Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Soul Bone of Battle (Part One)

Passing through a narrow corridor lined with fierce beast sculptures on both sides, we entered an unfamiliar burial chamber. Unlike the other chambers we had traversed, here I could not detect that thick, metallic scent of fresh blood so characteristic of vampire lairs; instead, the air was filled only with the sour staleness of decay and mold.

This was the most like a true tomb of any we had encountered so far—a heavy, suffocating silence blanketed the space, chilling me to the core with every breath. This was the pure land of death; here, there was nothing but oblivion.

“Hold on, let’s take a break here. I need to deal with a personal matter…” Longbow Sunseeker announced loudly, seeing nothing stirring around us. He placed his hands on his head, shook it as if removing something invisible—though in fact, he took nothing off—and then suddenly stood stock-still, as if bewitched. A few urgent exclamations escaped his lips, growing fainter as if receding into the distance:

“I can’t hold it anymore, I can’t hold it anymore…”

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked, pointing at Longbow Sunseeker’s rigid form.

“Probably going to the restroom. Speaking of which, I should relieve myself too…” Yangtze Delta replied with a chuckle. He muttered a few words to Clado in their peculiar tongue, then the three of them simultaneously raised their hands and mimed that strange gesture. Just like Longbow Sunseeker, they stood there motionless.

Restroom? Another one of those bizarre terms unique to the Voidwalkers. Whenever they mentioned going to the “restroom,” they would stand dazed and unresponsive, as if entering a state of meditation or deep contemplation. I guessed that, for them, the “restroom” must be a sacred and pure place, a sanctuary where they could immerse their souls in pure thought and spiritual communion, regardless of their physical location.

It resembled prayer, sacrifice, or other such rituals—their minds and spirits wholly invested in contemplation, leaving the shackles of the body behind in pursuit of complete liberation. Clearly, “going to the restroom” was a noble and beautiful experience for the soul.

But just as my companions were all absorbed in the noble pleasure of “going to the restroom,” disaster struck.

Three pallid figures suddenly appeared at another entrance to the tomb, advancing toward us. Their heads were crowned with battered helmets, their armor bristling with the remnants of weapons, and in their hands they held equally damaged arms.

I had called them “figures,” and that was no exaggeration. Though their armor and clothing were distinct and clear, they themselves seemed to lack any solid form—each was a hollow apparition. If one looked closely, you could see the scenery behind them, right through their bodies. They were like clusters of condensed mist, wavering and uncertain, emitting a faint, cold glow.

Most peculiarly, below their torsos was nothing but a swirling mass of white vapor, with no legs, yet they floated forward steadily.

Above their heads their names glimmered: “Cursed War Spirits.” I recalled the mission given to me by the exhibition trainer at Valeron Fortress: I had to defeat nine war spirits to prove my courage as a warrior, so I could continue training in advanced combat techniques. So here they were.

The three accursed heroic dead quickly noticed our presence. Weapons raised high, they bore down on us, emitting chilling, shrieking wails. Their jaws stretched wide like serpents, gaping so blackly it seemed they could swallow my head whole.

“Yangtze Delta, wake up! Longbow, are you alright? Clado, Dark Aurora, stop standing there like statues…” With three level-thirty-three war spirits closing in, I was truly flustered. In a panic I slapped at my companions, trying to snap them out of their lofty “restroom” trance. But it was futile—this act seemed immune to any attempt at waking them.

With a crash, the first war spirit brought its spiked mace down straight toward Dark Aurora’s head. Our elven mage remained oblivious, a blissful, ecstatic look on his face, as if his very soul was being released.

Angry and anxious, I simply could not stand idly by and watch my companions be harmed. Gritting my teeth, I swung my Saber-Toothed Ripper and rushed in. There was a jarring clang as my shoulder was struck—my body staggered back several steps, only coming to a halt when I crashed into Dark Aurora.

By then, the second war spirit’s spear was already thrusting toward me. Off-balance, I had no way to dodge, and watched helplessly as it crept closer to my shoulder.

In that moment, a desperate, wishful thought flashed through my mind: these were merely empty souls, their weapons so translucent as to seem almost unreal. How could something without substance cause harm? Perhaps they were but illusions. If I believed they didn’t exist, if I ignored them, they would have no power over me.

Tightly shutting my eyes, I chanted in my heart: You don’t exist, you can’t stab me, you don’t exist, you can’t stab me…

A sharp, vicious pain stabbed into my left shoulder, followed by a wave of agony and even stronger frustration:

Damn it, these things are real!

There was no more time to ponder their existence. Because I had rushed to fight back alone, all three of the disoriented war spirits now focused their attacks solely on me, leaving me barely able to defend myself and repeatedly wounded.

I knew that in life, these had been the bravest of warriors, earning great merit in the epic struggle against a brutal invasion. They were warriors among warriors, heroes among heroes.

Yet when their souls were corrupted and stripped of kindness and loyalty, all their virtues became my greatest nightmare. Worst of all, even bereft of reason, their formidable combat instincts had not diminished in the slightest. I was certain that, two centuries ago, the army of the Last King Darenthal must have suffered terribly at their hands, just as I was suffering now.

The one wielding the spiked mace was the largest—his attacks were sweeping and powerful, laced with a strange force that sent me staggering nearly every third blow. The tall, thin one with the spear was ruthless, his fierce thrusts rendering my armor nearly useless as protection. And the one with the twin blades could, like me, inflict bleeding wounds, leaving me constantly losing blood. Driven back again and again, I could only cower behind my shield, relying on quick footwork and healing potions to barely survive.

Just as I was floundering in peril, a milky-white healing wave washed over me, filling me with relief. Then I heard the astonished shout of Longbow Sunseeker, our dwarven priest:

“Hey, you already started fighting? And solo, no less? Damn it, ever since we came to this forsaken place, every one of you seems determined to get yourselves killed. Step aside—when it comes to recklessness, leave it to me!”

With that, Longbow Sunseeker drew his uniquely fashioned staff, spun it nimbly behind his back, and with boundless valor plunged into the midst of the three war spirits, chanting his rhythmically powerful spell and swinging his nunchaku in a circle to conjure a magical barrier.

With his intervention, the others soon awakened and joined the fray. Before long, the three war spirits were shattered, dissolving into three heaps of ash on the ground. Among the ashes, we found some scattered coins and miscellaneous items. Most curiously, I fished out a pair of “damaged military boots” from one pile—odd, considering these spirits had no legs. Where had they been keeping boots? It was a mystery I couldn’t unravel…

“‘Petrified bones,’ material—what’s this for?” At that moment, the half-orc rogue Yangtze Delta asked in puzzlement. I looked up to see several gleaming white bones clutched in his hand. Judging from their shape, they appeared to be leg bones—long and slender, with large knobby joints at each end.

Compared to ordinary bones, these were much heavier, feeling more like solid stone than hollow remains. Yet they lacked the brittleness of ordinary rock, seeming tough and sturdy. The surface was not smooth but rather rough, with a matte texture pleasing to the touch and fitting comfortably in the hand.

“Where did you get these?” I asked, weighing one bone in my palm, curiosity piqued.

“Picked them off those war spirits during the fight… hehe…” Yangtze Delta replied with a self-satisfied grin, patting his ample belly.

I nearly choked with exasperation—while I was fighting for my life, he’d found time to loot the dead? Clearly a disciple of Lady Queen Fion, mistress of all things acquisitive.

“This is a type of crafting material…” Longbow Sunseeker said after examining the bones for a while. “I might be able to use it to make some weapons. But there aren’t enough yet. If we could collect more, I could give it a try.”

He and Yangtze Delta conferred with Clado and Dark Aurora—they all agreed enthusiastically to stay and gather more of these bones, intrigued by their potential uses. I was the happiest of all; I could complete my class quest along the way.

Now, the cursed war spirits truly learned what it meant to fear not the thief who steals, but the thief who covets. In Yangtze Delta’s eyes, these once-great warriors had become little more than walking treasure chests; at the sight of them, he pounced like a beast in heat, rummaging through their remains with abandon—he would have taken their undergarments too, if they’d had any. We swept the nearby tombs, putting at least twenty more cursed war spirits to eternal rest, and Yangtze Delta’s pack bulged with nearly thirty petrified bones of various lengths and shapes—arm bones, thigh bones, finger bones, shin bones, and more.

(A belated advertisement: “Empire of Qin,” a completed novel with an exceedingly direct opening—practically a ‘plug-and-play’ approach, instantly apparent to all.)