Chapter Twenty-One: Sebuasa

The other mages began casting spells as well, picking off trolls within their line of sight. The elves switched to explosive-enchanted arrows, sending them whistling into the troll outpost. Even those warriors driven mad by voodoo couldn't escape their fate—perhaps it simply took a couple more arrows to bring them down.

Soon, the troll encampment was ablaze, sparks flying in every direction, the air thick with the trolls’ shrieks. The battle was drawing to a close not long after it began.

Afterwards, Patrick entered the troll outpost. Houses and gates were almost entirely destroyed. At the center stood a troll altar, blood bubbling in the middle of a stone slab, the stench of sorcery so strong it made the elves retch.

With a casual gesture, Patrick sent a fireball crashing into the altar. Foul, pus-laden blood hissed and steamed under the intense heat.

The troll lands were indeed fertile. The black soil was so rich that a single step would squeeze out oil, and countless maggots writhed within, evidence of corpses nourishing this land for many years.

The troll priest had been struck in the back by two explosive arrows, killed instantly. The troops began dealing with the troll corpses, burning them on the spot.

“This was a troll outpost, likely meant to serve as an early warning for Zeb’Watha,” Aurelia explained to Patrick.

The troops pressed forward. No further trace of trolls was found, and a sweep with their mental senses confirmed the area was clear.

Patrick knew that Zeb’Watha was built beside Lake Elendar, deep within the Forest of Life. Its location, nestled against mountains and water, made it a fortress difficult to besiege.

As evening approached, Aurelia found a suitable campsite. Night fell, bringing a biting cold to the Forest of Life. Bathed in moonlight, the camp took on a hazy, dreamlike beauty. Patrick stepped out of his tent and sat down beside the remnants of the fire.

He thought back to his second encounter with troll priests. Through ritual dances, herbs, and sacrifices to their animal gods, they drew power to heal their kin and enhance their warriors.

This time, they would be entering a troll stronghold, and it was crucial to analyze and understand the combat style of the troll spellcasters. The more intelligence they had, the greater their advantage—after all, “know your enemy and know yourself, and you will never be defeated.”

Patrick did not sleep. With Allen’s presence within him, his mental energy was abundant, and he continued to probe the surroundings for any sign of disturbance. He sensed a yellow-green mist shrouding the southeast, thick with the stench of sorcery. His spirit could penetrate only so far, skimming the edges.

“Still not resting?” A melodious voice sounded from behind.

Patrick turned to see Aurelia. “No, meditation suffices for me. I was investigating the area for any possible threats.”

Aurelia sat down beside him. “Do you realize how many years it’s been since Quel’Thalas has seen an elf as diligent as you?”

Patrick glanced at her, sensing she had more to say, and waited in silence.

“Are you working so hard just to enter the Silvermoon Council? In these past few months at the Eastern Sanctuary, your military achievements have been outstanding. Everyone is impressed by your tactical prowess. Your mastery of the arcane, especially in conjuration and enchantment, shines throughout the sanctuary. Unlike other mages who indulge in extravagance, you seem almost driven—eager to ascend in your arcane skills. What makes you so urgent?” Aurelia followed his gaze, their eyes meeting.

Patrick stared into Aurelia’s eyes for a few seconds. In the moonlight, she was breathtakingly beautiful.

Pointing to his eyes, where arcane energy shimmered, Patrick said, “For this.” Then he looked directly at her.

The elven woman scrutinized Patrick’s eyes, seeing only her own reflection.

“Hm?” Aurelia’s muscles tensed slightly. In all her centuries, she’d never met an elf quite like Patrick. “That’s not an answer. Your eyes tell me you’re evading the question.”

Patrick smiled, still looking at Aurelia with utmost seriousness. “But there is no other answer in my eyes, is there?”

“You’re a bold mage—with a hint of cunning in your boldness,” Aurelia replied, turning her gaze to the embers.

The two sat together in silence. Something subtle began to take root between them.

Deep into the night, Patrick still didn’t return to his tent. He cast a constant temperature spell and a wind-shielding barrier, enveloping both himself and Aurelia, so they could rest a little.

At first light, Aurelia rose and readied herself. The other rangers followed suit, packing their gear, burying the campfire, and eating their rations of elven bread before moving out along their planned route.

Along the way, Hawksbill sidled up to Patrick, whispering, “All these years, you’re the first elf daring enough to tease Marshal Aurelia.”

As a seasoned ranger, Hawksbill’s sharp ears had caught their conversation the previous night. It was no surprise.

At that moment, Aurelia’s gaze swept over, giving Hawksbill a long, deep look. Just as Hawksbill had overheard their talk, so too could Aurelia hear his jests now.

Patrick imagined: with that look, it was as if two arrows had pierced Hawksbill’s heart—he should have been pinned to a tree by now.

As they drew closer to Zeb’Watha, the stench of sorcery thickened. Idonis and Kandiris were already starting to feel nauseated, unable to bear the foul odor.

The soil grew ever darker, the scent of decay stronger. Patrick, with knowledge from his past life, knew that this humus-rich land was exceptionally fertile, perfect for plant growth. In his previous world, only four regions boasted such black soil: the Ukrainian Plain, the Mississippi Valley, the Northeast Plain of China, and the Pampas stretching from Argentina to Uruguay—each a granary of the world.

Now Patrick needed room to expand. Silvermoon City was dominated by powerful noble houses; his own family barely survived in the cracks between them. The world beyond was his best option, and perhaps the trolls’ territory would prove ideal.

Zeb’Watha was finally in sight. There was only one route for a direct assault. The left flank was protected by mountains, the right by Lake Elenmyr—making it a formidable fortress, crucial to the trolls’ control over the Forest of Life and the Eastern Sanctuary. If they could take it in one strike, the entire forest would fall under Silvermoon’s dominion.

Within the stronghold, two-story wooden buildings loomed. The garrison was already fully alert; witch doctors readied jars and fetishes, invoking their idols to bless the troll warriors. Shadow priests prepared their incantations, axe-throwers and berserkers gripped their weapons, veins bulging along their arms, ready for battle.