Chapter Forty-Six: Mithril

Qin Le tugged at the corner of his mouth, speechless though he was, but said nothing. He had long grown accustomed to the elf’s greed.

Finding a place to sit, he asked, “What brings you two to the royal palace? I suppose you’re not here just for idle chatter?”

Given the special circumstances, Qin Le rarely communicated with the outside world directly; even with the diplomatic team, he relied solely on radio transmissions.

Olina drew a deep breath, her expression uncharacteristically grave. “Qin Le, I want to be king. I hope for your help.”

“Oh?” Qin Le was somewhat surprised; this naive girl had never shown the slightest interest in power before. Had the recent declaration ignited a fighting spirit in her?

“Why?” Qin Le looked at Olina with genuine curiosity.

Olina replied with all seriousness, “It’s still the same reason as before. I want to realize everything you’ve told me, here in this place I hate, the place where I grew up. Just as you said, ideals can only be fulfilled by wielding power to match them, and for that, I need the Sword of Dawn.”

“I need to use the sword that forged this nation, to overturn it.” There was a new sharpness in Olina’s eyes, a steely resolve that had never before appeared.

“But I don’t have the strength to win the royal selection. I’m no match for my brothers or sisters. Right now, I can only rely on you.”

Qin Le sighed from the heart; truly, people often grow in an instant. In just a few days, the seemingly foolish girl had already transformed.

“Olina, though I don’t want to discourage you, I must be clear: it’s impossible to realize a republic in this world right now.” Qin Le shook his head slightly.

As a noble of this era, it was remarkable—and dangerous—for Olina to harbor such thoughts. She was moving too fast, leaving the times far behind.

If his elder sister Irene was a reformer, then Olina was a madwoman. Her past experiences already made clear that this world was not yet ready for a republic. Anyone who tried would be despised and shunned by all.

Olina’s persistence in helping commoners would earn her no respect, only the reputation of a freak. Among the nobility, she’d be scorned for mingling with the lowborn; among the commoners, she’d be taken for a fool.

Before Olina could ask the usual “why,” Qin Le smiled and said, “Olina, do you know why this is?”

He had asked her this before, but every time she would answer with naive simplicity, taking things far too much for granted: as if spreading the idea of equality would alone convince people.

Olina fell silent for a full minute, then said, “They haven’t enough to eat or wear; they can’t think that far.”

“So, you want to feed them all—these thirty million people? Do you think you can do that? And if you meet the needs of the masses, what about the extraordinary? They are the mainstream of society, the group that holds real power—the masses are helpless before them.” Qin Le pressed on, his tone growing sterner.

In this world, supernatural power existed and the land was abnormally fertile; in some regions, crop yields nearly matched those of genetically modified grains. With spells to summon rain, famine was generally avoided.

Not to mention the legendary druids who could manipulate plants—according to a preliminary investigation by Xuanlu’s special unit, the Kingdom of Dawn’s productive capacity was nearly at a modern level.

Yet the kingdom still faced food shortages, because those with supernatural powers consumed ten, even dozens of times as much food as ordinary people. And the masses bred without restraint. The entire society’s mindset was to have as many children as possible, no matter how harsh life became, in hopes of producing one with supernatural talent.

If a family produced one such child, even a serf would gain status and become a free man. A free man might live in comfort, and a wealthy family could ascend to nobility.

In a world ruled by supernatural forces, the lower classes had no power to overturn anything. That was why Xuanlu had no thoughts of revolution for now—there simply was no point of leverage.

Faced with such an unfamiliar social structure, Xuanlu could only proceed with extreme caution, crossing the river one step at a time.

Olina hung her head, speechless again; every time the discussion turned to this subject, Qin Le became all the more severe.

“I don’t know…”

Qin Le patted Olina’s head. “The truth is, no one knows what to do yet. All we can do now is strive for greater power—only with a sword in hand do we have the right to speak of ideals. Xuanlu will support you.”

“Yes,” Olina nodded slightly.

Qin Le was right: only with power does one have the right to speak of ideals. Had she no talent, she would likely still be fighting stray dogs for scraps in the slums, never a princess.

Power was the foundation of all things. If she could wield absolute might, perhaps she could build the nation Qin Le envisioned.

But would that truly be a country of equality? A nation built on her own power—could it survive unchanged after her death?

Olina sank into deep thought once more. There were too many questions she could not answer. She knew only Qin Le might hold the answers, yet he would not give them to her directly.

“Well then, enough philosophy. Let’s talk business.” Qin Le turned his gaze to the elf, who was still twirling her spear.

“Aimeya, I suspect the ones who attacked us before, and the masterminds behind the Green Ghoul Disaster, may be the High King, or the cult behind the Crown Prince.”

At these words, the elf’s bored expression vanished, replaced instantly by gravity. “Then we should run!”

“Can’t you show a little backbone?” Qin Le was exasperated.

“If I had backbone, I’d be dead already. You can’t eat backbone,” Aimeya said, repeating her oft-quoted maxim.

You can’t eat X.

“And anyway, we’re talking about a cult—a bunch of lunatics who can’t be understood by reason, who might launch a suicide attack at any moment. They don’t care about logic; their minds are full of green ghouls and they do whatever they please.”

Ever since she’d accidentally mingled with them and witnessed their madness firsthand, Aimeya had sworn never to cross paths with that crowd again. If it weren’t for Olina, who stubbornly refused to run, Aimeya would have long since slipped away.

“All right, I was wrong, I shouldn’t have mentioned backbone,” Qin Le conceded.

Aimeya blinked in confusion. “Why does it sound like you’re insulting me?”

“I’ll get to the point. I need more holy weapons. That dagger you gave me last time broke after one use,” Qin Le said.

He’d intended to send the dagger back for research, but it had evaporated—without a trace—after being driven into a ghoul.

Now, with cultists to deal with, holy weapons were indispensable.

Aimeya cast him a sidelong glance. “Do you take me for a genie? Whatever you wish for, you get? Holy weapons require mithril to forge—they’re rare, and I only had the one. You’ll have to buy more from the Church of the Sacred Light. I’m out.”

“Mithril? What’s that?” Qin Le asked.

Aimeya replied without hesitation: “It’s a special metal, similar to silver. After special treatment, it absorbs the moon’s glow and the sun’s blaze.”

“Silver,” Qin Le mused, suspecting he was onto something. He turned to Fishhead: “Fishhead, fetch some high-purity silver.”

“Yes, sir.”

Under Aimeya’s puzzled gaze, Fishhead pretended to open a portal and left, returning ten minutes later with a suitcase.

He set the case on the table and opened it, revealing it was filled with silver.

Seeing this familiar sight, Aimeya’s heart sank. Pointing at the silver, she asked, “Don’t tell me all of this is mithril?”

“I can’t be sure. Do you have a way to test it?” Qin Le shook his head.

Last time, high-purity gold had shown a special reaction to qi. Xuanlu had tried the same with silver, but nothing had happened.

He didn’t expect much, but decided to try his luck.

Aimeya slowly picked up a heavy silver ingot, and from her seemingly bottomless pocket produced a delicate little knife.

Swish!

The knife whirled deftly between her slender fingers, carving mysterious runes into the silver.

A minute later, the engraved ingot lay before them.

Aimeya swallowed, poured qi into the silver, and the runes glowed faintly. Sunlight began to gather around the ingot.

Qin Le’s face lit up. “Did it work?”

“We can’t be sure yet. Let’s see if it holds the sun’s blaze,” Aimeya said, shaking her head, though an uneasy certainty crept over her.

Silver possessed holiness, typically used against demons. But a truly holy weapon—mithril—had to capture the power of sun and moon.

A few minutes passed; at last sunlight ceased to gather, and the ingot now glimmered with a faint golden light.

Aimeya said nothing, watching intently to see if the ingot could retain the sun’s power.

One minute. Two. Three…

Under everyone’s gaze, the ingot continued to emit a faint golden glow that did not diminish.

“It… it’s mithril.” Even though she’d half expected it, Aimeya still found it hard to believe.

Qin Le’s face broke into a delighted smile. “Aimeya, I’d like you to help me make a batch of holy mithril. Five kilograms for one gold coin, and I need a hundred kilograms.”

“What?” The elf, still stunned, was utterly dumbfounded. “A… a hundred kilograms?”

Qin Le nodded. “That’s right—a hundred kilograms. I need them for bullets.”

If silver truly worked against cultists, things would be much simpler. Let them have a taste of Buddhist compassion in the form of heavy machine guns, and holy flame shotguns.

As long as the royal knights could root out the cultists, Xuanlu would bury them under a mountain of cash.

Aimeya sucked in a sharp breath, once again shaken by his boundless extravagance.

A hundred kilos of mithril—were they planning to fight a god?

…

Days later, the capital remained prosperous as ever. The nobles wined and dined, the endless balls a stage for alliances and exchanges of benefit.

For the common folk, life was unchanged—the royal selection meant nothing to them. They had neither the right nor the means to care. All they could do was welcome the new king, and continue to scramble for their next meal.

Along the largest river in the capital, the stone-paved walkways bustled with people—monster hunters at rest, nobles out for a stroll, freemen tending their stalls. Only the destitute were absent.

“Royal Knights, carrying out the king’s orders! All unrelated persons must disperse! Disobey, and you die!”

Dozens of knights stormed the right bank, driving people off the street—noble or hunter, it made no difference.

The crowd, baffled, dared not resist the murderous knights—even the nobles obediently withdrew.

But the people did not leave; instead, they gathered at a distance, curiosity piqued. What on earth were the Royal Knights up to, acting so tense?

The knights opened a sewer outlet meant for stormwater, and strode into the darkness below.

“What are they doing? Has some monster appeared in the sewers?”

“I doubt it. If it were a monster, we hunters would be called in. These noble knights would never crawl into the sewers themselves.”

“How strange.”

The crowd swelled. Human nature loves a spectacle; all eyes were fixed on the sewer entrance, eager for answers.

An hour passed. Two. Still no sign of the knights. Those guarding the street did not leave, nor did they enter.

Gradually, most people drifted away, but some remained—the informants of various noble houses, and monster hunters with nothing better to do.

They were determined to see what had the Royal Knights so nervous.

What lay in the sewers that could shake the knights so?

At dusk, as the sun set and some hunters considered returning to their inns, a piercing, eerie sound issued from the sewers—a sound loud and unnatural, nothing any normal creature could make.

The crowd tensed in alarm. A moment later, figures staggered from the sewer—the knights who had gone in before.

They were covered in blood, their armor dull and battered, supporting one another in wretched disarray. Their number had been halved.

At this, those with experience turned pale. Whatever had happened below, it was something truly dire.

The Royal Knights ignored the onlookers, slung the wounded on their backs, and hurried straight to the palace.

A rumor quickly swept the upper echelons of the capital: there was something lurking in the sewers, and more than a dozen Royal Knights had died because of it.