Chapter 119: Lagrun
The initial excavation of the Leyndell aqueducts wove its first lines into the stone during the fourth winter of the Golden Calendar, steadily dropping deeper into the earth across the subsequent decade as the grand municipal footprint of the Golden Royal Capital expanded. By the watch the unfortunate Children of the Omen were systematically driven past the iron grates to face their permanent exile sixteen winters past, the labyrinth had completely swelled into a bottomless, pitch-black world entirely isolated from the sun.
The master designers who drafted the blueprints comprised the premier high scholars ruling the earliest seasons of the Golden Dynasty, while the manual labor was executed by legions of Misbegotten artisans—servants who functioned as the primary structural force driving the territorial expansion of the empire across that identical epoch. In the final accounting, more than half of the academic vanguard tracked the banners of the First King Godfrey during his historic southern march to Limgrave, ultimately sharing his exile across the Sea of Fog, while the non-human craftsmen mutated into immediate casualties of the ideological purges separating the old and new ministries, vanishing entirely into the dust of historical memory.
These complex, fractured historical reasons directly generated a total lack of geographical data among the modern surface citizens regarding the underworld bridging their cellars. Although the contemporary nobility had engineered a sequence of specialized transit shafts and scrying crystal networks based around the perimeters of their respective arena estates, their libraries remained completely blind concerning the core territories inhabited by the Omen tribes and the deeper basements fracturing the waterways.
To facilitate the basic management of the Battle Festival, the Arena Association had simply partitioned the map into thirty-two arbitrary operational sectors, dictating the protocol that the closer an operator's boots drew to the geographic core, the higher the numerical designation marked the scroll.
The absolute central quadrants, spanning from District Twenty-Nine through Thirty-Two, constituted the sovereign territory of the Omen outcasts. This vast sector commanded a geometric mass that roughly balanced the total structural weight of the entire outer perimeter combined. Due to the absolute absence of a single scrying crystal sphere covering the rafters, this dark wilderness operated as a total blind spot to the monitors above—and as the winters turned, the quadrant naturally transformed into a forbidden zone across the calculations of every participating tournament squad.
Having smoothly bypassed the borders of District Twenty-Five where the Duolis vanguard was actively executing its deployment, Lucia and his companions expended an additional four hours traversing the pitch-black tunnels to safely clear the perimeter, arriving at the precise rendezvous point they had locked down with the Morgott and Mohg brotherhood. The location defined an abandoned iron storage warehouse anchoring the absolute border dividing Districts Twenty-Eight and Twenty-Nine. Mohg had deliberately wove his strength across the sector to smash every adjacent luminescent stone fixture, completely burying the sanctuary within a thick shroud of undisturbed shadow.
"Lucia... over to this flank." Sensing the familiar, deep vibration of draconic mana clearing the tunnel, Mohg waved his massive, horn-ribbed gauntlet from the darkness of the warehouse threshold, his gravelly voice dropping into a low whisper.
Retracing Mohg's tracking lines, the three demigod combatants executed a fluid, silent leap to conquer the high stone platform fronting the warehouse doors. The exact watch their boots cleared the entryway, their eyes isolated the silhouette of Morgott sitting cross-legged upon the bare flags, slowly, methodically running a whetstone along the cutting edge of his gnarled iron cane. The gnarled, bark-like sheath covering the weapon had been partially peeled back, un-veiling a vibrant, multi-colored, and curved hidden blade inside that released a freezing, razor-sharp luster beneath the dark.
The interior housed absolute zero domestic furniture, enclosing merely a small handful of rough straw mats casually scattered across the stone. Monitoring Lucia's arrival as promised, the Omen King rose slowly to his full, imposing height, his long arm executing a calm gesture to invite the trio to settle their armor. "My outriders have finalized the defensive loops across the domestic sectors. The civilian population remains securely hidden within the monumental structural basements anchoring the heart of the settlement, with strictly a minor vanguard of armed sentries patrolling the perimeter to watch the lines. Disclose the immediate data points formatting the outer channels."
"Rolo cleared the valves to manifest his steel within District Twenty-Four a single hour past," Lucia reported, his silver helm tilting as his voice emerged flat. "Across the span of a solitary night watch, his blade has already liquidated two independent mercenary warbands and systematically slaughtered ninety-six captive Icefield Trolls, completely out-registering the accumulation velocity of the Duolis squad to claim the absolute summit of the tournament leaderboard."
Knight Kristoff stepped parallel to the table, adding a critical update to the brief. "Furthermore, our tracking lines brushed past the outer perimeter of the Duolis warband just as their vanguard was pressing toward the borders of District Twenty-Four. Evaluating the direction driving their heels, the probability scores at a near-certainty that their front will execute a direct, head-on collision against the Perfumer within the hour."
"The monster is actively hunting the heir of Duolis," Lucia analyzed, a cold shake weaving through his silver hair. "Carlyle's strategy will undoubtedly demand his steel to manually avoid an intersection unless the absolute collapse of his line forces the melee, but Rolo's mind operates under zero structural restrictions of that nature. For an executioner of his classification, finalizing Osarion's proxy contract ahead of schedule simply signifies the arrival of the hour where his consciousness can truly begin to comfortably enjoy the act of slaughter."
"According to the scrying data my hand intercepted along the transit lanes utilizing the Carian badge, Rolo's operational path displays a massive, highly precise overlap tracking parallel to the Duolis movement grid, and the physical distance dividing their blades is continuously, rapidly compressing—it registers as an absolute certainty that the mad dog has wove his focus onto their blood."
"Permit their steel to execute the initial opening play," Radahn stated smoothly, drawing a heavy silk cloth across the massive, dark iron faces of his broad Starscourge greatswords. "The retainers of Duolis do not define a collection of fragile weaklings who will scatter before a bark. Whichever broken survivor remains standing upon the sand when their friction hits its baseline... will constitute the solitary target our vanguard liquidates."
Meanwhile, exactly twenty leagues removed across the cold gloom of District Twenty-Seven, Sir Lagrun—the elite scout commanding Carlyle's reconnaissance operations—sat silently crouched atop a massive, ruined stone roof beam, his breath arrested as his eyes audited the movements of a massive giant-blooded host numbering up to twenty Icefield Trolls below.
Although these colossal Mountain Demons still managed to loosely preserve the baseline concept of a unified warband on a temporary, reactionary framework, their actual biological behavior verified a total, absolute destruction of their cognitive faculties; their frames operated strictly on the lowest loops of primal instinct.
Their immense, copper-bell eyes had completely ruptured into sheets of bloodshot crimson, and a terrifying, rabid light flashed deep within their pupils. They were desperately, frantically scouring the current of the aqueducts to isolate any edible target class—ravenous sewer lobsters, massive alpha crabs, or even any passing mercenary warband unfortunate enough to cross their tracking path. These ancient descendants of the Fire Giants, having completely entered a status of permanent madness, recorded zero desires beyond the immediate, un-monitored liquidation of every living soul crossing their front—strictly to balance the uncontrollable hunger and excruciating neurological pain tearing at their marrow.
Operating as one of the primary architects behind their mobilization, Lagrun's intellect possessed a perfect comprehension of the hidden history driving their mutation. Duke Duolis had not merely implemented the standard imperial punishment procedures to gouge out the Eye of the Evil God from their abdomens to freeze their internal heat; during their weeks locked inside the mountain iron holdings, his agents had simultaneously cast a volatile, forbidden secret incantation harvested directly from the sanctuaries of the heretical Flame Cultists.
This forbidden methodology wove an alignment chasing a solitary strategic goal—to forcefully, systematically agitate every remaining drop of primordial fire power clutched within the giants' bone marrow, consciously expending the absolute totality of their residual vigor strictly to fracture the golden Erdtree seals bound to their anatomy.
Following a full moon of the secret incantation eroding their systems, the sacred seals anchoring these 1,700 Icefield Trolls had suffered varying degrees of catastrophic structural loosening, driving their vital readouts to the literal precipice of absolute cellular death. Yet, this horrific process had concurrently awakened a minor, highly volatile fraction of the ancient Fell God's dormant majesty within their blood—transmuting their physical chassis into a class of monster that scored multiple tiers more dangerous, feral, and ferocious than any giant recorded across the border wars.
"Hehehe... does this specific visual perspective define the precise expression an artist's eyes map when quietly gazing upon the majesty of his own masterpiece?"
A dry, hoarse, and thoroughly unpleasant hiss of a chuckle suddenly resonated from the absolute void directly behind his spine.
Sir Lagrun's heart violently contracted, a bone-chilling cold exploding straight through his nervous system. Operating on the altitude of a veteran, Hero-level combat master, his internal senses decoded the terrifying reality proving that every single strand of his personal aura had been perfectly, flawlessly locked onto by the shadow entity anchoring his rear. The skin covering his neck and lumbar felt completely frozen. If his muscle memory executed a single rash, un-optimized counter-movement across the space, his life readouts would hit absolute zero before his fingers could even grasp the pommel of his short-swords!
"My cleaver parsed the data lines the exact watch our steel liquidated the premier Mountain Demon across the upper quadrant," Rolo spoke from the dark, a low, grinning rasp formatting his teeth. "Awakening the heretical embers of the Fell God strictly to execute a high-fatality erosion against the sacred Golden Seal... that calculation maps directly to the handwriting of some rogue Flame Archbishop patrolling the northern peaks, does it not? Detail the dividend, mortal: what specific strategic asset does your house stable chase by unleashing over a thousand mad abominations into these drainage slots? Does your duke truly harbor the empty hope that these monsters will completely wipe out the census of the tournament contestants?"
Lagrun silently, meticulously re-aligned the motor control pathways governing his skeletal muscles, his tongue tentatively releasing a cautious query across the beam. "If my mouth un-rolls the absolute truth of the ledger... does your steel preserve the mercy to spare my life readouts?"
"An absolute certainty!" Rolo answered with a soft, accommodating purr, his gauntlets smoothly sheathing his twin horn-ribbed great-cleavers back into their heavy leather harnesses, intentionally extending his palms into the light to display his empty fingers. He advanced two slow, rhythmic bounds forward across the wood. "If your tongue delivers the un-veiled reality of the conspiracy, my honor can not strictly authorize your boots to clear this beam free of friction, but my blade will personally guarantee your frame safely clears the exit valves at the dawn watch."
Lagrun let out a long, heavy breath, his shoulders dropping as his posture relaxed. "The strategy wove its lines to reinforce the—"
The exact microsecond the introductory syllable cleared his teeth, a blinding arc of cold silver light violently erupted from the absolute interior of Rolo's left sleeve. A razor-sharp, palm-length sacrificial dagger materialized within his fingers like a striking viper, slicing through the air along a magnificent, circular path targeting the scout's jugular!
RIP—!
The unmistakable physical sensation of steel tearing through deep muscle tissue resonated across the dark beam. Yet, instead of generating the expected spray of arterial crimson, the wounded flesh violently exploded into a massive, expanding cloud of dense black smoke that cascaded in all directions. Rolo's dagger wove through the vapor to harvest a minor trickle of blood, but his tracking instantly lost the geometric coordinates required to execute a follow-up execution sweep.
A hundred paces removed across the high masonry scaffolding, Lagrun's silhouette re-materialized, his sprinting velocity scoring at such a breakneck, law-breaking speed that his frame appeared as nothing more than a blurry, shifting afterimage as he violently hurtled away into the deeper culverts!
"The forbidden, shadow-bound combat methodologies born across the Land of the Reeds, eh? Heh... truly the ultimate, text-perfect framework engineered for sewer rats to execute their flight!"
The sudden flash of genuine surprise mapping Rolo's mutated, lip-shrunken countenance lasted for a solitary tick of the clock before completely evaporating, replaced by a cruel, blood-soaked, and ecstatic smile that bared his deformed gums to the dark.
"But the borders of this stone cage enclose merely a finite parameter, little rat... trace the map for my amusement: where else can your boots possibly run across my watch?"
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