Chapter 42: A Hasty War
A few hours earlier in the city of Red Bell, Sven Quincy stood atop one of the archery towers on the city walls. Around him stood several Arcane Masters specialized in archery, clad in lighter armor than the rest of the soldiers and wielding massive bows crafted from sturdy, flexible wood and strung with powerful beast tendons. The archers’ eyes differed from those of ordinary soldiers—sharp and hawk-like, enabling them to discern minute details of the enemy camp despite the distance.
Sven stood with the pride and arrogance of a crowned prince, his hand resting on his sword, exuding an intense aura. Despite his youth and lack of experience, his power surpassed most of the soldiers around him—not due to talent, but because of the abundant resources and unwavering support from his father. In truth, the early stages of the Path Unfolding realm were simple, and anyone could reach its peak swiftly with sufficient resources.
Even Sollivan had taken less than a year in the past to reach the peak of the early stage, whereas Sven had required nearly two due to his lack of dedication. Though he had been stuck at the early stage for three years, he was now a hair’s breadth away from the intermediate stage and could break through at any moment. However, unlike the early stage, advancing to the intermediate required genuine talent. Even with ample resources, breaking into the late stage was far from guaranteed—unless one possessed considerable wealth and was willing to spend it on exceedingly rare materials.
Before the war between the empires erupted, the number of Arcane Masters in the early stage of the Path Unfolding realm had been vast. Even among commoners and the poor, nearly every family had at least one Arcane Master, not to mention the multitude of trainees in the later stages of the Body Strengthening realm.
But the war had been brutal and chaotic from the outset. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers fought, with tens of thousands perishing and many survivors left permanently disabled, their power diminished. As conditions worsened—prices soared, wages plummeted—commoners and the poor found it nearly impossible to advance. Even after the situation stabilized somewhat, border states like theirs continued to suffer from neglect.
A heavy gust of wind swept through, carrying thick humidity that foretold an impending downpour. Sven’s hair fluttered, yet his gaze remained fixed on the enemy camp ahead. Despite his composed exterior, his mind was anything but calm, plagued by doubts, ’What is the Cold Sun Army truly after? Surely this isn’t just to prevent us from reaching the ancient vault. Do they know something we don’t? Does the vault hold a powerful treasure or a rare cultivation resource?’ Lost in thought, he failed to notice the strange expressions that had simultaneously crossed the faces of the archers around him.
After minutes of silence, one soldier muttered suspiciously, "Did you see what I just saw?"
The words snapped Sven out of his thoughts. He squinted at the enemy camp but noticed nothing unusual—his vision wasn’t sharp enough to discern fine details. "What are you talking about?" he asked skeptically.
One of the archers pointed to a specific part of the forest. "There’s strange movement in the woods around their camp. The density of the trees obscures it, but something’s off."
"I saw it too," another confirmed.
"Probably just beasts—maybe a small pack of predators," a third suggested.
Sven narrowed his eyes. After a brief pause, he said, "No need to overthink it. Keep watching and don’t miss a thing."