Chapter 62: Winter's Edge
"After a single bucket of dragon blood has powered ten crossbow guns, the energy within it will be depleted," Ladir explained to Roland, gripping the spear-like crossbow in his hand. Intricate, blood-red lines pulsed along the weapon's frame, reminiscent of sinewy veins interwoven with magic. The sight could chill even the most seasoned warrior.
"So, what's the payoff for all this effort?" Roland queried. After all, a price this steep really ought to come with significant returns.
"The effects are substantial! This weapon carries tearing magic, burning magic, and penetrating magic!" A proud smile spread across Ladir's face as he stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"Tearing magic can shred anything it strikes, be it creature or structure. The burning magic ignites targets upon impact—particularly lethal against siege equipment. Penetrating magic targets heavy defenses, making it effective against even the most fortified structures. In truth, even seasoned fourth-tier heavy equipment specialists would think twice before taking a hit from it directly," Ladir elaborated, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
"Not too shabby!" Roland nodded, impressed. Though he had once wielded a similar heavy city defense crossbow in his past as a game lord, nothing compared to witnessing its intimidating capabilities in person.
"Let's proceed with the crafting. I want a hundred of these," Roland declared, a twinge of regret in his voice as he contemplated the cost.
"What a waste!" Ladir sighed dramatically. The thought of using pure dragon blood for such a straightforward purpose would send a true alchemist into a rage.
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**Woodland Kingdom, Western Frontier…**
"It's ridiculous that we're out patrolling in winter," a group of elves muttered amongst themselves, their voices heavy with complaint.
"With this kind of weather, I doubt the orcs would dare venture out across the heavy snow," another added, shaking his head.
"I still can't fathom why we bother to worry about those avaricious dwarves," a third elf chimed in, allowing frustration to seep into his tone.
The patrol team trudged through the fresh snow flurries, barely visible treetops jutting out like sentinels in the distance. They were stationed at the fringe of the Woodland Kingdom, tasked with guarding its eastern border.
"Even the river's frozen over," one remarked as they crossed the icy stream. A chill ran through them all.
"Let's keep our spirits up. We can sip some fruit wine when the shift ends," the elf ranger leading the group suggested, trying to encourage his comrades while tightening his grip on a crooked machete.
"This snow is particularly deep!" protested one of them as the group began to turn back.
What they didn't realize was that heavy snow could both obscure the enemies' movements and shroud them in deadly secrecy.
Suddenly, a ferocious roar erupted from the drifts beside a clump of bushes. The ground trembled as dark shapes surged forth, the energy pulsating through the snow as if it were alive. A gleaming tomahawk flew out, spiraling menacingly before embedding itself in one elf's chest, lifting him off the ground and tearing him apart midair.
Blood splattered across the snow, shocking the remaining elves into frantic action—but before they could rally their wits, more snow erupted with the ferocity of a blizzard as more axes hurtled toward them.
"Enemy attack!" the ranger shouted, his voice piercing the cold air. He drew his scimitar, eyes wide with horror.
The chilling wail of a hexagonal war hammer resonated through the forest, slamming toward them like a tempest, signaling the onset of an ambush that would pit life against death in the heart of winter.
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