Ariel left with a bright smile on her face. She was clearly headed straight for the royal palace.

Ambrose didn't waste a single second, either. After dismissing everyone, he began digging on the spot.

Three days? There was no way he had that long. That foolish princess might come to her senses in half a day and march over with the entire Ragetide Legion to kill him.

He had to act right away.

This was where a magician truly shined. When it came to digging, nothing was more convenient than magic.

As Ambrose channeled his mana, the ground split apart with a thunderous crack. It was as though an invisible drill were boring straight downward, carving out a bottomless shaft within moments.

He jumped straight in and continued excavating at full speed.

He had to find the artifact before the princess realized something was wrong.

As for Ariel, she genuinely believed that Monge Greywater had undergone a dramatic change of heart and become her kindred spirit. In the flush of this newfound camaraderie, she stormed toward the palace.

Sparks seemed to trail in her wake. Dust billowed behind her.

The king had just sat down to eat when Ariel barged in, wind and dust clinging to her so thickly that the food on the table was nearly rendered inedible.

Brushing dust from his face, the king asked, "Why are you in such a panic?"

The Ragetide king was infinitely indulgent toward this daughter of his. The reason was simple: she was the only legend among the dozen or so children he had sired, and the sole one to have received the blessing of the Lord of Storms.

"Father, Monge Greywater told me he has a way to contact the Silent Sea Pirates. We can negotiate. We can avoid a war!"

The king looked at her, then said gravely, "You went to challenge him to a duel again, didn't you?"

Ariel's face turned awkward. "I did say I wanted to duel him—but he didn't agree! It's not like that. I didn't force him. He volunteered."

The king rolled his eyes. "Fine, fine. I understand. You didn't beat him half to death, did you?"

"Of course not—no, I really didn't force him. Really!"

"You dare say you didn't make a move? Do you dare swear before the gods that you didn't raise your hammer at him?"

"Well..." Ariel struggled to explain her actions. "I may have struck at him... but... it's not what you think. He went along with it willingly."

The king waved his hand impatiently. "Enough. How badly hurt is he? Did you send him for treatment?"

At that, Ariel finally exploded. "Why won't you believe me?! I didn't force him to do anything!"

The king's patience finally wore thin. "Enough, Ariel. My tolerance has limits. I order you not to use violence against him again. Otherwise, I will personally discipline you."

Ariel could no longer endure such unfair treatment. "If you don't believe me, then come with me and ask him yourself!"

"Ask him in front of you? And then wait for you to beat him again tomorrow? Do you think I'm unaware of your temper? You only know how to argue with your fists, exactly like me!"

Both father and daughter were hot-tempered. The quarrel was quickly spiraling beyond control.

With a sharp clang, Ariel threw her lightning-wreathed warhammer onto the dining table. "I knew this day would come. Father, since neither of us can convince the other, let's settle this the traditional way."

The king stared at the hammer crackling with electricity. "You're challenging me to a duel before the gods?"

In a kingdom that revered violence and destruction, reason and logic often failed. Fists were what mattered.

A duel before the gods was the practice taken to its extreme. Two combatants would fight before the statue of the Lord of Storms. The victor was deemed correct; the loser had to unconditionally acknowledge defeat.

Surrender was permitted, but more often than not, such duels ended in death.

"That's right," Ariel declared. "Since you won't believe anything I say, let the gods decide who's right!"

Lightning burst from her eyes. The air around her began to crackle with stray arcs of electricity.

In another kingdom, such a scene would seem like blatant patricide. But in the Ragetide Kingdom, a successor challenging the reigning king was traditional, though few expected the day to arrive so soon.

The king rose to his feet. Broader and more imposing, he stood a full head taller than Ariel.

The lightning in the air surged violently. Two currents clashed and burst into showers of sparks.

Looking down at his daughter, the king said, "Fine. If you win, you'll be the new king. The kingdom will be yours to command."

"I will win," Ariel replied with absolute confidence.

The king sneered. "Boasting has never won anyone a duel. If you lose, you will obey my commands wholeheartedly."

"About not using violence on Monge Greywater, right? Fine. If I lose, I won't touch a single hair on his head."

"No," the king said solemnly. "I want you to marry him."

"What? He's twenty years older than me!" Ariel rejected the notion immediately.

The king spoke earnestly. "There is no suitable candidate among men your age. Monge is the most outstanding hero of our kingdom. Why else would I entrust him with such power? Yes, he might be older than you, but he lost his wife a few years ago. The timing is perfect. Or would you rather marry some cowardly incompetent?"

Talent in the Ragetide Kingdom declined with each generation. The men of Ariel's age were either foolish, weak, or timid. Poor governance had stagnated the population; the proportion of capable individuals dwindled year by year.

The old king wanted the kingdom's most exceptional men and women to unite, in hopes that they might produce an even stronger and wiser heir. Otherwise, who knew how many more years the kingdom could endure?

Though Ariel was shaking her head frantically, the king gave her no chance to change her mind.

"You initiated the duel before the gods. I stake my throne. You must stake something of equal value. A marriage contract is already lenient on my part—or would you dare blaspheme the gods, Ariel?!"

His words made her grit her teeth, but she dared not retract the challenge. "I will win."

The king chuckled. "I've heard that countless times, and yet I remain king."

Thus the quarrel between the king and the princess was suspended in an even more decisive fashion. A duel before the gods required preparation, especially one concerning the royal succession. The preparations would be extensive.

The king no longer had the leisure to worry about the Silent Sea Pirates. Ariel's talent was extraordinary, and even he did not have absolute confidence in defeating her. He would need to devote himself fully to his preparations.

Neither of them considered a worrisome possibility—that both of them might be severely wounded after the duel, leaving the kingdom wholly undefended against an undead assault.

They were entirely focused on concluding this duel swiftly, settling their long-standing dispute, and unifying the kingdom's strength at last.

Ariel had intended to buy time for Ambrose. In a way, she had succeeded. By sheer coincidence, no one was paying attention to what Monge Greywater was doing anymore.

Deep underground, Ambrose continued to drill. He estimated he had descended more than a hundred meters, yet the rock and soil remained unchanged. There was not the slightest trace of a divine artifact.

Standing in the depths of the earth, he stroked his chin.

"This isn't right. What exactly was fate trying to tell me? Did I misunderstand something?"

Fate never gave incorrect answers, though its portents could be misinterpreted.

The withered leaf had landed atop Monge Greywater's head. The man didn't know the artifact's location, and neither was it buried directly beneath where he stood. So what could fate have meant?

Ambrose forced himself to review every piece of intelligence he had gathered.

The elves had buried the artifact 1,700 years ago, to prevent the Dragon Tyrant from rewinding time, thus allowing Arthur Lyon to defeat it. And since no one but the Dragon Tyrant could use the artifact, the elves had never intended for anyone to find it again.

"Artifacts usually radiate immense power. Legends can sense divinity, so it must have been sealed with magic. But a spell that can maintain a seal for seventeen centuries won't be anything ordinary. You'd need some kind of magical equipment capable of sustained, long-term confinement..."

Ambrose placed himself in the elves' position, attempting to deduce where they might have hidden the artifact. Given the elves' magical expertise, there should have been traces left behind.

Yet no matter how carefully he thought about the problem, he couldn't come up with anything.

"No, no. According to Catherine, the previous elven king wasn't skilled in magic. So the method used to seal the artifact likely wasn't provided by the elves... It had to be Arthur Lyon. He stole the artifact from the Dragon Tyrant and asked the elves to hide it.

"The fact that he managed to steal it meant that he had severed its connection to the Dragon Tyrant. Elven magic wouldn't be responsible—he had to have used a paladin's method, or rather, the holy power of the Lord of Dawn. I see. I think I get it now."

He had been wrong from the beginning. The withered leaf had indeed pointed him to the artifact's location, but it was not underground.

Ambrose cast Flight and rose back up to the mouth of the shaft. He stared at the seemingly empty air, estimating the height at which the leaf had drifted down. Then he extended his perception through the air.

After a long while, he finally sensed something unusual.

There was a tiny, invisible fissure in the air. Only when he concentrated fully could he detect the faintest irregularity: a spatial crack thinner than a strand of hair.