The Ash and the Missing Staff

It was only when the raging inferno had reduced an entire section of pine forest to ash that Gwynevere finally exhaled, a long, drawn-out breath of relief.

Her sea crystal staff, once encrusted with frost, now glistened with condensation, its dark blue surface radiating a scorching crimson hue. The fiery tornado that had ripped through the forest ahead gradually weakened and unraveled, like a thread pulled taut until it snapped.

Black char smoke and white water vapor intertwined, swirling in a hazy dance. A faint, acrid stench lingered stubbornly in the air.

The shrubs and pine trees were almost entirely charred black, their edges still glowing with a faint, reddish tint. The intense heat had yet to fully dissipate, and where the fire tornado had passed, the accumulated snow had completely evaporated, exposing the soft, damp soil beneath.

Of the zombie, only two carbonized legs remained, standing forlornly in place. The rest of its body had been incinerated by Gwynevere’s flames, scattering as ash.

This was her first encounter with an undead enemy, and Gwynevere dared not relax her guard.

Bertram had taught her that any fallen undead could potentially rise again to deliver a fatal blow. Even the most shattered body could be reanimated by a soul, so vigilance must only be dropped once their complete immobility was assured.

Her godfather’s teachings were always practical and effective, a lesson Gwynevere held in high regard.

Caution, after all, never went amiss.

Deprived of their necromancer’s command, the lesser skeletons and ghouls lost their direction and scattered, fleeing instinctively. Gwynevere showed them no mercy, precisely eliminating them one by one with ice cones shot from her staff.

The once-noisy forest finally fell silent.

Thanks to the recent, continuous heavy snowfall, the damp trees and pine needles had not fueled a major conflagration, so the damage Gwynevere caused was not overly severe.

Approaching the pile of charred remains, enduring the noxious, pungent smell, Gwynevere sifted through the reddish-gray fragments and discovered a metal dog tag.

The tag was crafted from brass, showing slight signs of melting at its edges, yet largely intact.

Wiping away the ash, she could still discern the name inscribed upon it.

“Eugene David,” Gwynevere murmured, speaking the necromancer’s name aloud.

She had never heard of him.

Perhaps her godfather and Edith might know something, making this a small but solitary gain. Most of these Klogotia mages had been Imperial citizens in life, and such details could often yield useful information.

There was nothing else left, only ash upon ash.

Gwynevere began to feel she had been too ruthless. Such thorough destruction left little opportunity to gather intelligence from defeated foes. Perhaps frost magic, with its ability to restrict movement, would be a more reliable approach in the future.

Yet, she also understood that this mage’s strength had been comparable to her own.

Without the aid of the half-blood girl, Gwynevere would likely have been embroiled in a protracted battle, and the outcome would have been truly uncertain.

That initial sneak attack, the fel whip, would have severely wounded her and led to her defeat instantly, had it not been for the timely protection of the little skeleton.

A Death Emissary of Arsuga, God of the Dead?

The ominous aura emanating from the snowy cloak, the faith in the Shadow path, the way just a few words could terrify the necromancer into willing submission to death—these characteristics and deeds perfectly matched such a grand title and identity. Yet, they only plunged Gwynevere deeper into confusion.

It was common knowledge that Arsuga of the Ice Tombs was the Tyrant of Bones, and that all of Klogotia served as his instrument for vengeance against the living. He should, by all rights, harbor an intense hatred for everything alive.

What Gwynevere couldn’t comprehend was why, if this individual was Arsuga’s messenger, they had successively saved Edith and her, even helping her kill a necromancer who should have been an ally.

She couldn’t grasp it, couldn’t make sense of it at all.

One moment, the girl with dark red hair was fragile and helpless, needing protection; the next, her demeanor shifted completely, transforming into a solemn and dignified Death Emissary. Yet, it also seemed like a mere trick designed to deceive.

Everything about the dark-red-haired girl felt false. Gwynevere didn’t know which version of her to believe.

“My staff… it’s gone?” Noticing something was missing, Gwynevere began to search for the bone staff the necromancer had used earlier.

Enemy weapons needed to be collected for study. The Church would submit valuable spoils of war to the Empire’s Arcane Academy and Forge Workshops, making these high-value items the primary focus during battlefield cleanup.

It didn’t appear to have been burned. At the very least, the spherical blood crystal corrupted by fel energy could not have been destroyed by Gwynevere’s flames.

Instinctively, she touched her chest where a necklace should have hung—the last gift her godfather had given her before his disappearance. Yet, it had mysteriously vanished after her encounter with the half-blood girl.

“Thief,” Gwynevere thought naturally, her gaze turning resentfully towards the denser parts of the forest. ‘Escaped in the chaos again.’

But this time, the feeling was profoundly different from the last. The vibrant emotions had gradually faded with the half-blood girl’s departure, as if a piece had been scooped from her heart, leaving her world once more gray and empty.

‘Next time, I will catch you.’