Re: In My Bloody Hit Novel - Chapter 734
Capítulo 734: Preparations For War.
War, so beautiful it was that it svchanged the rhythm of the forest.
Within days of Silmarien’s declaration, the Elven capital no longer felt like a sanctuary of quiet growth and patient time.
The Mother Tree still stood unmoved, its roots deep and ancient, but around it the air vibrated with urgency.
Songs of plant cultivation were replaced with chants of forging. The gentle hum of nature bent into something sharper.
In a way, it was actually purposeful.
The forges were now awakened.
They were not forges of iron and flame as humans knew them.
No, Elves had a special way by which they did their things. After all, they were the only ones with technology enough to match the sky people.
Deep within the living trees, chambers unfolded like blooming flowers, their bark peeling back to reveal glowing veins of crystal and sap-fire.
Elven artisans gathered in circles, robes pulled tight, eyes glowing faintly as elemental energy flowed through their bodies.
More than half of them were Rune-Speakers.
They did not hold chisels.
They did not carry hammers.
They spoke.
Just like Chiron had done to carve his weapon all those years ago.
They could rune speak.
Voices rose in layered harmony—ancient syllables older than written language itself. As they spoke, glowing runes carved themselves into metal, wood, crystal, and stone, lines forming as if reality itself obeyed their words.
A blade hovered in midair, unfinished.
“ᚨᛁᚱᛖᚾ,” an elf whispered.
The metal shuddered, its surface rippling as wind-aspected runes etched themselves across the blade’s spine.
Another voice followed—low, commanding—and fire answered, veins of molten light sealing into the weapon’s edge. When the final word was spoken, the sword sang, vibrating with restrained elemental fury.
Elven weapons were not forged in the literal sense that one knew.
Instead, it was easy to say that…
They were convinced to exist.
Among the artisans, two stood apart.
They did not chant.
They did not speak.
They merely thought.
This was using one’s thought to bring about rine carving. This was extreme.
One was an elder whose eyes were permanently closed, his mind projecting runes directly into the air. Symbols manifested around him in perfect symmetry, layering over one another in three-dimensional complexity before sinking into the core of a massive construct.
The second was younger—far younger—but terrifyingly precise. She stood motionless, lips sealed, as lightning-aspected runes formed in response to her thoughts alone. Sparks danced around her fingers, not uncontrolled, but obedient.
These two were elites.
Thought-Speakers.
Even among elves, they were rare.
Chiron watched everything. He knew the dwarves of the holy church would kill to have anyone if these two as their Master.
They were too rare and extremely valuable.
And yet, there was a claim that if elves had more time to practice on weapons like this, they could become 20 of them in only fifty years.
In the tine the elves ruled 1000 years ago, they were over 200 that could use runes with thoughts.
Elves were just born different.
Chiron stood at the edge of the forging chambers, arms folded, eyes sharp—not with pride, but hunger. This was knowledge he did not possess. Not fully. The memories he got of the Mc in his previous world gave him fragments, concepts, theories—but here, he was seeing the execution.
If he could grab the concept of rune thought, he coukd advance Devil’s Touch a step further.
Runes that bent elemental balance.
Forging processes that bypassed material resistance.
Structures that fused magic, nature, and intent.
Chiron memorized it all. With Manu’s godlike comprehension now his, Chiron was a massive sponge.
He learnt everything
Especially the golems.
These ones were born in massive root-caverns beneath the capital, where the earth itself had been hollowed out and shaped. Elemental cores—compressed nodes of fire, water, wind, or lightning—were suspended in midair as Rune-Speakers worked.
Stone flowed upward like obedient clay.
For earth golems, runes anchored them to the land itself. Their bodies were layered with plates of barkstone and crystal bone, veins of green light pulsing through them. When they took their first step, the ground responded.
Water golems were sculpted from condensed mist and liquid crystal, their forms shifting constantly, bodies never truly solid yet impossibly durable.
Wind golems barely touched the ground at all—tall, translucent figures whose limbs dissolved into currents, capable of moving faster than sound.
Lightning golems were fewer.
Dangerous.
Their cores crackled violently, restrained by dense lattices of runes that screamed under the strain. These were weapons meant for annihilation, not defense.
Above the city, tesseracts took shape.
As expected, they were massive floating platforms of wood, stone, and living crystal, layered with gravity-defying runes. They hovered silently at first—then rose higher, stabilizing themselves in the air.
Artillery arrays unfolded along their edges. Elemental ballistae locked into place, capable of firing bolts of compressed lightning or spiraling wind spears that could pierce mountains.
This was far more dangerous than those that simply fired spiritual energy.
For the first time in centuries, the skies above the forest were crowded.
Below, the warriors trained.
Sparring rings formed naturally where roots bent aside and earth flattened. Elves clashed with blinding speed, elemental energy roaring around them. Wind-blade against fire-spear. Lightning-charged fists smashing into water-forged shields.
Every strike was watched.
Every victory remembered.
They fought not just to prepare—but to be seen.
Why? Because their king was watching.
Silmarien’s favor had become currency.
Those who performed well were summoned.
Those who impressed were remembered.
Those who failed faded.
Ambition burned hotter than forge-fire.
Chiron observed the sparring too, noting formations, techniques, limitations. Elven combat was elegant—but pride made it predictable.
They favored overwhelming elemental superiority. Rarely did they account for deceit.
In other words…
Rarely did they plan for monsters like him.
Of course, the warriors here were also classified from stone rank to Gold rank.
While only a hand full of elders were demi god worthy, most of them had become too comfortable with the good life, and the rest their positions brought.
Meanwhile…
High above, on a balcony grown from the Mother Tree itself, the Regent watched.
His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers trembling despite himself.
Every hammerless forge.
Every chanting Rune-Speaker.
Every newly awakened golem.
They filled him not with hope—but dread.
This was not preparation.
This was escalation.
He had lived long enough to remember the last war—the screams, the burning skies, the moment the God-King fell. The world had not forgotten that devastation.
And now—
The elves were sharpening their blades again.
Below him, the forest sang with war.
And the Regent could only wonder whether this time, there would be anything left to bury when it was over.