Chapter 310: Song of Peace

A rusted sword stained with blood lies buried in stone; a child searching for kin places shrouds upon his father and brothers.

The battle cries of a hundred years past have faded; the war banners and the Crown have lost their masters.

The hymns of the Sanctuary still linger; the mournful cries of the dead have turned to frost upon the stars' soil—why do the living on this scorched earth endure? For the Crown and banners of the past, or for the corpses of loved ones beneath the earth?

The ancient song was shaped in Old Elvish; without "Serpent's Tongue," merely understanding it is exceedingly difficult, let alone pronouncing it correctly.

This is a poem that feels awkward even in translation.

Its general meaning is that war brings nothing, and participation in war yields only suffering and meaningless loss—this is extremely rare among bards.

After all, heroes, princesses, and dragons are the bards' favorite tavern tunes.

A simple story—a hero slays the dragon, rescues the princess, and gains a happy life—is enough. Too complex a tale, or one that lacks satisfaction, is far too unfriendly to weary adventurers seeking rest.

They crave heroic epics—simple, direct, and thrilling.

This, perhaps, is the root of why Hero Cards and Mage Chess are so popular.

"Uh, this is a lethal dose, isn't it? Even for me, that's excessive. Give me an explanation."

What does it feel like to be hit with a fireball by your master? Li En felt dizzy; he took a deep breath, suppressing his agitation and the flames threatening to burst forth.

"Boom!"

A sneeze unleashed a burst of flame, resembling a tiny dragon's breath.

Li En's furnace-like body is truly absurd.

"Huff…" The Archmage still gasped heavily; for him, this was an unusual amount of exertion, especially after hearing Li En was trying to "mediate peace." He truly panicked.

He roughly knew what Li En had acquired; seeing him recite in Old Elvish, he instinctively interrupted.

"This bardic ballad is a true 'plague' capable of destroying everything. I don't know where you got it, but if it's connected to that man, it must never be sung."

What? A song linked to a plague?

The Archmage was no riddler; he had no intention of beating around the bush.

Confirming no one had heard the song, he finally sighed and relaxed.

He told Li En to find a private place for a quiet talk.

"Fortunately, you hinted you'd found his legacy, so I asked someone knowledgeable in my clan."

The Archmage wasted no time and handed Li En the sealed letter to read himself. He had assumed this difficult Elvish script would require his interpretation—yet Li En understood it at a glance.

"Damn, this is a trap."

This little tune, or "Song of Silent Peace," was invented by Fiestrion.

He, to stop the Elven civil war, stole the Elven King's divine artifact and became a criminal—this was not the full story, but merely its beginning.

As a criminal, he was subjected to the cruelest punishment.

Elves in official history are the very embodiment of torture.

His eyes, hearing, and tongue were removed; his eloquent, singing mouth was sealed; his beautiful face, meant for eating, was ruined; even his arms, used to play instruments, were severed and hung on the walls of the Wang Ting, left to dry and die.

Everyone believed he was dead—but he struggled and lived for a full month.

One night, he vanished. The Elven King suspected a half-elf had rescued him out of pity, and thus took vengeance on the half-elf clan, exiling some from the Wang Ting.

But looking back now, it was likely just an excuse to vent rage.

"So far, there's been no massacre of half-elves?" Li En was surprised; this contradicts the description of the "Great Criminal."

The Archmage shook his head; he hadn't expected a "childhood fairy tale" to differ so drastically from reality.

"Actually, it wasn't just half-elves who were slaughtered. Three years later, Fiestrion reappeared."

By then, the Elven civil war had already erupted fully; losing one divine artifact wouldn't alter the war's course for long.

Even the death of an Elven King could not halt this fated war—the internal contradictions had reached the point of inevitable explosion.

At that time, battlefields extended beyond villages and cities; any elves of different lineages or bloodlines slaughtered each other.

Gods fought gods, heroes battled heroes, and ordinary elves even used hoes to beat their neighbors to death.

"The glorious ancient Wang Ting became a pool of blood; the current Elven Blood God was born from that slaughter. The Elven era ended utterly—shared blood became the very guide to mutual massacre," the Archmage recounted, painting a scene that unsettled.

In that moment of despair, the bard who had lost everything returned along the main avenue of the Wang Ting.

The bard, with wooden prosthetic limbs, wore a smiling mask to conceal his disfigured face.