Chapter 219: ·The Actor’s Identity

“Bastard!”

“Wait, Elder Ironwood!”

The hot-tempered Elder Ironwood had reached the limit of his restraint. Ignoring Nolan’s warning, he let out a thunderous roar as fury consumed what remained of his reason. In a single burst, he crossed the distance in a few strides and lunged straight at the impostor Schefflera elder.

Golden-tier power erupted without reservation.

A dark green curved blade appeared in Elder Ironwood’s hand, carving a treacherous arc through the air as it aimed directly for the man’s throat. Wood Elves advanced far more slowly than humans in terms of raw power; Romina reaching the Golden tier at around a hundred years old was already considered genius among her kind. Yet their long lives granted them combat experience and technique far beyond humans of the same level. Every ounce of their strength was honed to perfection. This furious strike was so fierce that even a high-level Golden expert would not dare take it head-on.

And yet, the impostor did not even move his feet.

He merely raised his right hand. The flesh writhed and mutated instantly, swelling into three thick, blood-red tentacles slick with viscous fluid and pulsing veins. The blasphemous sight, a distortion of nature itself, filled every Wood Elf present with revulsion and dread.

Clang!

A harsh metallic impact rang out. Elder Ironwood’s furious strike was stopped cold by those seemingly soft tentacles. The recoil forced him to stagger back two steps, his arm going numb.

Looking down, he saw that the back of his hand, still gripping the blade, had been overtaken by strange crimson patterns.

One of the three tentacles had been severed cleanly by the curved blade, falling to the ground with a wet slap. The impostor’s expression did not change in the slightest. The severed limb twitched a few times before dissolving into a foul-smelling pool of pus-like blood that seeped into the cracks of the stone floor and vanished.

At the wound on his arm, flesh churned and regrew at a visible rate, restoring his hand to its original form, completely unharmed.

“Careful, don’t get close to him!”

Nolan’s voice cut through the tension. In a flash, he moved past several stunned Stag Guards and seized Elder Ironwood’s trembling wrist.

The crimson patterns crawled like living things, inching their way up the elder’s arm.

The Grand Elder reacted as well. His face grave, he raised his gnarled staff and pointed from a distance. A gentle green glow of life energy enveloped Elder Ironwood’s arm.

The green light and the blood-red markings intertwined. The spread of the corruption slowed, but it did not recede. The two forces locked in a tense stalemate.

“As expected… Putrefying Blood Rot,” Nolan muttered, then raised his voice to warn everyone present. “Stay away from him. Do not touch those tentacles. The toxin seeps through the skin, and once it reaches the heart, it will completely corrode the mind.”

The impostor’s calm expression stiffened for a moment. He was clearly surprised that Nolan had identified his ability so precisely, but the reaction vanished almost instantly, replaced once more by composure.

“What a frightening gaze, Lord Nolan.”

The “Schefflera elder” smiled again, even giving Nolan a deliberate wink.

“I much preferred the shy, innocent look you had in the changing room.”

He delighted in seeing those self-righteous figures who believed they controlled everything fall into confusion and panic when confronted with unexpected revelations.

But he was doomed to disappointment.

Nolan’s expression did not change at all. After a brief pause, he recalled the ability and scoffed. “Trying to scare me?” His tone dripped with disdain. “Just ‘temporary sensory sharing.’ You’re stealing fragments of irrelevant sensory memories through objects you’ve touched. It’s nothing impressive. You think tricks like that can shake me? Don’t bother.”

The Stag Guards had already surrounded Rosm completely, their spears raised in a dense forest, ready for battle.

Finley carried his now-unconscious mother, Elder Sind, to a nearby couch and anxiously tended to her. No matter how he called to her, she showed no sign of waking.

“Tch.” Rosm clicked his tongue in irritation. “You’re no fun at all. Why do you know everything?” He glanced around lazily, his gaze showing no regard for the guards surrounding him. “Don’t tell me… you even know who I am?”

“I do.”

Nolan looked at him calmly, his eyes like those of someone watching an actor perform a script he had already written.

“I’ve been looking for you for a long time. The contamination of the Foundation of Life—this was your doing, wasn’t it? You controlled Elder Sind to make it happen. Finally caught you.”

Seeing the impostor’s brows begin to rise, Nolan felt a trace of amusement. These cultists prided themselves on lurking in the shadows, creating accidents and chaos. If not for his own slip, tracking him down would have been far from easy.

Unfortunately for him, he had run into Nolan. It was time for him to taste the meaning of “unexpected.”

“Rosm, Patriarch of Decay of the Nihility Cult. Formerly of the Rus Empire. Once a spiritualist in the pleasure den Elysium, providing certain… services to decadent elites. Your childhood trauma was—”

“Enough!”

Rosm could no longer maintain his carefree demeanor. He let out a sharp, piercing shout, cutting Nolan off. His breathing even grew uneven from the surge of emotion.

The Wood Elves, isolated as they were, had no real understanding of what the Nihility Cult or a “Patriarch of Decay” signified. Ailindel had heard Nolan mention some of the cult’s atrocities, but to her, the shadow of this era was still an abstract concept without real weight. Thus, most of them remained relatively composed, treating Rosm as nothing more than a notorious criminal from the outside world.

Only Rosm himself understood just how terrifying Nolan’s words truly were. At first, Nolan identifying his abilities and tricks had merely surprised him. After all, those were not unique to him. He had still been able to maintain a sense of superiority through sheer composure. But now, Nolan had not only named his secret cult with precision, he had even begun to recount the most deeply buried, shameful parts of his past.

Those experiences were the greatest pain and humiliation of his life, the very root of his twisted desire to drag the entire world into decay and chaos.

He had never told anyone about that past. In theory, only the cult’s supreme leader—the “Tyrant”—should have known.

So how did this rural lord from a minor kingdom know?

Rosm’s chest heaved as he drew a deep breath, forcing himself back into calm. He still had a trump card. There was no need to panic.

“Heh… hehehe…”

He began to laugh again, but this time the sound edged into madness. All pretense fell away as he embraced his true self.

“It seems Kost’s report was correct. He said the lord of Coldsteel City had an unusual understanding of our cult. I didn’t believe him at first…”

Rosm stared at Nolan, his eyes trembling like those of a man on the brink of insanity.

“You still haven’t answered my original question. How did you discover me? I performed perfectly… or so I thought.”