Azure Scepter

A gentle afternoon breeze swept through the mountain mists, and the faint coolness on his nose reminded him of playing with his spouse a long, long time ago. How long ago was that?

Aurelius shook his head. The long pain and torment had shattered his past memories like broken glass. He didn't remember much now, only the humiliation of having his nest and wealth forcibly taken away, and the deep-seated hatred for Losevie that still burned fiercely in his heart.

He squinted and, through the gaps in the trees, saw the iconic white tower of the sanctuary of Erlav in the distance.

Although time has passed, he still vividly remembers the white tower of the sanctuary. Throughout the southern duchy, both the large human settlements of Wilt and Erlav boasted grand church complexes, each topped with a white tower—in the distant past, whenever Auris looked down from the sky, he would often marvel at the magnificence of human architectural craftsmanship and the inexplicable religious fervor behind this astonishing skill.

Hundreds of years have passed, and countless rounds of bloody and cruel infighting have taken place among the madmen. The two cities have been destroyed and risen from the ruins time and time again, but no matter how the cities have evolved, the white towers built of pure white and smooth marble still stand tall.

“I laughed that damn fatso to death on the biggest white tower in Erlav.” Aurelius gave a bitter smile. “What was that tower called again? Was it the Tower of Judgment or the Starry Bell Tower? Hey, buddy, that was one of the most hilarious things I’ve ever done. I don’t regret it, yeah, I don’t regret it.”

The clouds obscured the sun, and a strong urge to confide suddenly welled up in Auris's heart.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but no words came out, as if that damned Rosevie had stolen his vocal cords and brain.

He thought of many things—abandoning his mate, his children who looked down on him, the ridicule from his brothers, sisters, and even his parents, the disapproval from almost all dragons, and even the wild white dragon cub dared to laugh at him.

Haha, hahaha.

After holding it in for so long, a thousand bitter words fermented in sorrow into a long sigh.

"Ah, what a beautiful day." Aurelius sat under the tree and laughed. After a while, he whispered, "Eraf, I, Aurelius, have returned!"

Suddenly, he shuddered—he suddenly realized a terrible problem...

Where did everyone else in the camp go?! What happened?!

No, I need to find somewhere to hide right now!

When Futia saw the dragon again, the humanoid dragon was shivering in the canopy of a fir tree.

Upon seeing Fythia and the others again, Aurelius's wrinkled face suddenly broke into an exaggerated smile: "You're finally back! This is like a ghost story!"

“I’ve never seen such a cowardly dragon as you.” Futia shook the tree trunk without any politeness, and leaves fell down.

“You haven’t seen many dragons!” Aurelius protested in a low voice. “Elf, watch your words. You should know how to respect your elders…”

At this point, the dragon's voice suddenly stopped—he was horrified to discover that a terrifying, hazy corpse demon, as if imbued with an invisibility spell, had suddenly appeared behind Futia!

He had never seen a corpse demon like this before!

This must be a special assassin sent by Lothaway!

"Lossevier is catching up! Run!" Aurelius cried out in despair. Without thinking, he immediately took out his spellbook and tried to cast a portal to escape, but due to excessive force, he fell directly off the tree.

Fythia sighed, spread her hands, and said mercilessly, "How am I supposed to respect you? Respect your extraordinary courage? Or respect the magnificent way you fell from the tree? Okay, I admit you told a pretty good joke."

"Corpse Demon, there's a Corpse Demon behind you!"

“Don’t worry, these are our allies.” Trier’s calm voice suddenly came from behind him. “Relax, once we arrive in Erlav, we will soon find a way to take care of your injuries.”

—The paladin held the holy emblem and activated the "Aura of Courage." As the aura appeared, the terrified dragon quickly regained its composure.

"My God, controlling necromancers, paladins? Am I insane? So many! Did you break your oath?" Olius's unfocused pupils gradually returned to normal, and one after another, corpse demons were reflected in his pupils.

Trier grasped Auris's hand, and a warm and firm strength flowed from his palm into Auris's hand. With Trier's help, Auris stood up again.

"of course not."

"of course not."

"..." Aurelius blinked incredulously.

“I don’t think this is surprising. Radiance is an all-encompassing god,” Trier explained patiently. “There’s nothing surprising about it. Look at Fythia and Noy, they’re not surprised at all.”

Futia wasn't surprised; she was simply numb from being shocked by your various strange actions, and she seemed to be getting used to it... Aurelius thought helplessly.

At that moment, he nodded numbly, beginning to realize how right Fythia's advice had been—not to be shocked by Trier's unique behavior...

“See, you’re not surprised anymore, so it’s perfectly normal for paladins to control the undead,” Trier said with a smile. “Alright, stop standing there, Auris, we’re heading to Eraf soon. If we’re on our way, we should be there this afternoon.”

P.S.: I'm not entirely satisfied with how I wrote it, but it's too late, I'll revise it tomorrow.

Thinking about the plot, I need to take a day off.

As the title suggests, I'm thinking about the upcoming plot arrangement, and it feels a bit complicated. Please forgive me, everyone QWQ

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III. Puppet Show

Chapter 123 Return

The twilight burned with fiery red sunset clouds, the setting sun seeming to be flowing with crimson blood.

The tattered flags drooped helplessly on the spears, like the withered sycamore trees lining the road.

“Demon worshippers are bad, and so are serial murders.” The middle-aged knight on horseback looked tired. “But our primary objective remains dealing with the blood plague. We must keep the main road clear. Hunting down so-called demon worshippers is absolutely not within our purview.”

"That's none of my business. Go talk to Lord Oris," a handsome young man in flamboyant green armor replied with a faint smile beside the middle-aged knight.

Oris is the kingdom's legendary paladin, the teacher of Princess Edith, and also the true leader of the kingdom's investigation team.

"Don't you have even a shred of compassion? Look at those poor souls who have become walking corpses!" The middle-aged knight swung his spear sharply, the tip of which came to rest firmly in front of the face of a blood plague-infected corpse. "If the hordes of undead roaming the main road are not cleared, the refugees will never be able to reach any shelter. And, if I may be so bold, I don't believe that the person who ran away was a demon worshipper."

“That’s a real shame.” The young man raised an eyebrow in a flat tone. “Sir Normand, I didn’t expect you to be so compassionate. No wonder you’ve been a member of the Duke’s cabinet for so many years, yet you still don’t have a formal position or a fief. I think as a nobleman, you need to learn to make sacrifices.”

The middle-aged knight Normand was not swayed by the provocation. This was partly because he was over fifty and had experienced countless hardships, making him numb to verbal insults or flattery; and partly simply because the boy's sarcasm was completely unreasonable.

Although he held no publicly prominent position, he had served as the Duke's chief spymaster for nearly twenty-three years.

Because of his long tenure as head of the intelligence service, Normand's identity was semi-public to anyone with even a modicum of influence in the Southern Duchy. Although the boy in front of him was from the Southern Duchy, he had recently been promoted to a court noble position by the visiting royal investigation team to counterbalance the locals of the Southern Duchy, so it was normal that he didn't recognize him.

Moreover, if the boy truly knew him, he would never dare to spy on him.

Although the boy's tone was arrogant, the chief spymaster didn't need to get angry over the unintentional insult from an ignorant youth—especially since it was his doing to release and rescue the so-called demon worshipper, Hult, from Oris's clutches. To be precise, it was proposed by Bishop Vercingetorie, and he planned and executed it.

“I don’t think the soldiers would accept orders to leave the main road and run into the deep mountains in the middle of the night to search for fugitives,” Normand said slowly, pointing to the even more exhausted soldiers behind him. “Besides, although I don’t have an official position, I have honor.”

"So, you want to disobey orders? Watch out, or I'll chop off your head." The boy narrowed his eyes, threatening him with feigned bravado.

The boy's tone revealed a hint of unease, and Normand, like a shark that has caught the scent of blood, swiftly seized upon this fleeting unease.

"Do you like playing cards?" The spy chief felt a surge of excitement, and his fatigue quickly subsided.

The boy unconsciously swallowed: "What's it to you?"

“When you get a bad hand and show… the expression you’re making right now, you’re already out.” Normand deliberately slowed his speech further, and he smiled with an unnaturally slowness. “Lord Oris’s analysis may not be correct either; he doesn’t understand the local situation.”

The spy chief watched the boy closely. Based on a day of observation, he knew that the boy would be angry at his words and would lose control of his behavior due to anger.

One second, two seconds—

"Nonsense!" The boy's pupils constricted sharply, and he flew into a rage amidst his fear. "Lord Oris is guided by the gods, and it's none of your business, you fool who's never had a fiefdom in his life, to spout nonsense!"

Normand laughed; he enjoyed controlling other people's emotions with words, which always gave him a sense of euphoria.

"Shut your stinking mouth, or I'll shut you up forever." Behind the boy, another sinister voice suddenly rang out like a ghost.

Almost simultaneously, a nearly invisible steel wire had already tightly strangled his neck. His delicate skin began to deform under the pressure of the wire, and fine beads of blood slowly stained the dark steel wire red.

Strangely, the wire was completely suspended in mid-air—there was no one behind the boy.

This is a steel wire manipulated by the mage's hand. The wire is getting tighter and tighter, and the hissing sound of oxygen deprivation and the sound of blood beads coming out are connected like raindrops.

Normand glanced at the soldiers not far away. Apart from his own spies and the mage Williams who was casting a spell, no one noticed that the boy, who was also a patrol captain, had been taken under his control.

Immediately, the spy chief turned his head and looked on with satisfaction at the boy's transformation.

Anger, confusion, shock, terror, pleading...

Pupils constrict, eyes bulge, jaw muscles twitch, cold sweat breaks out...

The chief spymaster didn't rush to order his men to release the boy. Based on his experience, it would take some time for the boy to submit. Moreover, he truly, truly disliked traitors, especially those arrogant fools who betrayed their cause.

He wouldn't get angry at the unintentional offenses of ignorant teenagers, but he would get angry at traitors who had joined the so-called Kingdom Investigation Team.

Those arrogant outsiders are just here to cause trouble!

The victims on the ground are the casualties of their mess—this damned traitor is even indifferent to the deaths of his own people, and even mocks them with contempt!

Damn it!

"To pity others is to pity yourself." Normand glanced at the infected corpses on the ground. "Do you understand?"

The boy's beautiful, high nose was dripping with unsightly yellow snot. He tried to nod with difficulty, but the wire was firmly fixed to his neck—at that moment, the boy's gaze suddenly turned to the distance.

Someone has arrived, six people, who don't look like the undead.

Normand waved to the spy, and the wire around the boy's neck disappeared instantly, while the sentries actually on guard outside the infantry slowly surrounded the newcomers.

"Thump!" The boy fell off his horse, head thrown back. Ignoring the pain, he greedily inhaled the air.

The chief spy lifted his leg off the stirrup, jumped off the horse, bent down, and extended a helping hand to the boy.

The boy was terrified and wanted to get away from Normand's hand.

Normand sighed, then beckoned to the boy, who leaned closer fearfully and cautiously took Normand's hand.

The spy chief gently pulled the boy up.

“Let’s ignore that fugitive, okay?” Normand whispered.

The boy nodded like a taut puppet.

The chief spymaster then whispered, "Tell Oris everything, exactly as it is, okay?"

The boy seemed to want to nod, but after understanding the meaning of Normand's words, he was too frightened to nod.

"Nod," Nordman said.

The boy nodded stiffly. As the chief spy mounted his horse again, the boy, like a zombie under his control, was dazed and confused as the spy chief's agents carried him back to his horse.

At this moment, the boy was completely terrified. After a long while, he realized that the middle-aged knight was not looking at him, but at the crowd that was gradually approaching in the distance—and the middle-aged knight seemed to be engrossed in watching.

He also subconsciously looked at the approaching crowd.

There were six people in total.

The tattered black cloak swayed in the evening breeze. The leading warrior was hunched over, his rapier stained with crimson blood. Behind him followed a group of people covered in wounds.

It's Hult! That fugitive!

The boy's fear subsided somewhat, and he opened his eyes wide to continue looking back.

Behind the fugitive was a silver-haired female priest holding a holy emblem, her face showing worry; beside the priest was a young paladin in plate armor, who seemed to be communicating with the fugitive.

The boy's gaze continued to move backward, and then his eyes lit up.

—The last member of the group was an elf dressed as a ranger.

Lady Faldia! A scout from the Kingdom's Survey Team! He's saved!

In an instant, the boy seemed to have figured everything out.

The reason this squad was able to break through the layers of undead blockade must be because of the powerful Lady Futia. And after completing her reconnaissance mission, Lady Futia, on her return journey, happened to capture the fugitive Hult—that damned middle-aged knight was stunned because he recognized Lady Futia, and was now trembling with fear!

With this thought in mind, the boy's courage returned to his heart like the sun. He glanced at Nordman and, sure enough, found a fine layer of cold sweat on the other's forehead.

"It's not too late to regret it now." The boy wanted to mock him, but the words that came out were a weak suggestion.

Nordmann did not answer. At that moment, the cunning spy chief was staring intently at Trier in the center of the group, his breathing becoming increasingly rapid.

“By the Radiance,” Nordman murmured to himself, “I’m dreaming, he’s back.”

Since Terrill suddenly went mad and attacked the Duke more than a decade ago, resulting in his disinheritance and exile to the countryside of Earl Harland for compulsory treatment, Nordmann had not seen his generous patron, who had once selflessly helped him, in person for a long time.

"The fugitive came back on his own, so you can't blame anyone else." The ignorant boy's timid voice carried a hint of amusement.

"Williams, come here right now!" Nordman waved his hand sharply behind him. "Hurry up! Don't dawdle, hurry up!"

"It's too late to panic now, Lady Futia is already back," the boy rambled on.

A soldier wearing only a breastplate and holding a crossbow emerged silently from the shadows, causing the boy's heart to skip a beat—he could never have imagined that a wanderer skilled in shadow movement could be lurking within the infantry.

"What's wrong?" asked the wanderer dressed as an ordinary soldier. The boy realized that the sinister voice was the same one that had just threatened him!

The middle-aged knight took out two pre-prepared letters sealed with sealing wax from his specially categorized horse sack: "One for the bishop, the other for Count Cohen. The sooner the better! The sooner the better!"

The soldier glanced at the boy, then looked back at the middle-aged knight, his intent to silence him making no attempt to conceal it. The boy couldn't help but shudder.

Only then did he realize that the middle-aged knight in front of him was probably not some incompetent and soft-hearted good-for-nothing at all—the other party simply seemed to dislike unnecessary cruelty.

"No..." the boy murmured. He had just been promoted, and his wonderful life had just begun. He didn't want to die!

“To pity others is to pity yourself.” Normand shook his head.

The soldier-dressed wanderer nodded solemnly, then disappeared back into the shadows.