vncnus Page 162
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The simplicity and ruthlessness of this plan sent chills down everyone's spines. If they actually did it, they could indeed completely destroy that abyss without revealing their identities. But it also meant…
"Old man," Casalos's gaze returned to Elminster, his tone even more sarcastic, "I even reminded you of the barrier of Mystronor, but you still stubbornly insisted that I wanted to detonate the Mystron Core and destroy large areas of the Abyss and Faerûn—"
A genuine rage flashed in its dragon eyes: "I'm curious, just how deep is your prejudice against me?"
Elminster opened his mouth, but found himself speechless. He had indeed immediately thought of the worst-case scenario, a subconscious reaction that made him feel ashamed.
"It's truly heartbreaking for the dragon." Casalos's voice carried a dramatic sadness, but his indigo vertical pupils gleamed with a cold light.
It began pacing atop the watchtower, each step causing the entire steel tower to tremble slightly: "From the moment I helped you guard Shadow Valley, we've shared life and death—'shared'—"
Casalos deliberately drew out the word "jointly," the sarcasm in his tone unmistakable: "If you consider yourself to have participated in the battle when you were completely out of control of your magic—you defeated Bane, Melkor, and the saints of Baal."
Elminster's face grew even uglier. That battle was indeed the most humiliating one in his thousand-year life; the turbulent magic was completely out of control, and he had almost become a burden.
"Then I rebuilt Waterdeep and Baldur's Gate, which had been destroyed in the earthquake and tsunami," Casalos continued his "accusation," "and then I again defended Waterdeep against the threat of the Northern Dragons."
It whirled around, its silvery-white scales reflecting a blinding light: "So even now, you still see me as a dragon?"
This question struck Elminster hard. He realized that he had indeed been viewing the iron dragon with prejudice, even though the other had proven its stance through its actions.
"Why is that?" Casaroz's voice suddenly brightened, but a dangerous glint remained in it. "Is it because of my conflict with that madwoman Storm, or because I exposed your harassment of bar girls in the tavern?"
Elminster's white beard trembled violently; clearly, this "dark history" had embarrassed him greatly.
"Or perhaps..." Casalos paused deliberately, a wicked smile creeping onto his dragon beak, "that I exposed the fact that you were being played by the woman the dragon had transformed into?"
Upon hearing the name "Song of the Dragon," Kelben Black Staff turned his head away, his face darkening. This archmage, usually known for his composure, now resembled a child whose sore spot had been touched, completely unable to look at his old friend. He was even more afraid that Casalos would directly reveal everything that had happened.
That should have remained a secret forever, but who knows why this iron dragon knew it—it turns out that this young iron dragon knew many, many secrets that should have remained unknown. Perhaps it was the favor of the Dragon God of Destiny, or perhaps the whispers of the new Goddess of Magic?
Still clueless about the matter, yet repeatedly brought up by Casalos with strange expectations, Ilminster finally became enraged.
Snapped!
The legendary mage raised his hand and slapped himself hard across the face. The crisp sound echoed through the watchtower: "I... I shouldn't have said a single word to you!"
This action stunned everyone. No one expected that the great sage, known for his wisdom and composure, would make such a lapse in judgment.
"That won't do," Casalos's voice was filled with triumphant pleasure, "If you don't speak, who will guide us in building the Mystic Core?"
It gracefully curled its tail, assuming a thoughtful posture: "Throughout Faerûn, aside from those narrow-minded, scheming, but ultimately pawn-like Pointy-Ears on Evergrande Island, only you, and your mysterious mentor, possess the true knowledge to construct the Maze Lock..."
Casalos suddenly seemed to remember something, his tone becoming meaningful: "Hmm, it won't be long before all the pointy-eared creatures of Evergrande Island are excluded?"
"What do you mean?" Elasdra keenly caught the information. She stood up gracefully, her long silver hair swaying slightly in the invisible magic. "Is some kind of disaster about to befall Evergrande?"
As the High Lady of Silvermoon City, she has countless ties with the elves of Evergrande Isle. Although they hold different political views, the bond of blood prevents her from ignoring the crisis facing her people.
"High Lady, why are you so concerned about those pointy-eared creatures..." Casalos glanced at Elasdra with obvious disdain before quickly fixing its gaze on Elminster. Its claws scratched impatiently at the ground. "Don't glare at me like that, old man. I may not like those pointy-eared creatures, but I've never intended to provoke them."
These words caused those with elven blood present to frown slightly. Casaloz's prejudice against elves was well-known, but such a blunt expression still made people uncomfortable.
Elminster took a deep breath, struggling to suppress his rage. He gritted his teeth and said, enunciating each word clearly, "Tell me what will happen on Everlasting Isle, and I'll teach you how to build a labyrinth!"
Every word seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth; the legendary mage had clearly reached his limit of patience. But reason told him that now was not the time to act rashly—acting rashly would only make him angrier!
Besides, the threat from Hellgate Fortress is imminent, and this damned iron dragon in front of us truly holds the key to solving the problem.
"What else could happen?" Casalos chuckled, his smug expression particularly irritating on his dragon face. "When you were studying in Mysdrano, didn't your mentors tell you about the history of Pointy Ears—which of their devastating calamities wasn't stemming from civil war?"
It shook its head, the metallic scales clinking together: "The Great Escape has been going on for hundreds of years. How many elves from Faerûn have retreated back to Evergrande? Millions? Tens of millions? Or hundreds of millions? If you just do the math, isn't the next civil war of the Pointy Ears just around the corner?"
This deduction silenced all the elven-blooded individuals present. Elven history was indeed rife with civil wars and divisions, from the numerous Crown Wars to the Great Retreat, each stemming from escalating internal conflicts. And now, the conflicts between the various factions on Evergrande Island were indeed escalating…
"..." Elminster was furious, his face flushed, but he was speechless. He wanted to refute it, but the laws of history were there for all to see; the elves did indeed have a "fine tradition" of killing each other.
Elasdra let out a long sigh, a sigh filled with helplessness at the fate of his kin. The old treant Tulang's wooden body creaked again, clearly also grieving for the prophecy. A complex emotion flickered in the green eyes of the golden dragon druid, Eros Krujipala.
Only Storm Silverhand was still trying to defend the elves: "That's prejudice! The elves have learned from history, they won't..."
But her voice trailed off, clearly indicating that even she herself didn't quite believe the claim. She had heard about the political struggles on Yongju Island, where those so-called "wise men" had begun to resort to any means necessary for power.
Casalos completely ignored her, merely flicking his tail dismissively before continuing to stare at Ilminster. (The rest of the text appears to be nonsensical and unrelated to the previous sentences.)
“If, under your ‘guidance,’ the effects of the Mystic Core-based Lock achieve the desired results…” Casalos paused slightly, “then I’ll tell you why the Pointy-Eared Civil War is so regular and always expands uncontrollably, giving you a chance to try and save those bean sprouts that disgust the dragons. What do you think?”
A moment of silence followed, then Elminster finally regained his composure. A renewed gleam of wisdom shone in the legendary mage's eyes as he looked directly at Casalos: "What is the effect you desire?"
The crux of the matter was finally posed. Everyone held their breath, awaiting Tie Long's answer.
Casalos slowly straightened up, its silvery-white scales shimmering under the magical light. It extended its right wing, sending a gust of wind whipping through the air, making everyone's robes flutter. The dragon claw pointed towards the massive portal to Hellgate in the distance, its roar echoing like thunder across the heavens and earth:
"I want to preserve Sultanza intact and transform it into a mobile war fortress supporting the Maze!"
Its voice grew louder and louder, every word filled with ambition and determination: "Then from there—from there draw the magic net into the abyss, making it the bridgehead for Faerûn's counterattack against the abyss!"
The dragon's roar shook the heavens, and even the demons and allied forces fighting in the distance stopped in their tracks and looked in terror toward the direction from which the sound came.
"To become a nail deeply driven into the source of chaos within the Mysriel-Isis magic network!"
The last sentence echoed in the air like a divine oracle, as if it came from a celestial decree.
Silence fell once more on the watchtower. But this silence was different from before; it wasn't one of shock and fear, but rather... awe.
18. Untold history, or perhaps mythology.
The demon army's response wasn't exactly swift, but it wasn't slow either.
The moment Sultanza came to a complete stop, a sharp horn blared across the Hellgate. It was a chaotic sonic wave woven from the wails of tormented souls, each note filled with pain and despair, rippling through the air in visible waves—a sound so powerful it would break the heart and bleed the listener.
The abyssal demons were not intimidated by this sudden turn of events. The moment the horns sounded, the demon army that had been surging towards the steel defenses began to regroup in an orderly fashion. Although the lower demons had limited intelligence and acted chaotically, they were still able to execute basic tactical maneuvers under the forced orders of the higher demons—provided that the higher demons did not start fighting among themselves.
Given the control levels of the three Abyss Lords, such chaos is unlikely to occur.
Casalos folded its dragon wings, its massive body casting a shadow atop the watchtower that swayed with the movement of the clouds. Its indigo vertical pupils narrowed slightly as it watched the distant demonic army's movements. Under the pseudo-Laplace's calculations, the enemy's reaction pattern was swiftly analyzed—the abyss lords were assessing the threat level, and a probing attack would commence within three minutes.
Elminster's white beard trembled slightly as he gripped his spellbook, his gaze fixed on the distant threat. High Lady Elasdra of Silvermoon City stood ramrod straight, her silver hair fluttering in the wind, her fingers lightly tracing the runes on her staff. Storm Silverhand gripped his sword hilt tightly, his silver eyes still burning with rage, clearly still harboring resentment over his earlier altercation with the Iron Dragon. The rest—Fzal Blackhammer, the dwarf Yhorm, the golden dragon druid Eros Krujipala, and the enigmatic Mist Master—each with their own thoughts, all stared intently at the ominous energy surging above Hellgate Keep, as if the sky itself trembled in fear of the sulfurous stench rising from the abyss.
"The demon is about to move." Casalos's voice was as calm as a deep pool, yet it made everyone present tense up.
The words had barely left his lips when a blazing inferno shot into the sky from the direction of Hellgate Fortress. It was a Balrog, one of the most notorious high demons in the Abyss. Its wingspan exceeded twelve meters, each flap leaving trails of incompletely burned black smoke in the air, resembling a moving volcano. The decapitation sword in its hand was wreathed in hellfire, its blade engraved with blasphemous runes, radiating an aura of destruction that contrasted sharply with the flaming whip tucked at its waist.
"Oh, so Lord Baylor himself has come." Casalos's tone was full of mockery, as if he were watching an amusing stage performance. "It seems those three cowardly Abyss lords take this dilapidated city quite seriously."
"Your Highness?" Storm Silverhand frowned, clearly puzzled by the title.
"It's just a pun in some language," Casalos lazily flicked his tail. "In that language system, 'Baelor' is a respectful title for a royal noble, pronounced similarly to 'Baroness,' and of similar status."
The Lord of the Mist's voice came from beneath the cloak, tinged with solemnity: "Don't underestimate them. Each Balor Balrog possesses power approaching or even surpassing that of a legendary being; this one is clearly a capable lieutenant under the Abyss Lord."
"Legend?" Casalos scoffed, offering no further explanation.
As they spoke, the elite force following behind the Balrog Demon revealed its full form. Thirty-six Soul Judges formed a perfect wedge formation; their pale skin was covered in eerie patterns, resembling a large hybrid of apes and wild boars. Small wings sprouted from their backs, seemingly unable to support their own weight, yet they flew steadily. Their red eyes, gleaming with an ember-like light, possessed the power to pierce the mind's barrier and devour souls.
More Flodemons circled on the flanks of the formation. These flying demons with vulture-like heads were the mainstay of the Abyss Legion's air force; their shrieks were terrifying, and the venom on their claws was enough to corrode even the strongest armor. Hundreds of Flodemons participated in this probing attack, their wings blotting out the sky and casting shadows that plunged the ground into brief darkness.
Elasdra gripped her staff tightly, her long silver hair swaying slightly in the invisible magic: "Do you need our assistance in defense?"
"No need." Casaloz's reply was as fiery as molten lava, concise and confident. It didn't even glance at the approaching demon army, but instead fixed its gaze on Storm's still-furious expression. "Storm, wanna make a bet? Can you 'heroes' compare to Netheril's craftsmanship?"
Storm's knuckles turned white from the force of his grip on the sword hilt, his voice sharp as a blade: "Save your taunts, Iron Dragon. If your floating city can't even withstand this little test, our blood won't pay for your arrogance." Casaloz's iron beak clicked again, emitting a mocking chuckle: "Arrogance? No, this is faith in something truly reliable." Its tail swept across the deck, the clanging of metal punctuating its words, "Open your eyes, learn something, don't just swing your sword."
Before the storm could retaliate, Balrog launched the first attack. It raised its decapitation sword high, hellfire blazing across its blade, forming a fiery blade fifty meters long. With a deafening roar, the flaming greatsword slashed towards Sultanza's protective barrier.
boom!
A massive explosion resounded through the sky, the shockwave from the collision of flames and magic spreading outwards, even reaching the watchtowers three kilometers away where the scorching heat could be felt. However, when the flames subsided, Sultanza's protective barrier remained unmoved, the purplish-black light curtain swallowing all attacks like an abyss.
"This protective barrier..." Ilminster seemed somewhat surprised, "is not simply arcane magic; it incorporates the power of the shadow plane."
"Bingo, too bad there's still no reward," Casalos said lazily. "The Miser Core provides near-limitless magic power, but how to use that magic power depends on the user's skill. The wraiths have been wandering the Shadow Dimension for over a thousand years; surely they must have learned something?"
The Soul Demons followed their master's lead and launched a second wave of attacks. Their combined soul energy wove a blasphemous chaotic magic circle in the air, and dark, bundle-like abyssal spells shot out from the chaotic core, each containing enough power to annihilate a soul, converging into a stream that relentlessly bombarded the floating city's defenses.
Meanwhile, the Florids were not idle either. They swooped down, their claws coated with corrosive toxins, trying to find a weak point in the barrier. Hundreds of Florids surged like a black tide, wave after wave crashing against the purplish-black light curtain.
All attacks were like mud oxen sinking into the sea, completely absorbed by that eerie light barrier. The purplish-black barrier was like a bottomless abyss, and no matter how powerful the attack, it could not stir up even a ripple on it.
"Is this the result of over a thousand years of research by the Wraiths in the Shadow Plane?" Elasdra exclaimed in astonishment. "A perfect fusion of negative energy and arcane magic, creating this defense capable of absorbing all attacks. If the Wraiths weren't so ambitious, they could be considered quite good allies."
"The twelfth prince, in Netheril's time, would be twelve archmages. Old man, how do you think you compare to those archmages?"
“I’ve never seen them before…” Elminster changed the subject helplessly.
"You've really never seen it before?" Casalos pressed. "Don't you know that the three demons that besieged Mysdrono were the work of a certain archmage?"
"What!" Elasdra's tone was unusually angry.
"Otherwise what? Weren't the demons in Hellgate originally created by the Netheril?" Casalos flapped his wings. "What, you want to cause them trouble? I happen to know where some of the Netheril archmages who escaped that destruction are now..."
"They're actually still alive!"
As they were talking, Sultanza's defense system suddenly activated.
The silver chains encircling the city erupted with a ghostly blue light, and the purplish-black light curtain suddenly rippled with eerie waves. A beam of grayish-white light shot out from the center of the ripples. The beam looked unremarkable, without any flashy special effects or astonishing momentum, like a corner of the sky at dusk. However, all the spellcasters present felt the destructive aura contained within it that made everyone's heart tremble.
"Disintegration?" Illmings frowned, his long beard, scorched by sparks, shrank into a ball. "No, this is purer than disintegration!"
The first to be affected was the Fromon charging at the forefront. The moment the grayish-white beam touched it, the demon began to disintegrate. It wasn't burning, nor was it corroding; visually, it was as if its existence was being erased at the most basic level. Its body, like a pencil drawing being erased, disappeared bit by bit into the air—regardless of the demon's true nature, this lump of matter was reduced to discrete, stable elementary particles.
"That is the most direct and pure destructive power originating from the Miser Core." The old sage's voice was filled with awe. His knowledge of the Miser Core made him understand what had happened. "The primal power contained in the magic network nodes was guided out by the spirits in some way."
Casalos's dragon tail wagged contentedly: "Netheril's craftsmanship,"
It said smugly, its tone brimming with undisguised arrogance, "Much more reliable than the heroic tales of your bards, Storm."
Upon hearing this, Storm's silver eyes blazed with renewed fury, but she gritted her teeth, suppressing her rebuttal. Seeing this, Elasdra stepped forward to shield her sister: "Cassaloz, the strength of this barrier... even surpasses the Mystron's Lock. Is this the power of the Mystron Core?"
“The Mysriel Locks are constructed purely with pointy-eared magic—High Elf magic originates from Avandor, and it's not a product of the Faerûn magic system. Although it's evolved over tens of thousands of years and works well under the magic network, the Mysriel Core is ultimately the core intersection of the Mysriel magic network. Using pointy-eared magic to utilize it would be strange if there weren't some problems.” Casalos answered Elasdra’s most pressing question, then added, “The Wraiths’ research is quite good, but unfortunately, their 'flow' is very limited.”
More beams of light shot out from the barrier, not many in number, but fortunately each beam accurately hit a target, and every demon struck was completely wiped out. But the demons weren't fools. After sacrificing more than a dozen of their companions, they quickly adjusted their formation, dodging the deadly "beams" whose trajectory wasn't particularly fast.
Unable to break through their defenses, and with each counterattack resulting in certain death from even a slight touch, Balor, seeing the dire situation, had no choice but to order a retreat. It roared and swung its decapitation sword, creating a wall of hellfire to block its minions' escape route and buy itself cover. This resulted in several more demons being struck by the disintegrating beam, but overall, most of its elite forces successfully retreated out of Sultanza's attack range.
"See? I told you the bandwidth was limited." Casalos shook his still disproportionately large head, his tone filled with endless regret. "If the pure destructive power of the Miser Core could be freely controlled as a beam cannon, I could have just blasted Hellgate Fortress to the ground. Why go through all this trouble?"
The demon's probing force retreated in disarray, losing nearly a third of its strength, though not entirely wiped out. More importantly, they had witnessed the terrifying power of Sultanza—a power capable of annihilating existence, a power that even demons dreaded.
On the watchtower, the expressions on people's faces varied. Some were shocked, some were worried, and some seemed thoughtful.
"I see," Elasdra said softly. "The power of the Miser Core is indeed immense, but it also has its limitations. That's why you need to deal with the Abyss Lord first."
"Brilliant." Casalos nodded. "The Miser Core is like a warehouse full of explosives, incredibly powerful but difficult to control. Even the wraiths who inherited the legacy of Archmage Netheril have only managed this much in over a thousand years. So..."
It turned to face the crowd, its indigo vertical pupils flashing coldly: "What we need is not to use it in battle, but to use it to create a fortress capable of withstanding the abyss for a long time."
"Let's go." Casalos walked towards the magic ship. "It's time to check our spoils. The demons won't be bothering us for a while, which gives us plenty of time to prepare."
The group exchanged glances and followed. Led by Casalos, they boarded the magic ship that had been prepared beforehand. This was the latest executive-class passenger ship produced by the Astral City. Its streamlined hull was covered with protective runes, and its decks and cabins were equipped with comprehensive comfort features suitable for different races. It also boasted excellent maneuverability and impressive flight speed. Although the magic ship seemed small compared to Sultanza, it was currently the most advanced flying vehicle on the continent of Faerûn.
The magic ship slowly ascended, heading towards the floating city three thousand meters away. As they drew closer, the entirety of Sultanza gradually came into view. The black walls resembled inverted mountains, every stone exuding the aura of time. Sharp towers pointed straight to the ground, as if to pierce the earth. The entire city was enveloped in an eerie beauty, a unique aesthetic that could only be born in the Shadow Dimension.
A purplish-black protective barrier enveloped the entire city, like a flowing shadow. Through the semi-transparent light curtain, one could vaguely see the city's interior—distorted buildings, eerie sculptures, and figures bound by silver chains.
"Truly magnificent," Elasdra murmured, the floating city's reflection shimmering in his silver eyes. "Even during Netheril's golden age, such a floating city was a rare sight, wasn't it?"
"In terms of size, Sultanza is only of average size among all the floating cities." Surprisingly, it wasn't Casalos who answered her, but the silent old treant Tulang. This old fellow of unknown age may have witnessed the Netheril era—the High Forest is right next to the Netheril Empire.
"The largest floating city is Sinlenar, with a diameter of over ten kilometers and a population of nearly one million. In comparison, Sultanza is less than three kilometers in diameter."
"But Sinlenar was already reduced to ruins," Casalos continued, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "When that fool Karthus cast the twelfth-circle spell, Iolem had already abandoned his floating city. At that moment, the panicked inhabitants of Sinlenar were flying over the Nether Mountains. The instant the magic network collapsed, the entire city, like a kite with a broken string, crashed into the depths of the mountains, becoming part of that geological landscape formed over millions of years."
It shook its head, as if lamenting the lives lost: "It's said that the earthquake caused by the impact could be felt thousands of miles away. Nearly a million people were wiped out in an instant."
The magical ship continued its journey, and the atmosphere on board grew somewhat somber. The fall of Netheril was one of the greatest calamities in Faerûn's history, and even after more than a thousand years, the memory still evokes deep sorrow.
"Speaking of which, Lord Casalorz, I have a question I wonder if you could answer for me." Elasdra seemed to recall something, his gaze turning to Casalorz, who was steering the Void. "You just said that the Miser Core is a node of the Magic Network, and I can sense your awe and longing for its power. But what I can't understand is why you simultaneously harbor such contempt for the Netheril who created the Miser Core."
This question immediately drew everyone's attention. Those present were among the most powerful spellcasters in Faerûn, possessing a profound understanding of the nature of magic. However, Casalos's contradictory behavior piqued everyone's curiosity.
Casalos turned around, paused, and cracked its iron beak. A glint of amusement flashed in its indigo vertical pupils: "It seems your understanding of Netheril is limited to recorded human history."
It refocused its attention on the front, and while manipulating the rudder of the magic ship—which was purely for ritual purposes—with its mage-like hand, it began its "history lesson":
"The Mistre Core is the greatest invention of the Arcane Empire Netheril—almost every Forsaken who knows the word 'Mistre Core' regards this as truth and is filled with longing and fantasy for that prosperous era of arcane magic. You Forsaken always exaggerate the Mistre Core as the genius of Netheril, and wish you could worship those fishermen as gods."
The dragon's voice sounded exceptionally clear on the sea breeze, each word carrying an indescribable arrogance and mockery: "But is that truly the case?"
Elminster's white beard trembled slightly, and displeasure flashed in his eyes: "Audacious statement, Iron Dragon. Netheril's arcane magic has altered Forgotten Realms, are you saying they're just... fishermen?"
This question left everyone looking at each other in bewilderment. In their understanding, the Miser Core was indeed an invention of Netheril, a fact clearly recorded in all historical texts. Could there be some hidden story behind it?
"In the relatively intact historical understanding of the Atheros," Casalos clicked his iron beak again, his tone suddenly turning mocking, "it's quite possible that those two idiots covered in precious metal scales taught the Netheril fishermen how to create Mistrean cores."
"What?!" The golden dragon druid, Eros Krujipala, was the first to jump up, his green eyes filled with disbelief. "You mean the metal dragons taught the Netherilites? How is that possible?"