The Elven Cultivator

Chapter 359: Chapter 329: Sensation

The latter was a renowned powerhouse across the entire Dawn Continent.

Once the news was confirmed, it wasn’t just the eastern region—the entire Dawn Continent was shaken.

Before Anton advanced to a Legend, he had severely wounded a Legendary Giant Dragon. That was the very battle that made his name. However, back then, he had relied on an Array and geographical advantages. Furthermore, he only managed to wound the beast, not kill it. Yet now, he had slain a Saint in direct combat, without any terrain advantage or ambush to speak of.

It was absolutely inconceivable!

In an instant, Anton—whose reputation had already surged after the battle in the Subspace—saw his fame reach unprecedented heights. Although, strictly speaking, he had not yet advanced to the Saint Tier, in the eyes of many, he was already no different from a Saint.

It was worth noting that one of the continent’s universally recognized standards for a first-tier faction was possessing Saint Level combat power. The Silver Moon Race undoubtedly met this criterion. The other two standards were having the economic strength and resource reserves to support a prolonged war, and commanding a fully structured Black Iron Legion with at least thirty thousand troops.

The Silver Moon Race had long satisfied the former. As the supreme overlords of the Eldron Plain and the Green Highlands, their resource reserves far exceeded those of ordinary factions. Not to mention, they now had the Thundering River Basin under their belt. Once they fully cemented their control over it, their capabilities in this regard would only climb to another level. Their economic strength went without saying; their trade network spanned the entire continent, bringing in colossal annual revenues.

As for the military requirement, while the Silver Moon Legion had yet to reach thirty thousand troops, their total numbers far exceeded that threshold when counting the Puppet Legion, whose combat prowess was in no way inferior to a Black Iron Legion.

Consequently, after this war, many factions tacitly acknowledged the Silver Moon Race as a newly minted first-tier power.

Beyond the shifting tides of public opinion, more tangible Transformations quickly surfaced. All the minor factions that had previously stood by observing from the shadows, or even secretly colluded with the Slave Hunting Teams, rapidly pulled back their reaching hands, terrified of becoming the next Steel Mane Tribe. Meanwhile, the Slave Hunting Teams that used to brazenly intercept and kill Half-Elves vanished overnight. The few routes in the eastern continent where these slavers usually prowled suddenly became impossibly clean.

At the same time, the number of Half-Elves coming to seek refuge experienced an unprecedented surge. Tribes that had previously hesitated due to treacherous roads and slaver ambushes immediately packed their belongings and set out after hearing of the Steel Mane Tribe’s annihilation and the full retreat of the Slave Hunting Teams.

For a Time, the fame of the Silver Moon Race was unmatched.

***

Gray Rock Castle, the council chamber.

The firewood in the hearth blazed fiercely. Orange-red firelight flickered against the stone walls, casting a warm hue over the dark patterns edging several tapestries. Titus, Thorvin, and a group of Dwarf Elders sat around the long table. A thin ring of white foam had already settled along the rims of their ale mugs, yet no one was in a rush to drink.

After a long while, an elder let out a heavy sigh, breaking the silence.

"I never imagined... the Silver Moon Race would end the war in a mere three days."

Those words were like a poker stirring a pile of dead coals; the atmosphere in the chamber instantly came alive. The other elders chimed in, tossing their opinions back and forth.

"The Silver Moon Race is too fierce."

"What exactly are those giant Airships mentioned in the intelligence reports? To think they can transport tens of thousands of troops!"

"The Silver Moon Race really played their cards close to their chest."

Listening to the surrounding chatter, Titus, Thorvin, and Hagrid exchanged a glance, their expressions incredibly complex. When they first heard that the Steel Mane Tribe had declared war on the Silver Moon Race, they had genuinely worried whether their allies would lose. Now, it seemed that such concerns were completely superfluous.

The military might of the two warring factions wasn’t even on the same level.

"The Silver Moon Race really hid themselves well," Thorvin couldn’t help but mutter.

Titus nodded in deep agreement. Who could have guessed that the military power of the Silver Moon Race had already reached such terrifying heights? Looking back on their assault on the Black Stone Territory, the Silver Moon Race probably hadn’t even unleashed half—no, a third—of their true strength. Everyone had underestimated them.

Having lived for so many years, Titus had witnessed the rise and fall of countless factions, but this was his first time seeing one like the Silver Moon Race. From a secluded Elf Race dwelling in the forest to standing at the very pinnacle of the eastern continent—crushing a mighty regional overlord in a head-on clash—it had taken them less than two hundred years. This progression could no longer be gauged by conventional logic.

Then there was Anton.

The speed at which the Fallen Dragon Sword Saint improved his strength was equally beyond common sense. At less than two hundred years of age, he could already slay a Saint in direct combat. It was simply unimaginable what heights he would reach in the future.

Prior to this, the most widely known young geniuses on the continent were the Five-Star Pillar who had founded the Fallen Dragon Association. Many believed that these five were destined to become Saints, and that the continent’s youngest Saint would emerge from among them. But looking at things now, that title would likely have to be surrendered.

"The Silver Moon Race is a first-tier faction now. After this war, I doubt any faction in the east will dare jump out to challenge them," an elder said with a sigh of realization.

Hagrid grinned. "In that case, we got incredibly lucky when we tied our boat to the Silver Moon Race. We’ve hitched a ride with a true titan."

Titus picked up his cold mug of ale, tipped his head back, and drained it in one gulp. He slammed the cup back onto the table and said grimly, "Lucky indeed."

"Establishing a partnership with the Silver Moon Race was the absolute best decision we’ve made in years." His gaze swept over the seated Dwarf Elders, his voice ringing with absolute finality. "From this day forward, Gray Rock Castle has only one stance: we follow closely in the footsteps of the Silver Moon Race. We must firmly tether ourselves to this titan."

The Dwarf Elders exchanged glances and nodded in unanimous agreement.

***

Starry City, Southwest District.

The night had already grown deep, yet the Stone Ridge Tavern was boiling with noise. The rich aroma of ale mingled with the scent of grease seeping from the cracks in the roasting ovens, swirling through the entire room on the heat of the hearth.

"An Airship that can transport tens of thousands of people? I seriously don’t get how they built that thing. Not even the Heart of the Mountains has that kind of craftsmanship, right?"

"Who’d have thought the Silver Moon Race was hiding a trump card like that?"

"Anton is brilliant. He’s been the Clan Leader for less than a century, yet he’s already elevated the Silver Moon Race into a first-tier power."

"That’s not all—his personal strength is even more absurd. Tsk, tsk. A Legend killing a Saint? When I heard that, I almost thought my ears were playing tricks on me."

"I bet you my last Copper Coins, Anton is definitely gonna become a Saint in less than two hundred years."

In the shadows of a corner, a man wrapped in a gray cloak sat by a wooden table near the window. His hood was pulled halfway down, obscuring his forehead and most of his eyes, revealing only a sharply defined jawline. The ale in front of him remained almost untouched, a fine crust of bubbles gathering on the rim of the glass and gleaming dimly under the lamplight.

Listening to the surrounding gossip, Grant’s gaze grew exceptionally complicated. Over the years, he had been traveling abroad, searching for an opportunity to achieve a breakthrough. Upon accidentally hearing the news that the Steel Mane Tribe had declared war on the Silver Moon Race, he had prepared to head to the Eldron Plain to see if Anton needed any help.

To his absolute shock, before he could even step foot into the eastern continent, the war was already over. To make matters more astonishing, he heard the earth-shattering news that Anton had slain a Saint.

The more he thought about it, the more tangled his emotions became.

When he first met Anton, the man had just recently advanced to a Legend. Even back then, Grant could tell that Anton possessed extraordinary talent and that his future achievements would be limitless. But he never expected this "future" to arrive so quickly.

To be capable of executing a Saint without even stepping into the Saint Tier... that level of power had long surpassed anything their peers could ever hope to touch. As of today, even he was inferior to Anton. This filled him with both immense joy and admiration for his friend, yet it was simultaneously laced with a lingering sense of disappointment in himself.

"I need to push myself harder. I have to advance to a Saint as soon as possible," Grant murmured to himself.

He sat in the tavern for a little while longer. Only when the ale in his cup had completely lost its fizz did he stand up. He tossed a few Copper Coins onto the table, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the biting chill of the late autumn wind.