Black Hearted Mage

Chapter 340 Saint's Palace

Ascetics practiced years of arduous meditation, their souls possessing far greater power than ordinary humans, roughly on par with a magician's. Though the Gilded One's strength was somewhat inferior, after only slaying over thirty souls, Caesars's Soul Gem was already fully replenished. He was not a bloodthirsty person, fully aware that these ascetics were a precious resource for cultivation, and that simply slaughtering them all would be a waste. After confirming his gem reserves were sufficient, he ceased his slaughter.

After carefully cleaning the stone chamber to ensure no traces remained, Caesars led the pup out of the remote monastery. He decided to continue eastward, toward the eastern border of the Saint Laurent Empire. Following the coastline southward was a wise choice—it avoided densely populated cities and provided the shortest route to the Surao Valley for the delivery of the message. More importantly, this route led directly to the southern continent, eliminating the need for further detours.

After leaving Bitterwater Farm, the lands to the east belonged to various noble fiefdoms. Although the Saint Laurent Empire's territory was vast, the highest nobility rank was only that of earl. This empire, entrenched in its original location since its founding, had never had a glorious history of territorial expansion, and the nobles' fiefdoms were always confined to their original boundaries.

The midday sun scorched the dry dirt road. The hem of Caesar's black robe swept across the pavement, stirring up fine dust. As he rounded a small hill, a small, slowly advancing caravan suddenly came into view. To his surprise, the caravan didn't shy away from him. Instead, the leading steward greeted him enthusiastically, waving his hat.

"Mister Mage! Would you like a ride?" The fat steward's voice was surprisingly loud and echoed in the open wilderness.

Caesars narrowed his eyes, his fingers unconsciously tracing the uneven lines of his blackthorn staff. He deliberately avoided any disguise—his gray-black robes shone ominously in the sunlight, and the shadow gem embedded in the staff's apron emitted a visible black light. The young mage in the caravan, wearing a crimson robe, had clearly noticed this. He swallowed nervously, his fingers already pressing on the fire charm at his waist.

The caravan was pitifully small: fifteen wagons laden with goods creaked and creaked, while the sole passenger carriage was a mottled oak carriage. The guards were poorly equipped, numbering no more than seven or eight, including the magician. Caesars's gaze swept over their rusted armor and tense faces, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"I have a small question." He deliberately made the black mist on his staff thicker as he lifted the curtain. "You clearly know that I'm a dark magician, so why did you dare to invite me?"

The carriage was more crowded than expected. Three men, seemingly merchants, shifted awkwardly to make room for the uninvited guest. Caesars sheathed his staff into his interspatial ring and caught a glimpse of his plump, dark red dog trotting alongside the carriage, grumbling in discontent.

"Haha! The Master Mage is definitely not from Saint Laurent." The fat steward patted his bulging belly, the fat on his face trembling with the bumps of the carriage. "If it were twenty years ago, the church would have burned any black robes they saw. My cousin's brother-in-law's nephew was tied to the stake and roasted to a mummy just because he drew a dark rune in the barn!"

The other two businessmen laughed dryly in agreement, and the tall and thin one kept wiping the sweat from his forehead.

"But now?" The steward lowered his voice mysteriously, even though no one in the carriage would hear. "Even Bitterwater Farm is secretly recruiting necromancers! Last month I saw with my own eyes—" He suddenly shuddered, "a strange man wrapped in shrouds, unloading goods at the farm with three walking skeletons."

The horses pulling the carriage suddenly neighed in panic. Caesars looked out the window and saw his dog trying to jump onto the carriage. Its dark red fur shone like blood in the sunlight, and its canine teeth, bared when bared, were abnormally long.

"Let your...uh, pet come up." The steward said calmly, while secretly making a blessing gesture on his chest.

"Let it stay on the roof of the car, it's too crowded here!"

As Caesars spoke, he used his magician's hand to lift the fat puppy onto the coachman's roof. He sternly warned, "Stay up there, you dead dog! If you collapse the carriage, you'll only have bread crusts for dinner tonight!"

Amidst the intermittent whimpers of the puppies, the caravan's wheels rolled over the gravel road, continuing its slow march eastward. The Emerald River, beside the road, narrowed into a thin line here, its jagged black rock walls on either side squeezing the riverbed like the fangs of a giant beast. The locals have given this section of the canyon three names: Rock Canyon, referring to the strange rocks piled up on both sides; Emerald Canyon, referring to the turbulent current that glowed green in the sunlight; and Canyon of Sighs, deriving from the travelers swallowed by the rapids, unable even to raise a final cry for help.

The turbulent water rushed madly through the narrow canyon, its foaming waves crashing against the rock walls with a thunderous roar. Occasionally, a tree trunk washed down from upstream could be seen, ripped to shreds in the whirlpool. Scrapped lengths of broken rope clung to the rocks along the shore, testament to the futile attempts to rescue those who had fallen in previous years.

As the setting sun dyed the canyon blood red, Caesars halted. The caravan dispersed outside a small town nestled against the mountainside, its crooked wooden houses stacked like creepers clinging to the cliffs. There were no towering walls or respectable guards—only a few guards dozing on their spears, their leather armor stained.

The puppy suddenly jumped off the carriage and bolted, darting back and forth among the ruined stalls of the market. It sneezed anxiously, choking on the sour, fermenting stench of rotting vegetables and the lingering, fishy smell of the fishmongers' section. As its paws crushed a moldy carrot on the ground into a paste, it suddenly looked east.

"Dead dog, there's something on the wind—do you smell it? That salty, rusty smell, the smell of the sea gnawing at the reefs."

Caesars stood still, gazing at the last ray of sunset fading from the distant mountain pass. The dark golden afterglow, like receding water, silently slipped through the cracks in the rocks, carrying away the last vestiges of daylight's warmth. He tightened his cloak, turned, and walked eastward toward the hills, strangely shaped by time.

After about half an hour, Caesars finally climbed the wind-worn hillock. The jagged rocks rose in all sorts of uncanny shapes, some resembling savage beasts, others twisted humanoid forms, casting eerie shadows in the twilight. He had to choose his footing carefully, and even then, the sharp edges still hurt him from time to time. As he struggled to reach the top, the eastern sea suddenly came into view—a harsh coast devoid of gentle sand. Black reefs, like the fangs of a giant beast, pierced the gray waters fiercely.

Caesar sighed, forced to turn back to the barely discernible path. Darkness had completely enveloped the coast, leaving only scattered starlight to guide him. He continued southward, the dull echo of distant waves crashing against the reefs filling his ears. This region was the renowned Storm Coast of the Saint Laurent Empire, where violent winds lashed the coast year-round, shattering any attempt at prosperity. Consequently, the coastal region lacked the grand port cities one might have imagined. Instead, there were a few dilapidated towns huddled in sheltered areas, scattered like abandoned shells along the desolate coastline.

A few days later, Kaesas's cache of monster meat was almost gone, but in the distance, the snow-capped mountains finally came into view. The Sulao Snow Mountain—this towering, forgotten peak—stood like a silent giant between heaven and earth, its perpetually frozen peak gleaming with a chilling light.

The Surao Valley at the foot of the mountain isn't the fertile land one might imagine, but rather a desolate land abandoned by the gods. Sharp gravel and coarse sand cover the valley floor, and the thin air is filled with the scent of barrenness. Yet, it is this seemingly insignificant, desolate land that has nurtured the continent's most distinguished priests and paladins, becoming a mysterious cradle of divine power.

Caesars didn't enter the valley, instead continuing along the eastern side of the snowy mountain. The desolation here was even greater, with even the most tenacious weeds struggling to survive. The occasional glimpse of withered yellow grass stems became a luxurious sight. He expertly cast Levitation and Feather Fall on both the fat dog and himself—the clever combination of these two spells significantly reduced the magicka consumption of flight. With pitch-black elemental wings unfurling behind him, Caesars lifted the shivering fat dog and soared into the bitter mountain wind.

The towering mass of Mount Surao loomed as they flew, a terrifying pressure. As they climbed higher, the biting cold pierced their clothing like a knife, and they barely reached the mountainside. Caesars was forced to deploy his magic shield and increase his magic output. Elemental wings streaked through the blizzard, carrying them through the swirling snow and mist, hurtling toward the cloud-shrouded summit.

After flying over the jagged ring of ice peaks, a huge funnel-shaped volcanic basin suddenly appeared. Kaisas landed in the center of the steam-filled basin and threw the fat dog, which had long been frozen into an ice block, into the boiling hot springs with a "plop".

In fact, Fat Dog could have activated the high-level magic patterns in his body to keep warm, but Caesars never dared to take risks during the flight - if the elemental wings were disturbed by the energy of the high-level magic patterns, the spell would suddenly become ineffective at this altitude, and the consequences would be disastrous.

Caesars had just withdrawn his wings, gleaming with elemental light, and the stone bricks beneath his feet still clung to the lingering ripples of magic. At that moment, the heavy bronze gates of the Saint's Hall burst open, and a cavalcade of fully armed female warriors poured out like a tide. Clad in gleaming silver scale armor, their piercing gazes gleamed from beneath their helmets, their longswords gleaming coldly in the sunlight. In a flash, they surrounded the uninvited guest.

"Don't do it! I'm here to deliver a letter to the Saint!"

Seeing the gleaming blade about to reach him, Caesars hurriedly pulled a letter made of fine parchment from his bosom. The wax seal of Depero on the envelope shone dark red in the sunlight. With a flick of his wrist, the letter landed steadily on the lead guard. Each of these Saint Maiden Temple guards was a truly exceptional talent, and Caesars could sense the powerful aura emanating from them.

"You, tell me your name! Who wrote this letter?"

A tall female warrior bent down to pick up the letter, but she didn't open it immediately. Instead, she looked Caesar up and down with a vigilant look. Behind her, the fat dog, who had been ignored by everyone, was soaking in the steaming hot springs, humming comfortably, in stark contrast to the tense atmosphere.

"I'm from the Roland Empire. This is written by the former Patriarch Depero himself, and I want to present it to Her Majesty the Saint!"

The middle-aged female warrior, who appeared to be the leader, then carefully examined the envelope. Her fingertips gently brushed the emblem on the wax seal, her brow furrowed slightly. With her rank, she truly couldn't determine the authenticity of this confidential letter.

"The Holy Mountain is heavily guarded. How did you get up here?"

"Flying up!" Kaisas pointed to the elemental afterglow behind him that had not yet completely dissipated.

The middle-aged female warrior pondered for a moment, then carefully put the letter away. "You guys keep an eye on him, and..." She glanced at the fat dog rolling around comfortably in the hot springs, "Keep that fat dog under guard as well. I'll go ask Her Highness the Saint for instructions."

As she hurried away, the guards tightened their circle, their swords never leaving Caesar's vital points. The fat dog in the hot spring seemed to sense the change in atmosphere, whining in dissatisfaction and slapping the scalding water with its front paws, sending up a large splash.

Constructed of ancient obsidian, the Saint's Hall lacked a majestic presence, more like a multi-story warehouse forgotten by time, silently standing beside a boiling hot spring. The once-gleaming obsidian walls, eroded by thousands of years of wind and rain, had long since lost their brilliance, leaving only a dull, rough surface that shone a dull gray-black in the sunlight.

The most striking feature was the outer wall near the hot springs, perpetually stained by sulfur-rich steam, forming a thick layer of sulfur crystals that, from a distance, looked like a blanket of yellowed icicles. A plump puppy, soaking in the misty hot springs, seemed incredibly hungry, gnawing at the sulfur lumps deposited on the pool wall with a tooth-aching crunching sound.

The small square in front of the temple was paved with mottled stone slabs, with a few clumps of weeds stubbornly poking out from the cracks. At the edge of the square lay a tranquil lake, its surface as calm as a polished black jade mirror. The water was so clear that one could see the fish swimming in the depths, yet its deep, dark green hue evoked an inexplicable sense of unease, as if the waters connected to an unknown abyss. Occasionally, a gentle breeze rippled the surface, only to return to an unsettling stillness.

In the hall with black floor tiles, the light seemed a little dim. A figure in a black robe was carefully looking at a letter with a mark on it under the light.