Chapter Ninety-Nine: A Lament in the Torrential Rain

I am increasingly suspicious that this damnable Chief Hondos is actually an undercover agent for the Continental Alliance!

As the pivotal figure determining the success or failure of this mission, this ugly green-skinned monster possesses absolutely no sense of self-preservation. He runs straight toward where the enemies are most concentrated and drills into the most dangerous spots, only to stand motionless in the middle of a mob, letting them hack at him with axes and blood fly everywhere without retreating a single step. His intent is clear: either he dies and we all fail the mission, or we risk our lives to drag him out.

This is nothing short of coercion! It is extortion!! It is a shameless, forced moral kidnapping!!! This half-orc rogue, who wears nothing but a barrel skirt from top to bottom, is using his own life to force us into becoming human shields to block bullets for him. We are five of the unluckiest wretches imaginable; while cursing his ancestors back eighteen generations in our hearts, we are still "willingly" using our own flesh and blood to parry blades for him.

"...Go back to where you belong..." Every time he charges at the enemy, this hot-headed chieftain bellows these words at the top of his lungs.

And every time he does, I feel from the bottom of my heart that the one who truly needs to go back where he came from is him.

Finally, we wiped out another group of brutal skeletons. The successive fierce battles have exacted a heavy toll; each of us has less than a third of our health remaining. "B-flat Minor Nocturne," in the worst condition, was nearly hacked to death by an axe. "Niu Baiwan’s" armor is severely damaged, and fine cracks have begun to appear on my longsword. "Fairy Descending to Earth’s" mana is completely drained, and she is barely holding on with mana potions. "Dingding Xiaoge’s" three familiars were each hacked to death and cannot be summoned again for at least five minutes. The culprit behind our miserable plight—that troublemaking Chief Hondos—is still walking ahead of us, shaking his head and strolling along leisurely.

"I really want to just hack him to death! This is more exhausting than killing a boss!" Dingding Xiaoge gritted his teeth, staring at his back. I felt he voiced the innermost thoughts we all wanted to say but hadn't—Chief Hondos’s idiotic behavior has reached a point where even his own kin couldn't stand it.

"Let’s just hang in there..." Niu Baiwan advised kindly. He is the organizer of this adventure and likely feels responsible for our awkward situation, so he has been offering smiles and comfort the whole way.

"...We’ve finally fought our way here..." Niu Baiwan said with genuine feeling. "...Bear with it a little longer, just do it as a favor to me..."

"Ooooh, this place does not belong to you, go back to where you belong..." Before Niu Baiwan could finish his sentence, that familiar, explosive roar sounded from the front—a death-summoning spell to us—and we watched the bare-chested Chief Hondos, waving his fists and howling, charge into yet another group of bone skeletons...

Chief Hondos’s reckless behavior was like a giant mouth, slapping Niu Baiwan right on his bull nose just when he needed his dignity most. For Niu Baiwan, who had already lost face, this was adding insult to injury.

In that moment, Niu Baiwan stood there with his jaw hanging open, petrified.

This was simply too much! We looked at the Tauren Paladin with sympathy.

A moment later, Niu Baiwan finally snapped out of it. He shouted in a fit of rage, "Hack the little bastard to death, don't give me any face!"

We exchanged blank looks with B-flat Minor Nocturne, speechless. We could only shrug helplessly, drag our weary, scarred bodies forward, gulp down two bottles of potions each, draw our weapons, and charge out together...

Niu Baiwan saying he wanted to kill Chief Hondos was, of course, a spur-of-the-moment outburst. Regardless of how much we agreed with the sentiment in our hearts, we still fought tooth and nail to wipe out the corrupted ones surrounding Chief Hondos.

The wandering bard, B-flat Minor Nocturne, unfortunately died in this battle. It wasn't entirely unexpected—as a melee class, a bard’s health is not very high, and the defense provided by leather armor is even lower. We could even say that his lasting until now was proof of his exquisite combat skills.

Fortunately, Paladins can learn the "Gift of Life" spell at level forty-five. Niu Baiwan exhausted his last drop of mana and resurrected Nocturne on the spot. By now, everyone was on the verge of collapse; our individual conditions could no longer support another intense encounter. I had made up my mind: if Chief Hondos insisted on recklessly provoking the corrupted ones ahead again, I would not save him even if he were torn to shreds before my eyes—I would even applaud the undead killers with gratitude for liberating us from this guy’s coercion.

Although we had accepted the mission and were obligated to save him, having fought side-by-side—if flailing soft fists at enemies' faces can be called "fighting"—we shouldn't just stand by and watch him die. However, if a person is determined to seek death, no one can stop them. We could only express our deep regrets, but we were powerless to act.

Fortunately, Chief Hondos did not continue forward but stopped in a small clearing. The clearing wasn't large, ten steps square at most, and in the center burned a campfire. It was the only campfire we had seen since entering the valley, and looking at it, we couldn't help but wonder—do you really think a group of skeletons, rotted down to mere frames, would have the leisure to hold a picnic out in the wilderness? Do they use this fire for warmth or roasting meat? Or perhaps to brew a pot of rich, fragrant soup—bone soup!

At least they wouldn't lack the ingredients...

Come to think of it, I actually noticed two Y-shaped branches stuck on either side of the fire. A slender iron rod lay across the branches, one end bent into a rotating handle. The middle of the iron had been scorched black and faintly glowed with the red heat of the coals.

It was indeed a standard setup for a picnic roast.

Chief Hondos walked slowly to the fire and turned the iron rod twice. The rod scraped against the branches, emitting a faint "creak." As it turned, dozens of bright sparks suddenly drifted from the fire, caught by the breeze like a group of mischievous fireflies. They flew higher and higher, until... they vanished...

We sat on the ground, using this rare moment of leisure to rest. Because Chief Hondos kept his back to us, we never saw his expression.

Throughout the journey, this crude, reckless half-orc chieftain had caused us countless troubles. From beginning to end, he had been so high-spirited and boisterous that it was hard to tell his age.

But at this moment, although I could only see his back, a strong feeling arose in my heart: this obstinate and eccentric half-orc was already in the twilight of his years. Though all half-orcs have hunched spines, beyond the reasons of his race, Chief Hondos’s back seemed more bowed, as if weighed down by a long stretch of time.

I suddenly felt a twinge of regret for calling him a "green-skinned monster" behind his back...

"Folk, come out..." Standing by the fire, Chief Hondos turned his face toward the nearby cave and shouted. His voice carried that characteristic, raspy quality of a half-orc; it seemed to tremble slightly, yet held an indescribable sense of authority.

"...I know you are inside. I have come for you! You want to kill me, I know. I am here now! Come! Do what you wish to do..."

The chieftain was highly emotional; it seemed he held a deep-seated grudge against the leader of the corrupted ones here. I didn't know what had happened between them.

Following the chieftain’s roar, heavy footsteps echoed from the depths of the cave. Emerging with those footsteps was the awe-inspiring figure of a skeleton monster.

Although his body had rotted down to a skeleton—with no firm muscles on his chest and no bulging veins on his forehead—we could still describe him as "majestic and powerful." His bones were exceptionally thick and sturdy, yet his frame looked remarkably well-proportioned. Though his spine was slightly curved, the skull on his neck was held proudly high, as if he possessed an unbreakable will from birth, never bowing to anyone.

I know that judging the "temperament" of a skeleton might be ridiculous, but at that moment, I truly felt the distinct "temperament" of the level fifty-five corrupted one before us. It was a temperament of resilience, stubborn resistance, and soaring spirit. Even standing just a dozen paces away, I couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration. Ironically, all these stirring, vivid emotions came from a corrupted being who should have been synonymous with darkness and despair.

Like the other corrupted ones we encountered, his forehead was flat, his jaw protruded, and two thick tusks grew from his lips—though his were exceptionally large. These features, combined with Chief Hondos’s earlier shouting, made me realize these were half-orc traits. That is to say, the corrupted ones occupying this valley were all mutated from the remains of half-orcs.

So many half-orcs—this was almost the sum of all the strong males of an entire tribe.

Unlike the others, this one did not have his muscular skeleton fully exposed; instead, he was draped in a set of bronze armor, with a bronze pointed helmet on his skull. This armor had clearly been preserved for a very long time; green oxidation showed at the seams, yet it was covered in many fresh scars, the scratches glinting with bright bronze luster. The variety and number of these scars were such that you could find marks from every weapon in the world. Some had completely pierced the armor's defense, tearing terrifying gaps, each oozing with dried blood—I don't know how the owner of this armor could have endured so many heavy, fatal blows in life. In my view, even the most outstanding warriors and knights of Faerwy would have perished after taking half the wounds on this armor.

His hands gripped a crude but sturdy spear; the shaft was a heavy wooden pole as thick as a goose egg, and the tip seemed to be fashioned from the tooth of some magical beast—sharp and lethal, shimmering with a strange magical radiance. Tied near the top of the spear was a flag depicting a soaring falcon, one claw gripping a battle axe, the other an olive branch, flying over a towering mountain. This flag seemed to signify a tribal totem, but it was now so soaked in blood and mud that it had lost its color, torn into ragged strips.

The name of this corrupted one was "Beast-Bone Berserker Big Folk," a leader-level skeleton monster. As soon as he emerged from the cave, he stared fixedly at Chief Hondos by the fire, blood-red soul-fire burning fiercely in his skull, flickering from his eye sockets, adding to his manic and violent aura.

Upon seeing Chief Hondos, Big Folk seemed hesitant. He backed up two steps, then raised his spear with his right hand, pointing directly at the chieftain’s chest; the spear trembled in his grasp. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only meaningless, icy sounds like "clack... clack... hiss... ah..." escaped. Finally, he spread his arms, looked up to the sky, and let out a shrill, frantic howl. The sound cut like a blade into our hearts, causing a trembling pain, as if we were being torn apart, as if he were experiencing a chaotic and desperate agony.

Even the vast sky seemed unable to contain such a massive grudge of pain and despair. Boundless dark clouds suddenly rolled and churned, pressing down heavily, as if to crush the earth. The world turned dark and stifling in an instant, a vast expanse of despair. After a moment of suffocating, death-like stillness, a bolt of lightning tore the sky apart like a gaping, incurable wound. Dense raindrops sprayed from that wound, as if it weren't rain falling, but droplets of blood from a torn heart.

Amidst the heavy rain, Big Folk stopped his howling. He straightened himself, looked up at the half-orc chieftain, and raised his spear once more.

Suddenly, his aura underwent a cataclysmic change. The majestic warrior of a moment ago became icy and sharp, his entire being filled with a killing intent that chilled one to the marrow. The last trace of his own soul, lingering deep within, had been completely wiped away. The Big Folk before us now was a demon who had fallen completely into slaughter and darkness, incapable of ever accepting a flicker of soul-light again.

This former warrior had completely rotted; it was not just his body that had rusted, but his soul as well.

Another flash of lightning!

The spear flew, piercing the heavy rain, aiming for Chief Hondos’s throat...