The Great Migration

Half a month had passed since Mo Fei and Vivian’s grand wedding. During this time, Mo Fei spent most of his days in the newly built alchemy room behind the small building. He was determined to turn all the herbs gathered during the city’s construction into potions—anything less would be a waste. As a result, all council meetings for the past half month had taken place in the alchemy room.

“Lord, what kind of medicine are you making? Will it really be useful?” Elder Auf inquired.

“Elder, that Death Forest is so rarely trodden by men. I suspect there must be miasma there; otherwise, it wouldn’t keep everyone away.”

“My lord, what is miasma?” Kain asked, puzzled.

“Is it that poisonous mist?” Elder Auf guessed.

“Exactly. Those mists are toxic, and not just any poison—so far as I know, there’s nothing on the continent that can cure it.”

“Does that mean your medicine can treat it?” Elder Auf exclaimed in delight.

“Of course. This is nothing—I’ve faced far worse.” Mo Fei smiled.

“Wonderful! With this medicine, the forest will be ours at last!” Elder Auf was elated at the thought of claiming the Death Forest’s untouched resources.

“My potions will be finished in a few days. Every warrior must carry some. The rest can be requested from Kain if needed. I’ve also prepared a batch for the Dwarven miners.” Mo Fei lifted a large wooden barrel filled with pills and addressed Elder Auf: “Distribute these to all the miners. Tell them, whether they cough or not, they should take it—preferably dissolved in warm water for better effect. One dose a month prevents other ailments. These are all I could prepare with the current herbs; I’ll make more when I can.”

“Thank you, lord,” Elder Auf said, moved.

“No thanks needed. If not for the efforts of your Dwarven craftsmen, Mist City would not be what it is today. If anything, I should thank you all!” Mo Fei replied.

“Well then, let’s not stand on ceremony—we all work for the good of the city,” said Wade. “We’ll be ready in a few days, just as your potions are finished. Let’s leave the lord to his work and go make arrangements for the journey.” With these three in charge, Mo Fei never had to worry about city affairs.

Once they left, Mo Fei could focus on his own matters. Aside from alchemy, he spent the rest of his days either accompanying Vivian or cultivating with the magical spirit-gathering array. Ever since it had been established, he had hardly trained properly, always busy with other things, constantly derailing his original cultivation plan.

Thankfully, despite the lack of time, his level remained intact; what he now lacked was sufficient spiritual energy. With the array’s help, his strength had recovered to the Foundation Establishment stage, enough to ride the sword through the air. In this land, only those with the power of a Sword Saint could fly—Mo Fei now matched that level.

Anyone unfamiliar with him, mistaking him for a frail mage, would pay dearly for their error.

Mo Fei often mused: there were no shortage of powerful figures on this continent, many of whom he personally knew. Even the Dragonrock Empire, not considered a top-tier power, boasted numerous seventh-tier and above. Magic Martial Empire should have even more. Yet why, during the war with Magic Martial, did none of these mighty ones appear? He had even asked Elder Auf and the others about it.

It turned out that, sometime in the past, the nations of the continent had reached an unspoken agreement. The destruction caused by those above the seventh tier was too great; if they intervened in battle against regular soldiers, it was tantamount to slaughter. Imagine a grand mage casting a forbidden spell upon an army—who among ordinary soldiers could survive? Thus, any nation fielding seventh-tier or higher in war would face the wrath of the entire continent.

Over time, such high-level power became more a deterrent than a weapon.

It seemed that, in future wars, he too would have to restrain himself, placing his hopes on the formidable Berserker Legion.

Now let’s look in on the lady of the city, Princess Vivian. Since her marriage to Mo Fei, the people of Mist City had grown deeply fond of their beautiful and kind princess. Whenever Vivian strolled through the city with Kroll and others, she was constantly invited into the homes of enthusiastic dwarves, minotaurs, and elves. Their warmth was so overwhelming that, in recent days, Vivian had scarcely dared to step outside, choosing instead to remain in the lord’s manor, accompanying Mo Fei in his cultivation.

When Mo Fei’s training was back on track, he found time to instruct Kroll and the others. Having grown up as the princess’s personal guards and also being his friends, he spared no effort with them. Improved techniques, elixirs—nothing was withheld. At first, they were unsettled by Mo Fei’s sudden strength, but recalling the air of mystery he’d always had, they accepted it. At least he harbored no ill intent toward them.

At last, the time came for the city’s great migration. Vivian knew that one reason Mo Fei was relocating Mist City was to spare her from difficulties. Kain, ever the born strategist, arranged the endless column so that ballistae were positioned within mutual support distance, and the hundred-thousand-strong Berserker Legion was deployed in squads of ten along both flanks, able to reinforce each other and the ballistae. This setup could withstand any enemy until help arrived.

Watching the mighty migration force, seated in the grand carriage crafted for him, Mo Fei wondered at all he’d accomplished since arriving on this continent—without even knowing how it came to be. The carriage was comfortable and steady, yet Mo Fei felt restless. He’d spent all his time working for others, and his dream of roaming the continent had been endlessly postponed. Now a new city was to be built, but he could offer no help; all the work was in the hands of Elder Auf and the others. Vivian sensed his mood, took his hand, and leaned into his embrace—silent, but offering him immense support.

Mo Fei now rarely had the chance to fight, unsure of his true strength. Surrounded by guards on every campaign, opportunities to act himself were few. Though he estimated his power matched that of a Sword Saint, he had never faced one in combat.

“Lord, scouts report a force of about eight thousand is rapidly approaching our left flank,” Kain reported. “We’ll make contact in two or three hours.”

“Do we know who they are?” Mo Fei wondered why a force of only eight thousand would dare provoke his group of over two hundred thousand.

“Scouts say they’re cavalry clad in black light armor, but nothing more. They’re too fast.”

“Order the column to halt. Concentrate the ballistae on the left, archers to the front, ballistae ready for action.”

“Yes, sir.”

A series of whistles sounded, and the moving army halted instantly. “Enemy attack!”

“First through fourth battalions, form up on the left. Fifth through eighth, take up a ringed defensive formation to protect the main column. Ninth and tenth, provide mobile support,” Kain relayed calmly.

Soon, the left wing was arrayed in a defensive formation, one hundred and twenty ballistae lined up behind the ranks, all primed for battle.

Before long, a fast-moving shadow appeared on the horizon. As the dust clouds grew, so did the black mass.

“Order the ballistae to fire a long-range warning. If they approach any closer, kill them without mercy.” Seeing the enemy maintain speed, Mo Fei would not allow them to get close.

At his command, a shrill whistle sounded. One hundred and twenty giant bolts screamed over the heads of the charging cavalry. Finally, they halted, but too late—the twenty thousand archers had already rained a storm of arrows, felling three thousand who ignored the warning and pressed into range. The berserkers quickly encircled the remaining four thousand cavalry, their giant axes gleaming coldly. At a word, these men would vanish from the earth in an instant.

“Kain, go and ask who they are and what they want.”

“Yes, lord!” Kain strode over and called out, “Who are you? Where are you from?”

“And who are you, to trespass on our land?” the cavalry leader retorted, though his voice trembled, unnerved by losing half his men in a heartbeat.

Mo Fei heard this from behind and snapped, “If they refuse to answer, wipe them out.”

The formation of the cavalry had clearly been meant to charge into his ranks and sow chaos—hardly the act of a friendly force.

Kain ordered, “Archers ready! They have three breaths to answer, or they die.”

With a swish, twenty thousand archers lifted their crossbows as one.

“We are the guards of Prince Grelit! How dare you cause trouble in his fief? Are you not afraid of his wrath?”

“Who is Prince Grelit?” Mo Fei asked Vivian beside him.

“Nothing but a scoundrel who abuses his distant royal kinship to commit every crime and tarnish the royal name!” Vivian replied with indignation.

“Is this really his fief?” Mo Fei looked around the desolate land. “Why would a prince come to such a place?”

“This is near the Death Forest, so technically it falls under your domain, lord. Prince Grelit only seeks pleasure in the city and rarely leaves—when he does, it’s only to cause trouble,” said Elder Warton.

“So this land is mine, Elder?”

“Yes, lord.”

“Good. If this Grelit is such a villain, I doubt his men are any better. Kain, destroy them!”

To dare invade his domain and claim it as their own—Grelit had provoked someone he could neither afford nor hope to offend. Would a man who disregarded even the empire care about some remote prince?

A volley of arrows sounded, and the elite cavalry force Prince Grelit had spent years assembling vanished from the land.

“Reform the column and advance. We should reach our destination before sunset tomorrow,” Kain ordered.

Forty-six days after departing Mist City, the end was finally in sight!