The Elven Cultivator

The bald man, who had just managed to catch his breath, turned beet red at Anton’s words and glared at him furiously.

The lean man behind him now realized something was wrong. Their target was clearly much stronger than they had anticipated.

He could no longer afford to just watch the show. He swiftly drew his weapon, his figure flashing like a phantom to Anton’s side, and thrust his blade straight for Anton’s ribs.

Anton blocked with a backhand swing of his sword. After a few rounds of clashing, he quickly sized up his opponent’s strength.

’Another mid-tier Silver.’

In all of Bishui Port, the Silver Tier was already considered the domain of experts.

The Flame Trade Association sending two Silver Tier Warriors to “invite” someone was already a high-level affair.

It was just a shame that the one they happened to run into was Anton.

Having gauged their abilities, Anton stopped holding back. Facing the weapons attacking him from front and back, he didn’t dodge at all. A layer of dim golden radiance suddenly appeared on his body.

Forbidden Gold Armor!

CLANG! CLANG!

The war axe and short sword struck the cicada-wing-thin radiance almost simultaneously, but it was like hitting tough leather. They produced two dull thuds, unable to penetrate an inch.

The bald man’s pupils shrank, and an expression of incredulous horror appeared on the lean man’s face.

Before they could react, Anton had already reached out and grabbed the blade of the war axe, striking out with his other palm.

His palm was crimson like a branding iron. Beneath the skin, a golden light seemed to flow, as if magma were surging through his veins, carrying a scorching aura that could incinerate all things.

Weapon-Melting Hand!

The bald man had no way to dodge and took the palm strike squarely on the chest.

In an instant, his iron-studded leather armor was pierced by the high temperature as if it were made of paper. His chest visibly blackened and carbonized, the flesh and blood evaporating to reveal the scorched ribs and organs beneath.

He didn’t even have time to scream before he was sent flying backward. He slammed heavily against the alley wall and slid down, already a charred corpse.

From attack to death, it had taken but a single breath.

The lean man had never seen such a bizarre and terrifying combat technique. His expression changed in a flash, and he hastily retreated.

But Anton’s figure merely flickered, and he was in front of him in a flash, as if a shadow sticking to his form. He threw out another palm strike.

In his terror, the lean man could only swing his sword to meet the attack.

The sharp blade struck Anton’s palm, yet it produced a crisp ringing sound, as if metal had struck metal.

The next second, the lean man let out a sudden, wretched howl. As if burned, he quickly released the hilt of his sword, clutching his hand and stumbling backward, his face a mask of absolute terror as he stared at Anton.

The long sword fell to the ground. Its blade was glowing red and warped out of shape. The wooden hilt had burst apart, resembling charred wood, as if it had been tossed into a blacksmith’s furnace and burned for a long time.

Having lost his weapon, the lean man was even less of a match for Anton. After barely holding on for a few rounds, he was struck on the forehead by Anton’s palm.

TSSST!

A wisp of green smoke rose as flesh sizzled and rotted away. The lean man’s skull was instantly cooked through by the intense heat. His eyes bulged, and his body went rigid for a moment before crashing to the ground.

The alley filled with the thick, acrid stench of burning flesh. Two corpses lay sprawled on the ground, motionless.

Anton retracted his palm. The crimson color receded like a tide, and in an instant, his hand returned to normal.

He glanced down at the two bodies, his expression as calm as if he had just crushed two ants.

He bent down to loot the bodies.

Besides a bag of Gold Coins, the bald man had nothing else on him.

The lean man, however, had an inconspicuous gray bag hanging from his waist. It had no decorations on its surface, but it felt unusual to the touch.

Anton inspected it carefully, and a flash of pleasant surprise appeared in his eyes.

A Dimensional Bag!

Although it was just one of the lowest-grade Sub-magical Items, a type of storage item with an internal space of less than five cubic meters, its advantage was that it could be used repeatedly. Items taken out wouldn’t disintegrate, making it much more useful than a Talisman of Holding.

For Anton, who had recently been finding the Talismans of Holding increasingly inconvenient to access, this was undoubtedly an unexpected windfall.

“For the sake of this Dimensional Bag, I’ll let your association’s president live freely for a little while longer.”

Anton glanced in the direction of Tide Street, put the items away, and turned to leave.

The Flame Trade Association was, after all, one of the top powers in Bishui Port with deep resources. This was evident from the fact that they could casually send two Silver Tier Warriors just to intercept someone.

This was not the right time to have a direct confrontation with the Flame Trade Association.

It wouldn’t be too late to settle the score after he succeeded in his Foundation Establishment.

…

「Silver Moon Forest.」

Dusk was settling in. The last streak of golden red on the horizon was swallowed by the deep blue of the sky. The crown of the Eternal Tree lit up with specks of silvery-white fluorescence, like an inverted river of stars, swaying gently in the night breeze.

Anton returned to the door of his treehouse. Just as he was about to push the door open, he suddenly heard the sound of footsteps behind him.

“Anton!”

He turned to see Eleanor walking over quickly.

“You’re finally back.” Eleanor stopped in front of him, panting slightly. “Gray Rock Castle has sent a delegation of envoys. The Third Elder asked me to come find you.”

“Gray Rock Castle?” Anton was slightly taken aback. “They’re here already?”

He had thought the negotiations between the Clan and Gray Rock Castle would drag on for at least ten days to half a month. He hadn’t expected them to send a delegation after only three days.

’It seems the Dwarves are even more eager for the Frost Pattern Silver vein than I expected.’

“I’m not clear on the specific details either,” Eleanor said, shaking her head. “But from the look on the Third Elder’s face, the negotiations should be going smoothly.”

Anton nodded. Without asking further questions, he followed Eleanor toward the northern part of the settlement.

The two of them passed through layered tree-lined corridors and soon arrived at a wide, open area near the edge of the forest.

Before he even got close, Anton heard a cacophony of noise.

The clang of metal striking metal, cheers, and shouts, mixed with a few rough, booming voices.

Rounding an ancient oak tree, Anton finally got a clear view of the scene in the clearing.

The Third Elder was standing at the edge of the clearing with a cheerful smile, talking to a Dwarf beside him.

The Dwarf was about 1.4 meters tall, but his shoulders were surprisingly broad, like a thick oak door.

His dark brown hair and beard were woven into countless small braids, the ends of which were adorned with copper rings and tiny Gemstones that jingled with his movements.

He wore a well-made Chain Armor Shirt, and a warhammer hung from his waist. The head of the hammer was covered in Dwarven runes, and a faint, earthy-yellow light flowed between the patterns, indicating it was clearly a magical item.

Although their lifespans were not as long as the Elves’, Dwarves were also considered a long-lived race.

Their natural lifespan was about 350 to 450 years, and they reached their prime at the age of 100.

It was difficult to judge a Dwarf’s age by their appearance. They all had rough-hewn faces, and male Dwarves, in particular, were covered in beards.

As long as they hadn’t reached old age, their appearance hardly changed.

Behind the Warhammer Dwarf stood four or five other Dwarves. Some carried war axes on their backs, others had muskets slung over their shoulders, and all of them had their eyes fixed on the center of the clearing.

There, two figures were clashing fiercely.

One of them was Romance.

She held the Frost Pattern Axe with both hands, her silvery-white hair tied in a ponytail that whipped up and down with her movements. A fierce fighting spirit burned in her amber eyes.

Every swing of the axe blade was accompanied by a dull clap of thunder. A torrent of blue-white cold erupted like a furious wave, leaving trails of frost on the ground.

And her opponent was a Dwarf with a fiery red beard, wielding a double-bladed war axe.

He was a bit shorter than an average Dwarf, but his physique was even stockier. His two arms were thicker than Romance’s thighs, with muscles gnarled like the roots of an old tree.

Facing Romance’s assault, the Red-bearded Dwarf did not dodge in the slightest, instead meeting her head-on with a swing of his own axe.

The two clashed, strength against strength, solid against solid. The sheer force of their blows was like two massive, armored bronze figures smashing into each other, producing a deafening clang of metal.

The shockwaves from the collision of the two war axes were visible to the naked eye, sending rubble and fallen leaves flying.

A moment later, the Red-bearded Dwarf suddenly pulled back.

“No more, no more!”

He glanced sullenly at the Frost Pattern Axe in Romance’s hands, then looked at his own double-bladed war axe, which was already covered in a layer of frost.

“That axe of yours is cheating! If our weapons were the same, you’d be no match for me!”