just glowing; they were pulsing with a staccato rhythm, projecting faint, translucent HUD overlays that only she could see as she performed a 360-degree sweep of the dense undergrowth and the towering, ancient branches above them.

“Master, we are surrounded,” Dola’s voice was a low, urgent whisper. It was devoid of emotion, yet carried a high-frequency vibration of extreme alertness. “High-energy signatures detected in all sectors. Effective engagement distance: fifteen meters. They are closing the perimeter.”

Dayat didn’t draw his weapon. The memory of Lunethra’s warning about drawing “unsealed steel” in Verdia was fresh in his mind. Instead, he stood perfectly still, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He raised his hands slowly, keeping them visible and well away from his tactical pack to signal non-aggression.

Beside him, Kancil, who had been splashing in the water like a carefree child only minutes ago, scrambled onto the muddy bank. His face was ghostly pale, his small frame shivering as he crawled into the shadow of Dayat’s legs, seeking protection.

One by one, the figures began to manifest. They didn’t simply step out from behind the trees; they seemed to coalesce from the environment itself, as if the shadows and leaves were reforming into human shapes. Twelve warriors emerged, forming a perfect circle of steel-less intimidation.

Dayat’s eyes widened as he took in their equipment. They wore armor unlike anything he had ever seen in the industrial catalogs of Brassvale or the heavy smithies of Terragard. It was crafted from Ironwood—a rare, ancient timber found only in the deepest hearts of the Verdia forests. The armor looked organic, its texture revealing fine, shimmering wood grains, yet it possessed the polished, iridescent sheen of high-grade alloy. It was legendary for being harder than granite while remaining as light as dried pine.

In the center of the formation, the brush parted to reveal a rider. He sat atop a Verdant Stag—a gargantuan, majestic deer whose antlers were not just bone, but living wood covered in delicate, glowing white blossoms. The rider wore a sweeping cloak of moss-green silk and a helm carved from a single piece of dark wood that left his face exposed. He was an Elf, his features sharp and weathered, with a jagged scar running down his right cheek that spoke of a thousand battles.

“Halt where you stand, outlanders,” the man’s voice was heavy and resonant, carrying the natural authority of a mountain slide.

He dismounted the stag with the practiced ease of a veteran, his boots making absolutely no sound as they touched the mossy ground. He walked forward, his amber-gold eyes scanning each member of Dayat’s group with a clinical, suspicious intensity. He stopped exactly three meters from Dayat, his hand resting casually but meaningfully on the hilt of a wooden longsword at his hip.

“I am Captain Elian, commander of the Eastern Sector Border Patrol,” he announced, his gaze lingering on the digital gear hanging from Dayat’s belt. “You are standing within a restricted zone without a written writ from the Gatekeepers. And you…”

Elian’s eyes narrowed as they shifted from Dayat to Dola. He tilted his head, his pupils dilating as he attempted to read their internal energies. “The two of you… you are anomalies. The energy currents flowing within your frames… I have never sensed anything like it in all my years of service. It is not Mana, nor is it the natural spirit of the land. It is something… alien. Cold. Are you spies from the Iron City of Brassvale?”

Dayat swallowed hard. He could feel the pin-prick sensation of a dozen arrowheads—likely tipped with paralysis toxins—trained on his vitals from the shadows of the canopy above. He forced himself to maintain eye contact, keeping his voice steady. “We aren’t spies, Captain. We’re refugees. Travelers seeking sanctuary from the chaos of the East.”

Elian didn’t look convinced. He took a deliberate step toward Dola. To his eyes, she was a beautiful human woman. Yet his Paladin instincts, honed by decades of sensing the balance of nature, told him something was profoundly wrong. Dola felt both empty and incredibly dense at the same time.

“And you, Mistress,” Elian said, his voice dropping an octave. “You wear the skin of a human, yet the aura you radiate is… unnatural. It is as if there is a rhythmic, metallic heart beating behind that porcelain flesh.”

Dola didn’t flinch. She met Elian’s gaze with a stare so cold it seemed to drop the ambient temperature of the riverbank. Within her mind, sub-routines were already calculating the trajectory of his sword-arm and the structural weaknesses of his Ironwood armor. She didn’t speak; she simply waited for the first sign of a threat against Dayat.

The tension reached a breaking point. The Paladin archers began to tighten their circle, the creak of wooden bowstrings audible in the silence. Kancil was trembling so hard he was almost vibrating, his small hands bunching Dayat’s trousers into wrinkled heaps.

“Enough, Elian.”

The voice wasn’t loud, but it possessed an inherent, undeniable authority that seemed to command the very air to go still. Lunethra, who had been sitting calmly on the river rock, wringing out her silver hair, finally stood up. She moved with a grace that transcended mere nobility; it was the movement of a force of nature.

As she stepped past Dayat, the atmosphere around them underwent a violent shift. A sudden, massive pressure exploded from her—not a pressure that hurt, but one that felt ancient, pure, and terrifyingly grand. A brilliant, emerald light began to bleed from every strand of her silver hair, and her eyes flared with a radiance that matched the mid-day sun. This was the true Aura of the Verdia Royal House.

Captain Elian’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. He recoiled as if struck, recognizing the unique energy signature instantly. It was the “Nura of Light”—the sacred mana resonance that flowed only within the veins of the Verdia ruling line.

“Y-You…” Elian stammered, his bravado vanishing like smoke in a gale. He dropped to one knee immediately, his wooden sword clattering against the moss. Behind him, every single Paladin—from the archers in the trees to the warriors in the brush—fell into a deep, reverent kneel.

“Princess Lunethra? The Elder Sister of the Queen?” Elian’s voice was barely a whisper now, thick with shock.

Kancil, hearing those words, practically tripped over his own feet. “What?! Big Sis Lunethra… is a Princess?!” he shrieked, his mouth hanging open so wide it looked like it might unhinge. He stared at her as if she had just transformed into a literal golden dragon. He felt a sudden, wave of lightheadedness; he had been eating berries, complaining about his feet, and cracking jokes with someone whose status was higher than the clouds.

Dayat stood frozen. He had known Lunethra was important, but hearing the words “Queen’s Elder Sister” made the reality sink in with a heavy thud. He looked at her—standing there with her chin tilted high, her emerald aura illuminating the forest—and realized she looked like a completely different person from the desperate, fading Elf he had rescued from the Lamenting Woods. Yet, Dayat didn’t bow. He simply felt a strange sense of relief, thinking: Well, that explains why she was so confident about our safety.

Dola, however, showed no surprise. Her processors had likely calculated this probability long ago. Instead, she glanced at Dayat. When she saw the slight spark of awe in Dayat’s eyes as he looked at Lunethra, a strange, new algorithm fired within her circuits—a digital discomfort she could only define as jealousy. She let out a soft, almost imperceptible huff, turning her gaze back to the kneeling Captain as if her Royal title meant nothing.

“Rise, Elian,” Lunethra commanded. Her aura slowly receded, though the weight of her presence remained. “These people are with me. They are my personal guests, and they have saved my life more times than your patrol has walked this border.”

Elian stood up, though his posture remained rigid and his face was a mask of formal tension. “I crave your forgiveness for my insolence, Your Highness. Word of your disappearance had cast a dark shadow over the palace for seasons. However…” He paused, his gaze shifting back to Dayat’s tactical pack. “…laws are laws, even for the guests of royalty.”

Elian pointed a gloved finger at the metallic shapes within Dayat’s gear. “They carry processed industrial metals that emit unstable, artificial energies. Within the borders of Verdia, unsealed industrial iron is a high-grade violation. I must insist that they surrender these objects to be sealed within the Sacred Ironwood Chests for the duration of their journey to the checkpoint.”

Lunethra turned to Dayat, giving him a subtle, almost apologetic nod. It was a silent request for cooperation.

Dayat let out a long, weary sigh. He wasn’t particularly bothered. He knew that as long as he had his “Data” and his mind was intact, he could manifest his arsenal again if things went south. He reached into his bag and pulled out the HK416, the Glock 17, and several other metallic tools, laying them on the grass.

The Paladins brought forward a heavy box carved from dark wood, etched with glowing blue runes designed to dampen energy signatures. Dayat placed his weapons inside. The moment the lid slammed shut, a magical seal flared to life, locking the contents away behind a barrier of Elven sorcery.

“I shall escort you and your guests to The Last Watchpoint for official identity verification,” Elian said, his tone far more respectful, though he still looked at Dayat and Dola as if they were venomous snakes in a flower garden.

Dayat reached down and helped Kancil, who was still in a state of catatonic shock, to his feet. “Come on, Cil. Stop daydreaming. We’ve got a long walk ahead.”

“B-Big Bro… we’re walking with the Queen’s sister…” Kancil whispered, his voice trembling so much it was almost a hum.

Dayat laughed softly, then glanced at Dola. “You okay, Dol?”

“Systems are functioning at nominal capacity, Master,” Dola replied shortly. Her eyes remained fixed on Lunethra’s back as the Princess led the way, walking side-by-side with Captain Elian. Dola’s stare was sharp enough to cut through the Ironwood armor.

As they began their trek through the deepening forest, flanked by the silent, shadowy Paladins, Dayat realized one thing: in Verdia, his technology was a liability, and his status was nothing without a bloodline. The path to the World Tree had only just begun, and he could already feel the complex, thorny web of politics and tradition closing in on them. They were no longer just survivors in a bunker; they were players in a royal game they barely understood.

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