Chương 167: 167：The Price of Freedom

The absolute, dual-crushing dominance in both close-quarters combat and archery had utterly shattered the final shred of arrogant pride buried deep within the Half-Elves' bones. At this moment, not a single person dared to glare at the human man who had casually stowed his longbow and sat cross-legged by the fire pit. Several Half-Elf girls, trembling with lingering apprehension, stepped forward carrying large, broad banana leaves.

Resting upon the leaves was the absolute richest, most luxurious feast their camp could offer an honored guest: a few chunks of charred, low-quality magic crocodile meat, and a mushy, unappetizing pile of boiled swamp roots.

"Our conditions are crude. Please forgive the meager offering." Ilya sat on the ground directly across from Soren. Though her heart was now filled with profound reverence, she couldn't help but feel a deep sense of embarrassment at the pathetic meal. But Soren didn't show a single ounce of disgust. He reached out, grabbed a chunk of the foul-smelling crocodile meat, and took a massive, tearing bite. Without changing his expression even a fraction, he chewed and swallowed the tough, grisly meat.

Witnessing Soren effortlessly swallow food that most humans would gag on, Ilya and the surrounding Half-Elf warriors finally, completely lowered their hostility. Their hearts churned with complex emotions. Just then. Cough... hack... cough, cough! From a secluded, dim corner of the treehouse, a violent, lung-tearing fit of coughing erupted. It was a Half-Elf toddler, looking no older than five or six.

Emaciated to the point of being nothing but skin and bones, the child was curled tightly inside a rotting beast hide. After a horrific series of spasms, the toddler violently coughed up a thick wad of blood-stained phlegm. The child's mother—a Half-Elf woman missing an eye—was holding him in sheer, absolute despair. She wrapped her arms around him, desperately trying to use her own frail body heat to drive away the freezing cold ravaging the child's tiny frame.

"He contracted Swamp Miasma Chills." Noticing Soren's gaze, a look of profound, agonizing helplessness washed over Ilya's breathtakingly cold face.

"The acid rain here is far too toxic. Even though we possess Nature Magic, with a severe lack of proper nutrition and medicinal herbs... many of our children will not survive this winter." Soren gently placed the half-eaten swamp root back onto the banana leaf. He clapped his hands, dusting the ash and dirt from his palms. Illuminated by the flickering flames of the fire pit, he stared directly at the suffering elves struggling to survive before him.

"So this... is the 'freedom' you fight to the death to defend?" Soren's voice cracked like a whip. It was a ruthless interrogation, violently hammering against the psychological defenses of every single Half-Elf in the room. Ilya physically shuddered, her head snapping up to meet Soren's piercing, judgmental gaze. Soren abruptly stood up. His eyes swept over the gaunt, emaciated elite warriors filling the treehouse, mercilessly tearing away the pathetic, self-deceiving illusions they clung to.

"I saw your archery. Frankly, even the Royal Archers of the Holy Halycon Empire don't amount to half of what you possess." Soren's tone turned freezing cold. His words were thick with pity, but heavily laced with biting mockery:"But look at you. An entire race of apex-tier warriors... rotting away in a toxic mud-pit that even goblins would turn their noses up at, living lives worse than stray dogs!"

"Insolent bastard! You—" Farness's fists clenched violently. He stepped forward, ready to explode, but was instantly, forcefully blocked by Ilya's arm.

"Let him speak." Ilya gripped her own fists so tightly her knuckles turned white, forcefully suppressing her own boiling frustration.

"The greedy, depraved human nobles look at you as nothing more than playthings to satisfy their twisted lusts. They treat you as lowly slaves! They beat you, brand you, and slaughter you on a whim!" Soren's finger violently snapped up, pointing directly at the horrifying, crescent-moon slave brand seared into the left side of Ilya's face.

"And what about the motherland you so desperately long for? What about those self-proclaimed, pure-blooded elves sitting comfortably beneath the World Tree?!"

"They view you as abominations! Stains upon their sacred bloodline! They view you as filthy, long-eared monsters! The exact second their Rangers spot you, the only thing waiting for you is a cruel, purifying hanging!" Every single word was a jagged blade, viciously stabbing into the deepest, most agonizing trauma buried within the hearts of the Half-Elves. Several elderly Half-Elf elders buried their faces in their hands, letting out suppressed, agonizing sobs.

Farness and the younger warriors had completely bloodshot eyes, their bodies trembling violently in pure rage and despair. In this vast, boundless world, they were nothing more than tragic, homeless outcasts.

"And so, you fled here. Huddling together in sheer terror just to drag out your miserable, pathetic lives." Soren took slow, deliberate strides toward the sick child. Ignoring the mother's terrified, defensive flinching, he dropped to one knee right in front of them. He pulled a vial from his tactical pouch—a [Field First-Aid Potion]—and diluted a few drops into a crude wooden bowl of warm water.

Ignoring the mother's frantic attempts to stop him, he personally, gently tipped the bowl, feeding the liquid directly into the coughing child's mouth. The magical efficacy of the alchemical potion was instantaneous. Within moments, the toddler—who had been struggling just to draw breath—found his chest rising and falling in a steady, peaceful rhythm. The horrifying, sickly purple hue faded from his cheeks, and he fell into a deep, restful sleep.

The mother's face shifted from sheer terror to absolute, unadulterated disbelief. She immediately began violently kowtowing to Soren, weeping tears of pure gratitude. Soren stood back up, turning to face Ilya head-on. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

"Is this the result you want? Spending every day hiding in dark, filthy corners, merely waiting to die?!"

"Ilya! Even if you adult warriors have bones of steel! Even if you aren't afraid of death, and even if you no longer care about your own dignity!" Soren roared, pointing directly at the sleeping child.

"WHAT ABOUT THESE CHILDREN?!"

"Are you going to force these children, from the exact moment they are born, to live the same cursed life as you?! To spend their entire existence trapped in this treacherous, toxic hellhole?!"

"To eat rotting, moldy roots for their entire lives?! To carry the slur of 'mongrel' until the day they are inevitably swallowed whole by some passing Two-Headed Swamp Crocodile?!"

"Do your descendants not deserve to run in the sunlight?! Do they not deserve to sleep in a clean, warm bed?!" That final, explosive question violently shattered the absolute last pillar of Ilya's psychological defenses. For the next generation! For their legacy! For absolutely any race in existence, this was the ultimate, most fatal weakness. It wasn't just Ilya. Around her, dozens of the one hundred and thirty Half-Elf warriors broke down, covering their faces and openly weeping.

They remembered the brothers who had burned to death from high fevers on freezing nights. They remembered the stillborn infants birthed from starving, malnourished mothers. Soren knew the moment had arrived. The iron was red-hot; it was time to strike. He instantly reined in his oppressive, tyrannical aura. His tone shifted, becoming profoundly earnest and utterly absolute.

"Join my Greywater Village."

"I, Soren, will not use flowery words or empty promises to deceive you. If you come to Greywater Village, I cannot guarantee you the extravagant luxury of a Royal Capital."

"But I can guarantee you an inexhaustible supply of clean, fresh water!"

"I can guarantee dry, elevated stilted cabins soaring meters above the toxic mud!"

"I can guarantee that every single elder, woman, and child will eat piping hot Swamp Tubers and roasted meat until their bellies are completely full every single day!" Soren raised a hand and slapped his own chest plate with a resounding CLANG.

"But most importantly! Within my territory, there is absolutely zero tolerance for racial discrimination!"

"As long as you can kill the enemy on the battlefield! As long as you can take a blade for the brother standing beside you! Whether you are a human, a goblin, or a Half-Elf... in my eyes, you are a comrade-in-arms I will entrust with my life!" This vivid, visceral promise painted a picture of unprecedented hope for a race that had been driven into an inescapable dead end. But Ilya had weathered massive storms before. She was a supreme commander who had been profoundly, viciously betrayed by human nobles.

She forcefully suppressed the desperate longing bubbling in her heart. Though her resolve was violently shaken, heavy, realistic concerns remained.

"Lord Soren... your offer is incredibly tempting."

"But... you are, ultimately, a Commander of the Silvermoon Kingdom's Crimson Moon Knights."

"Under the laws of the Silvermoon Kingdom, Half-Elves are legally classified as lowly slaves. If we join you... the exact moment the Grand Nobles and the Royal Inquisitors arrive at your territory and discover you are harboring fugitive slaves..." Ilya let out a bitter, tragic laugh.

"You won't be able to protect us. In the face of a massive kingdom's grinding political machine, what can a single Vanguard Commander possibly do? They will drag you right onto the executioner's scaffold alongside us." Faced with this razor-sharp concern—the absolute core of her hesitation—Soren didn't panic. Instead, he suddenly tilted his head back.

"HAHAHAHAHA!" A brazen, booming laugh echoed through the treehouse. The Silvermoon Kingdom? Royal Inquisitors? Under the utterly bewildered, shocked gazes of the entire Half-Elf camp, Soren turned around. He casually reached into the fire pit and pulled out a burning piece of firewood, staring into the dancing, crackling flames.

"Leader Ilya. There is one crucial detail you seem to have fundamentally misunderstood." Soren spun the burning branch in his hand, casually dropping a truth that completely shattered their worldview:"The Crimson Moon Knights? That is nothing more than an army of cannon fodder completely and utterly abandoned by the upper echelons of the Silvermoon Kingdom."

"My subordinates and I... from the exact day we stepped foot into this swamp, we were officially discarded pawns."

"What?!" Ilya and every single Half-Elf gasped in pure shock. In their minds, an army capable of pulling off an unprecedented, miraculous victory like the Battle of Lone Cliff had to be the absolute core, elite vanguard of the Kingdom! Soren's voice turned freezing cold.

"Do not act so surprised. The interior of the Kingdom has been rotting from the inside out for years. Those fat, bloated, brainless nobles would gladly sell out the lives of their frontline soldiers just for a handful of silver coins!" At this point, Soren violently hurled the burning branch back into the fire pit! CRASH! Sparks exploded violently into the air!

"HOWEVER!"

"For me, becoming an abandoned pawn... is the absolute greatest blessing the heavens could have ever bestowed upon me!" Soren took a massive stride forward, radiating an awe-inspiring, tyrannical aura that seemed to completely dominate the room.

"Because we were abandoned! From this day forward, Greywater Village is absolutely no longer bound by the rotting, decaying laws of that pathetic nation!"

"Out here in this thousand-mile expanse of the Misty Swamp, the mountains are high, and the rotting throne is woefully far away!"

"If the Grand Nobles of Silvermoon dare to send their dogs to meddle in my territory..." Soren's eyes flared with a lethal, absolute killing intent.

"I will chop their hands off, and I will slaughter every last one of their men until the swamps run red!"