Pillars of Ita

"They can't see us?"

Elius suddenly realized something. From the moment that young man took that step, they seemed to have vanished into thin air, as if an invisible barrier separated them from this period of history.

Everything from the past was unfolding right before their eyes, but Maryland in the snowstorm, and the spirit of Livegard, seemed oblivious to them and the box.

Although they were only a dozen steps apart, it was as if they were in two different time flows.

“It’s just a little trick,” Olivia said. “We’ve only temporarily stepped out of the illusion of this history and are on the edge of the vortex.”

Elisa also glanced at Olivia, the scholar of unknown origin who claimed to have come to uncover the truth of history, but her true purpose remained a mystery.

Her words clearly didn't easily dispel Elisa's doubts, but Elisa also understood what was most important at the moment, so she asked:

"When should we make our move?"

“It’s up to you,” Olivia said, seemingly extending a gesture of goodwill. “The power of the time turbulence is crumbling, and it seems that Ed’s historical fragments have come to an end, which is why I can intervene—however, we don’t have much time left.”

Elisa looked in that direction, where history, too, was coming to an end amidst the wind and snow, just as it had a hundred years ago, with everything from the past playing out exactly as it had been.

Livegard defeated Selgeous, its nemesis with whom it had been entangled for three hundred years.

Although Elisa still doesn't understand how this great explorer from the Gulf came to this side of time, Kyos's fate is just like the Oathkeeper's heavy destiny—

The holy sword Moya shattered into pieces, scattered across the land of a foreign land. The hero who held the sword knelt on the ground, his flowing blood staining the pure white snowflakes.

The vow was unspoken, but it at least bore witness to this tragedy.

A bloodstained relic—a fragment of the Holy Grail of the Elves—rolled to Livegard's feet—if it still had claws. From within that writhing mass of flesh, a voice spoke once more:
"Mortal, you deserve a reward; I will cleanse your soul with darkness. But I cannot do that now. Take my soul with you first, and I will promise you inexhaustible wealth and power, and have those who listen to the will of the saints help you—"

"Then, return here and break the seal. I will give you an inexhaustible source of power, making you one who belongs to all death."

"And first, lift your head and tell me your name."

The voice was somewhat bewitching.

The young man humbly prostrated himself on the ground, and only after receiving permission did he look at the golden eye with a hint of fanaticism. His Adam's apple bobbed, and then he answered:

“My name is Art, and I am just a wanderer from Winterhold.”

……

"It just believed it like that?" Eliusis asked incredulously. "Is it the so-called most cunning Dark Dragon King, or is it just a creature with the same name?"

“Each dragon has a unique surname, which they inherit from their bloodline.”

Olivia, like an outsider, said, "It's just that Livegard was too confident, because no opponent wielding the Mark of Eternity could kill it, and even the elves could only seal it away."

"It scornfully despises all the schemes and tricks of the mortal world; a mortal's long life is but a fleeting moment to it."

"It has endless time to wait for the game to fall apart and the conspiracy to be exposed. What you see now is just another part of its scheme."

As Elius thought about everything that might be happening in the main timeline, she couldn't help but shut her mouth. When was it not for her that she longed for such an immortal power?

Elisa stared intently at the scene before her, her eyes burning with intensity.

"Therefore, we must be swift and decisive, and resolve the problem once and for all."

The box silently wiped the blade, and Gwendes remained silent. The sword light, like water, seemed to reflect the many past events of thousands of years ago at that moment.

It remembered the glow of the furnace fire, why it was forged, and how the scalding dragon blood was poured onto its blade, allowing it to once again smell the power that shared the same origin.

It is—a sword to slay a dragon.

The boy released his grip and gently lowered the sword blade.

Even Olivia turned around, gazing at the sword in the box's hand and the patterns climbing up its blade, casting a fleeting glance at it.

The dark dragon spread its wings, casting a shadow of death—an ancient prophecy foreshadowing the inevitable end for mortals:

The fire of Venus falls into the dust, and the flames of purification will burn away everything above the sea of ​​clouds.

In the end, only ashes remained.

The cursed dragons cannot be killed; they will rise again and again from their own blood, returning with renewed might—something Livegard apparently never imagined—

Even an ordinary person can have the ambition to replace it.

Guided by it, Maryland is digging her hands into the rotting flesh to extract the pulsating, dark heart—the vessel that holds her soul.

The young man raised the throbbing flesh high, but Livegard's voice suddenly became hesitant and solemn:
"What are you trying to do, young man?"

In Maryland's other hand appeared the star tracker—a fragment of the elven relic. He had picked up the fragment sometime earlier and kept it hidden until now.

“I would like to know the value of this fragment, Your Majesty.”

At this point, Livegard's words carried a hint of calm. "Its only value lies in restraining my power, is that what you want to do?"

“As expected, I knew it.” Maryland gave a strange smile.

"You want to seal me away?"

The young man held the elven fragment in his hands, somewhat mesmerized: "I want to be you, my Majesty."

Levergad sneered:

"You covet my power, but that power will only devour you and turn you into another mad monster."

“No,” Maryland shook his head, “I do not want the power you bestow upon me, Your Majesty. I admire you, but only your schemes and your power.”

“I know the source of this power,” he said, looking at the heart in his hand, “and I know how to possess it, not to become another you, but to replace you—”

He will become the being above that, one of the many wills in that darkness. He doesn't need anyone's approval, because he is—he will be one of them.

Lifgard watched silently as this ambitious young man, whom it had rarely encountered in its long life, sought power from the saints, but his demands were endless.

He, a mortal, made a vow to become a saint.

It gave a cold laugh and said nothing more.

Behind the young man, the air trembled, and at that moment it was as if a door had opened in the wind and snow, from which Elisa, Olivia, Eliussis, and the box filed out.

Maryland heard a noise behind him and turned around alertly. He saw Elisa and Olivia standing in front of him, as if he had suddenly regained a lost memory.

For the first time, astonishment appeared on the face of the future homeless man:

"You are--"

But Elisa didn't give him a chance to ask more questions. Her gaze fell on the purplish-red heart in Maryland's hand, and she spoke decisively:

"Do it!"

From behind her, a dark, gleaming sword light emerged from its sheath.

……

Rifgard, rising from the temple, spread its wings like a shadow gradually enveloping the floating city. Its golden eyes lowered, filtering everything in the city into its golden flames.

It was as if the banners of the Noumelin elves still stood, and the knights wearing silver helmets were pulling down their cold visors, leaving only their gazes as cold as moonlight.

The battlefield echoed with the mournful sound of long horns like the sound of pine trees, and the swords and spears were as numerous as snowflakes and as strong as a forest.

The shadows of history and today overlapped as the knights saddled their horses from Soramea. The golden manes brushed against the flames, igniting their lances, and the cold gleam of the lance tips burned the eyes of the dark dragon.

Just like the wound left on its neck by the Holy Sword of Moa, a fragment of which still remains beneath its skin, burning its soul.

The horned tyrant raised its head and let out a deep, long howl into the rain. The howl seemed to tremble the ground, to pass through the air, and to herald the return of a long-ago past.

Nearly a thousand years of planning, witnessing the rise and fall of the mortal world, generation after generation of mortals have passed through its coldly observed fate, noble, ordinary, base or cunning, but all have turned to ashes, layer upon layer, on the history written by the world.

Of those, only two names it could remember.

With a flap of his wings, Lifgard leaped down from the summit of the holy mountain.

Leonard watched as the shadow grew larger and larger in his pupils.

He began to feel that the whole world was going against them, that the sky was split in two, and that the part of the sky belonging to history was shrinking little by little.

And rain, whether it belongs to history or not, is falling from mid-air.

above the sky.

Of the two fleets of the Flame of the Tower, one had already begun to change course. The captains finalized the plan, and the sailors ran back and forth on the deck. The communications officer raised his lantern and kept opening and closing the flaps above it, casting light into the wind and rain.

Meanwhile, a pale-faced sailor turned around at the ship's side:
"The Oath Court... requests our aid; they... request that we join them in attacking Lefgard..."

"That's just...a scene from history...we...cannot agree to their request."

The commander chose to remain silent. Bishop Baldoma Eisenkel was not on board. Three hundred years ago, since the Lady of Flameheart left, the Oath Court had changed a great deal.

Having lost their proud path, people seem to have lost their courage as well. They used to be spirited and fearless, but now they have become hesitant and indecisive.

The sailors shone several lights in that direction.

The fleet from three hundred years ago fell silent for a moment, its lights flickered twice, and then went out.

"What...did they reply?"

"They said...we are not friendly forces."

Turning off the lights means communication is interrupted.

But it often has more than one meaning. On the gleaming stone slabs, words are inscribed that those who have embarked on the path have an obligation to stand up against injustice.

But they have strayed from the right path.

No, it was the path that abandoned them.

Leonard Gulmod held his sword high in the air.

"Knights of Marlan!" The young knights' shouts trembled in the wind and rain, yet seemed unwavering. They were about to face the most treacherous enemy in history, a dark tyrant.

He closed his eyes, struggling to suppress the fear in his heart. But what he feared was not death, but whether they could stop the dark dragon named Livegard here?
That chilling name once wrote the longest and most terrifying chapter in the War of Dragons.

He already knew the truth, and knew his fate in the course of history.

Will a seed from the past sprout new buds in the future, or a gust of wind from beyond time, eventually shatter this world?

If they had died at this moment in the past, would history have written them as heroes or sinners?

But whether they are heroes or sinners.

The sword of Duro.

We are the sword of Duro.

He screamed inwardly, as if trying to stop the boundless fear, letting what he didn't know was whether it was the wind and rain or tears streaming down his face, finally transforming into a shout that pierced through the wind and rain:

"attack--"

The knights mounted their mounts, their faces all looking the same, even blurry. They pulled down their cold visors, leaving only their gazes as cold as moonlight.

Fang Zheng watched this scene silently from the high platform, as if he could see the rainbow-colored mane brushing against the dawn light, and the steed from Solamea spreading its wings.

The knights with pointed ears raised their lances and launched a general attack towards the horizon, towards the outstretched wings.

The long horn, mournful as the sound of pine trees, echoed in the rain.

"Mr. Reed."

“I’m here, Ed.”

"I'll leave it to you later."

The giant cat-man held his sword, raindrops dripping from the tufts of his mane. Unusually, he didn't say much, only nodding silently.

Fang Heng pulled down the wind mirror, raised his hand, and water droplets formed patterns on the glass. He saw Loren turn around and look at him for the last time, their eyes meeting.

The knights drew ever closer to the dragon.

The shadow beneath the dragon's wings had almost reached the plaza. Seeing this, the knights threw their lances, which, like streaks of silver flame, pierced through the rain and struck the shadow of death.

But the owner of the shadow merely flapped his wings, scattering the flying spears into pieces.

It was killed several times in the cycle of history, but that was only its carefully designed ending. The spirits of Noumelin sealed it in the cracks of the timeline, but time itself became its ally.

Poison, lies, and blades cannot kill darkness itself; instead, they allow it to return, manipulating people's hearts and quietly waiting for the ancient seal to crumble under the dominance of greed.

It has time to wait for the cage to be broken, and that moment is now.

In those long years, even the knights who led the light could not kill it, let alone these mortals? It always praised the courage of these mortals, but mocked the foolishness of the insects.

Perhaps this is the limitation of short-lived species.

Their gaze, throughout their entire lives, can never transcend that single moment, which is precisely why they repeatedly make the same mistakes.

Selgios.

It remembered that name.

Now, all it needs to do is kill the young man who still controls the core of this magic array, and it will truly gain freedom, its first rebirth in a thousand years.

That historical illusion was destined to be unable to stop it.

Because its destiny has been freed from this ancient seal, and with the seed it planted itself, it has sprouted and grown three hundred years later.

Almost every moment, Livegard felt the power returning to his body, and that feeling of returning to the peak was incredibly captivating.

It almost made it want to roar to the sky again.

It spread its wings—and then it was about to teach these laughable mortals a lesson, to show them what the true Lord of Darkness really was.

In the quiet hall, under the watchful gaze of the Trillium icon.

The blood-stained blade was embedded in the girl's chest, and blood as red as pomegranate juice was flowing across the marble floor. The person who held the sword seemed to have left, disappearing into the end of history.

Only the small, exquisite star track remained, its two or three brass rings swaying in the pool of blood, once, twice; this sacred relic of the elves seemed to be trembling slightly.

Amidst the swirling snow and wind.

Maryland clutched her chest in disbelief, staring at the group of people in front of her with blood streaming from her mouth.

The vision of this ambitious future man seemed to be dimming, becoming hazy, and then gradually losing focus, before he collapsed in the snow after a dizzying spin.

The beating heart bounced a few times from its hand and fell into a patch of white snow, rising and falling, contracting and expanding, as if it still possessed life.

Elisa looked at the cold-faced boy beside her.

The scholar was watching this scene with a calm expression.

Only the box seemed oblivious to all of this, as if it were nothing more than a mundane task. It stepped forward, hands down, and aimed Gwendes's blade at the heart.

The jet-black blade trembled slightly.

"I remember now."

"I am--"

The boy gripped the sword tightly and thrust it down.

……

Katherine Ellentz was walking out of that quiet, starry night.

But the female pirate suddenly stopped in front of the ruins of the square. She looked up at the person in front of her who felt both strange and familiar.

It's as if many, many years have passed by in a hurry in this ancient city.

It seems as if three centuries ago, or perhaps a century ago, the Flamewright came and went, the Sons of the Bay came and went, and the young man from Winterhold came and went.

Finally, Vol-Salasti became a legend, leaving only ruins after the passage of time.

Amidst the ruins, Alice gazed at the face that gradually matched the one in the records—the pirate king of Silver Chain Island, a man whose real name was Charon Bartholomew.

The other person turned around, looking at them with some surprise, and said:

"who are you?"

...(End of chapter)