Kingdom Bloodline

Chapter 200 Encounter
The elf calmly gazed into Kaslan's eyes, sensing the faint presence in the void, just as he had countless times before.

Based on experience, she would first read fragments and images mixed in with countless impurities, like a river bursting forth, carrying mud and sand, murky and unclear.

A fraction of a second later, these seemingly random fragments will converge around a clear and logically coherent clue, driven by a powerful rhythm—depending on the mental state of the person being read—and be systematically filtered into a recognizable consciousness.

Throughout the endless years of the past, she had always been able to read the thoughts of others with such speed and precision: the strength of warriors, the weakness of cowards, the scheming of kings, the wickedness of nobles, the greed of merchants, and the depravity of priests.

Of course, in very rare cases, this tried-and-true method may fail.

Such as now.

Ada frowned slightly as she watched Kaslan swing his spear.

All she felt was murderous intent.

Boundless, deep killing intent.

Kaslan's eyes were filled with an unreadable expression. His spear twirled in the air, and the tip of the spear even created afterimages in an instant.

call!
The gun was right in front of him.

The only thing emanating from the void was pure killing intent.

Eda spread her arms like a bird, lowered her knees, arched her back, and tilted her head back incredulously.

The black tip of the Soul-Slaying Spear sliced ​​through the air, barely grazing Ada's chin.

The next second, the elf's silver pupils narrowed slightly, and its body swayed to the side, just avoiding the spearhead. Its whole body sprang back to its original position like a longbow drawn to its limit.

Her bright white hair swung through the air, creating a breathtakingly beautiful effect. Together with her body, which was bent and stretched to its limit, they formed a powerful and dynamic image.
Ada rolled to the side, creating a safe distance between herself and her opponent.

Kaslan retrieved his spear and stared at her coldly.

Ada sighed silently to herself.

Even though Lu Hun had pushed her to the brink of life and death several times, what Ada received from beginning to end was the purest killing intent.

There is not a single, definite thought, behavior, or attitude.

It is completely different from the previous Kaslan.

Even the simplest birds, beasts, insects, and snakes should have a clear sense of self-awareness and consciousness.

The elf focused her gaze on the tip of her opponent's spear, decisively cutting off wave after wave of incoming fragments of consciousness—she knew that they contained only pure, unadulterated killing intent, nothing else.

This is a guy who can completely control his own consciousness, eliminating all thoughts and intentions in battle, letting go of himself completely, and surrendering to the instinct to fight.

This rendered her superpowers completely useless.

Ada swung her knife in a serious flourish, adjusting the distance between her feet.

Only one condition can create such a warrior—Ada thought silently, gazing at the expressionless Kaslan.

battlefield.

It's not the kind of quick war that involves sneak attacks, raids, pursuits, and annihilation.

Rather, it was the kind of bloody battles and hard-fought engagements that accumulated amidst chaos and carnage.

The boundless battlefield, the constant fighting, the ever-present threats, the dangers from all sides, the endless bloodshed, the enemy breaking through one layer after another—this torturous hell can grind normal people into beasts who only know how to fight and survive, and can forge the most powerful and incomparable killing tools after warriors have gone mad with bloodlust.

Over the years, she had encountered similar opponents before.

Ada gently closed her eyes.

it's time.

Abandon all superfluous abilities and burdens, and face a most primal battle.

Like her ancestors and predecessors.

The words of my elder sister from my childhood training days echoed in my ears, as clear as ever.

“Eda, remember this: as elves, we love beauty and nature.”

Beneath the bright, dazzling sacred tree, the eldest sister spoke with unusual seriousness, carrying the authority of her father—although Ada had only sensed her father's consciousness for a hundred years before her birth, she had never heard his voice in person.

“But elves are never weak and easily bullied.” The elder sister, with her hands behind her back, faced her trembling daughter and said calmly:
"We are heretics of the ancient Elf Kingdom, but also their most powerful descendant branch."

"We are the most warlike and skilled warriors among all the remaining elven bloodlines in this world..."

"Holy Elf".

The eldest sister's expression turned serious, and she turned to make way for him.

She gave way to the three prisoners who were bound hand and foot behind her.

They were three round-eared, trembling, and extremely anxious humans: one had a shaved head with only a ring of hair in the middle, making him look like a rooster; another had thick oil on his hair; and the third was even bald. They were all speaking to them in a human language.

The rooster was very ugly, while Houyou wasn't so ugly, and he was bald. He was—good heavens, he made her want to vomit.

“Ada, according to tradition,” Ada remembered her elder sister’s words, the expressions of the three humans struggling desperately, and the cold smile on her elder sister’s lips: “Raise your knife.”

"Cut off their heads."

"Complete your coming-of-age ceremony."

Ada opened her eyes; the elf's extraordinary memory allowed her to recall every detail of her memories clearly.

The combat techniques she had once mastered but gradually lost after relying on her superpowers have returned to her body.

She gripped her scimitar tightly and charged toward Kaslan.

----

He was very thirsty.

My throat feels like it's on fire.

The same dry tongue rubbed against his teeth, giving him a strange frictional sensation, like coarse cloth rubbing against logs.

He lay panting on the scorching sand, using the dunes for cover, to escape the deadly dangers—the sun, the raging sand, and the enemy.

He unconsciously tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword: even his family heirloom sword was covered in dust and bloodstains.

I'm so tired, and it hurts so much.

He moved his swollen and sore wrists, feeling the burning pain in his shoulder, and gritted his teeth to persevere.

Damn it, that gray bastard's chain hammer has barbs on it.

Of course, compared to his Captain Wanda, whose strength was above the Super Rank, he was already very lucky—part of the Captain's brains were probably still on that chain hammer head.

It's just a pity for Captain Wanda's sweetheart, who is still waiting for him in Wing Fort. I heard that the captain once risked everything to save her from the bandits.

Pity.

He sighed inwardly.

The pain came again.

He loosened his armor, which was burning hot from the heat, and pulled open his sticky collar, which was covered in sweat and blood.

Anyway, he needed to treat the injury—that's what he thought.

A kettle flew through the air and fell into the sand beside him, creating a dent.

He turned his head in confusion.

“Use this cheap Chaka liquor that even hyenas won’t drink. I bribed the quartermaster with it,” said an old soldier with a bandage wrapped around his left eye, leaning casually against a sand dune. With his unbandaged hand, he laboriously pulled out a flint and skillfully lit the homemade cigarette he was holding in his mouth. “As long as you don’t drink it, it’s not bad for rinsing wounds.”

"Thank you." His mind blank, he rolled over, panting as he grabbed the wine jug and struggled to twist it open.

The veteran finally lit the thick cigarette in his mouth, and without hesitation, he threw away the flint in his hand.

As a puff of smoke drifted out, the veteran took a deep breath, groaned with pleasure, and then stretched out his bloodied hand to slap the cigarette butt off, burying it in the sand—to a scout with eyes sharper than a vulture, even the smallest puff of smoke could attract attention.

“We don’t talk about this around here.” The old soldier buried his face in the sand and exhaled a single puff of smoke comfortably.

He gritted his teeth, staring at the chaka liquor reflecting the sunlight in the kettle, rubbing his dry, cracked lips, suppressing the urge to drink, and looked up to ask, "What?"

“We don’t say ‘thank you’,” the veteran said, turning over and slapping away the elbow that was taking up some space beside him. “It’s too mushy.”

He looked at the water bottle in his hand, then at the gruesome wound on his shoulder, hesitated, and sighed.

It passed quickly.

Just bear with it.

“Okay,” he opened his mouth, bit the kettle lid into his mouth, took three deep breaths, and mumbled softly, “Then—consider it a debt I owe you.”

The next second, he closed his eyes tightly, and the wine in the kettle poured out.

The excruciating pain in my shoulder surged forth like an endless fire, accompanied by a searing heat.

He trembled, heard himself groan, and felt the kettle lid in his mouth slowly deform.

Finally, the pain subsided.

He spat out the kettle lid, his brow beaded with sweat, and shakily reached out to tear at his clothes, bandaging himself as the captain had taught him.

The veteran watching all this sneered.

"Ha, to die alongside a young nobleman," the old soldier chuckled sarcastically, "I never thought I'd be so lucky."

He ignored the veteran's words.

From the very first day he arrived in the Western Wilderness and at the Baki camp, he had to endure such intentional or unintentional, deliberate or malicious ridicule and mockery.

got used to.

"Is that so?" he said calmly, pulling the lever one last time.

“No wonder you were assigned such a good guard right away,” the veteran said, stretching his hands. “In another year or two, you might become a commander—or at least a captain.”

He snorted softly. "Too bad luck, rookie." The veteran shook his head.

He felt a little annoyed, even though he was grateful for the help the veteran had just given him.

“We’ve all had bad luck,” he decided to end the conversation, so he looked up at the dozen or so soldiers resting under the same sand dunes, most of them wounded and looking miserable, and frowned, “Are these the ones who survived?”

“Of course not,” the veteran said, his face grim. “Some were captured and their fate was worse than death—I heard the bastards are short of food, while the barbarians are short of men.”

food.

He recalled the human skulls strung together in the abandoned camp, and fought back nausea: "A lack of men?"

“The tribes of the Wildlings are short of manpower, but don’t get me wrong,” the old soldier sneered, “they will give you a drug that will keep your penis hard until they run out of it, or until you die—usually, you die before they run out of it.”

He glanced at the veteran's meaningful gaze, sighed, and stopped thinking about the matter.

"Why are you so desperate?" the old soldier's voice came again. "Why did you come here to die like a fool, coming from your comfortable manor and castle?"

Oh my goodness.

Really annoying.

He thought irritably.

But just then, the other party gave him that flask of wine.

Feeling the much better shoulder, his eyes dimmed: Yes, why couldn't I think straight?

In that instant, he suddenly missed his home in the Vora territory territories terribly.

That ancient castle, full of forbidden doors and locks.

That lifeless manor.

He wished he could grab one of the two nagging sisters and throw them away, and also that stern-faced old man.

He gave a wry smile.

“At least,” he sighed, pressing the back of his head against the scorching sand, “here I can freely choose how I die.”

The veteran watched him quietly, then suddenly let out a sneer.

“You should stay in those comfortable manors,” the old soldier shook his head. “Everything here is so unfair to you, young master.”

A surge of resentment and indignation welled up within him.

He turned his head and sighed, "It's not fair. Then what about you? Why did you come to the Western Wilderness? Why did you come to this hell?"

The veteran was slightly taken aback.

“Me? Ha,” the old soldier squinted, seemingly recalling a distant past, his voice weary and weathered: “For someone like me who should have died long ago, trading my life for the gray bastards…”

"There is nothing fairer than this."

He listened to the veteran's words without saying a word.

After a long while, he finally sighed.

"Hey, new recruit," the veteran said wistfully, gazing at the sky, "I'll remember that."

"There is no glory on the battlefield," the veteran exhaled slowly, "only life and death."

"Honor doesn't belong to the pawns," he saw the old soldier's eyes filled with reminiscence, and heard the old soldier murmur:
"It belongs only to the chess players."

He tightened his grip on the sword in his hand.

That is the glory that belongs to Karabyan.

At least it was a glorious past.

It's past three o'clock.

But reinforcements have not yet arrived.

and so……

"When will the next wave of pursuit begin?" He looked at the sky, and despair welled up in his heart.

"It'll be soon," the veteran said dismissively. "The heat won't stop those gray bastards."

"We will all die here."

The next moment, a dark figure appeared on the distant horizon.

It was a massive figure dressed in ugly armor, carrying a chain hammer that looked incredibly familiar to him.

Chain hammer.

That chain hammer.

The captain's brains were still on it.

A sense of dread washed over him: Captain Wanda's half-dead head seemed to be smiling at him right before his eyes.

The terrifying, enormous figure charged toward them with heavy yet swift steps.

boom! boom! boom!
Each step kicked up countless grains of sand.

Its chain hammer swung out.

He instinctively struggled to sit up, and all he could see were stars.

A sharp pain shot through my right arm.

He spoke instinctively.

"Enemy!" he gasped, shouting haltingly, "Enemy attack!"

"Orcs!" Cohen Karabyan roared as he sat up in the darkness and excruciating pain, instinctively shouting with all his might, "The Grey Bastards are here!"

But this time, he was not met with harsh insults or foul curses.

Only the cold, grinding sound of iron chains and its own echo could be heard.

There was also the relentless, excruciating pain in my right arm.

The guard was panting heavily, his heart pounding in his chest.

There is no desert.

There was no scorching sun.

There are no gray hybrids.

No...those battles.

Cohen, who was jolted awake from a nightmare, suddenly realized that what he smelled in his nose was a thick smell of lamp oil, rather than the dry smell unique to the desert.

He then realized that he was not on the dangerous front line of the Western Wilderness.

The guard shook his heavy head violently, took a couple of breaths, and pulled himself back to his senses.

Oh my goodness.

"Wake up, Cohen, watch your right arm..."

That's Miranda's voice; it sounds weak and listless.

Despite the excruciating pain and covered in cold sweat, Cohen was shocked to discover that his upper body was tightly bound by a ring of iron chains, even his fingers were tied up.

Unable to move.

Where are we?

Cohen turned around and, unsurprisingly, saw Miranda locked up in the dimly lit cell opposite him. He exclaimed, "Where's Kaslan!"

“I don’t know,” the female swordswoman said, revealing half of her haggard and disheveled face. “It seems to be very close to Valhalla.”

“Shut up, Imperial,” a patrol-looking soldier outside the cell turned around and said coldly to Cohen, “Say one more word and I’ll knock your jaw off too.”

Cohen and Miranda exchanged a glance, and the latter shook her head slightly at him.

There were at least six guards in the cell alone.

The guard flexed his ankle, which was also locked, and concluded that he had no chance.

Cohen sighed and fell back to the ground.

Just then, a thick iron door in the distance was opened.

Light leaked in from the open door.

Cohen looked up, squinting to adjust to the sudden change in light: another group of soldiers was escorting two small figures into the cell.

“Keep an eye on them,” a tall, armored knight at the head of the group coldly ordered the soldiers in the cell. “This is one of the Grand Duke’s most important prisoners.”

Cohen frowned.

The most important prisoner?
Just then, a young voice came from the cell next to Cohen's.

"You, it's you?"

The boy who resembled the Sword of Calamity, under Cohen's astonished gaze, struggled desperately to the cell door and, facing the two equally astonished small figures, cried out in a voice filled with excitement and pain:
"Your Highness Thales?"

In Cohen's almost blank stare, the second prince of the Star Kingdom, Thales Star, whom he had met once in the Hall of Stars, was being led into this cell with his hands tied behind his back, along with a little girl.

The prince, looking disheveled and surprised, looked up at the person who had spoken:
"Wyman?"

Thank you to reader Maoshan Linlin for the 10000 Qidian Coins reward this week! Haha, I've received another 10,000 coins! Thank you to Storm Cloak Soldier and Du Erhu San for the 2000 coins! Thank you to PanWangbo for the 1000 Qidian Coins, and also to alexxbobo, Sao-san, Leyun, Liangcha Jun (whose name is already registered), and Kengbixiao for the 500 Qidian Coins!
Oh, and there's also the Genesis Station, and the 1888 book coins of Tordan VII!

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(End of this chapter)