Chapter 47: So Miserable... (Part One)

Just moments ago, I envied the dwarf warrior named Exaggerated Crying for seizing the initiative and snatching the Black Axe Trolls’ tribal banner before me. But now, I don’t envy him in the slightest; rather, I feel a profound sympathy for his predicament.

It seemed that the banner, possibly painted with a crimson fang in blood, was enchanted with a special alarm spell. The instant it was uprooted, it sent out a warning to all the Black Axe Trolls in the tribe, summoning them to reclaim their sacred flag.

In an instant, more than fifty trolls patrolling the village charged toward the temple with bloodshot eyes, swiftly encircling the entrance. My view was immediately blocked by scores of hunched, blue-green-skinned brutes, their pointed ears and grotesque frames forming a wall through which I could no longer see the dwarf within the temple. Through gaps in the troll ranks, I could only vaguely make out a few warriors in the front, axes swinging fiercely at something before them, their movements somewhere between chopping wood and driving stakes. With every hack, pitiful shrieks rang out from the center of the chaos.

This dwarf warrior’s name was Exaggerated Crying. Whether his weeping was truly exaggerated, I cannot say, but his screams certainly lived up to his name. His agonized howls reminded me of a raven, hoarse from swallowing too much brine, croaking in torment—each cry sent a chill through my heart, as if those savage axes were hacking into my own flesh. The sensation was so vivid it made me squirm with discomfort.

How could I stand by and let these vile trolls commit such atrocities against a brave warrior? My sense of honor and duty as a fellow soldier would not allow me to simply watch. At last, when Exaggerated Crying let out a scream so sharp it seemed to rend the air, compassion overwhelmed me and I could bear it no longer. Resolutely, I—

—pulled two pieces of velvet from my pack and stuffed them into my ears.

At last, the world was quiet. The dwarf’s miserable shrieks vanished without a trace, and I felt immeasurably lighter, the guilt that had been clogging my chest dissipating somewhat.

Ahem. I know what you’re thinking—please don’t blame me for failing to rescue him. Against an entire tribe of savage trolls, the difference between one death and two is simply that the latter provides double the murderous delight. Charging in now wouldn’t help Exaggerated Crying in the least; I’d only be throwing my own life away. Besides, I was still some distance away. Even if I wanted to help, by the time I reached him, his corpse would be long cold.

The dwarf’s resistance was unexpectedly tenacious. Hemmed in on all sides, he fought desperately, taking down two Black Axe Headsmen before he finally fell, unwillingly, to the dirt.

Normally, Voidhoppers like us could choose to resurrect at a “revival point” after death, losing ten percent of our gold but keeping all other possessions. This time, however, something was different. The banner remained clutched in the dwarf’s dead hand, emitting a mysterious red glow. The trolls had slain the intruder who tried to steal their flag, yet they did not disperse, instead continuing to circle the glowing banner.

Puzzled, I checked the quest description and found this: “The Black Axe Tribe’s banner contains a soul-binding magic. When in contact with troll blood, it resonates strangely, trapping the soul of the fallen and preventing its return. Use your courage and wisdom to carry the banner away from the trolls’ camp—only then will your soul be unbound.”

It appeared that until the tribal banner was carried out of the village, the unfortunate dwarf would be unable to resurrect at any revival point. His soul would have to return to the trolls’ camp, revive his body, and use his “courage and wisdom” to escape with the banner. But honestly, when your corpse is surrounded by a horde of towering, bloodthirsty brigands eager to hack you apart, “wisdom” hardly matters; what he really needs is the courage to revive right there beneath a forest of axes.

Dwarves, after all, are known for their unyielding spirit and bravery—a race famed for stubborn resolve. Exaggerated Crying seemed a worthy heir to this tradition. Barely three minutes later, the trolls grew restless again. Several Black Axe Soulcallers in the front began planting their “Flamecrack Totems” into the ground. Fireballs arced low and fast over the troll ranks, streaking straight into the temple. Soon, the chaos subsided once more—and though I could not see clearly, I knew all too well the same misfortune had repeated itself.

For Exaggerated Crying, this was clearly not his lucky day. He had fallen into a wretched predicament: each time he revived, he was instantly beset by dozens of trolls, slaughtered within moments, only to revive again a few minutes later—only to be cut down once more, and so on in a hopeless cycle of death. This dismal loop repeated over a dozen times, with no sign of improvement. At first, he could use the doorway to fend off a few trolls, but as more pressed into the building, he was forced to fight on all sides and perished even more swiftly.

It may be immoral to admit, but I must confess honestly—I felt a certain relief at his misery. After all, I am not a Voidhopper like him; death for me means true annihilation, with no hope of resurrection unless another aids me. Had he not triggered the alarm ahead of me, I’d surely have been hacked to pieces by now. The very thought sent a shudder through me.

Just as Exaggerated Crying seemed doomed, cornered in the small temple with no way out, he suddenly appeared to have an epiphany. Upon reviving yet again, he did not wait for the trolls to close in, but instead drew a mighty breath and let out a thunderous roar. The sound was so powerful it pierced even my makeshift earplugs, leaving my head ringing and my heart thumping as if struck by a heavy hammer.

The trolls around him, caught off guard, were momentarily dazed by the roar, their limbs frozen, their eyes glazed—a brief stupor brought on by the “Fearsome Shout,” a skill every warrior learns from their trainer at level thirty. Seizing this rare opportunity, Exaggerated Crying scrambled and tumbled out from the encirclement, crawling frantically up the stairs to the second floor.

(At this point, I owe an apology—and, indeed, a tribute—to a particular reader.

Last night, in the book’s comment section, I came across a user named Piled Misconceptions who had left a harsh review in the forum of a young author who had unfortunately passed away before completing his novel. In a moment of anger, I responded with some sharp words.

In hindsight, my reply was too hasty. This reader’s actions were unintentional, and he has since offered a sincere apology in that forum. Thus, I too must apologize, and offer my genuine respect. To recognize one’s error, willingly take responsibility, and sincerely apologize—especially when all this occurs in the anonymous world of the internet—requires a courage and virtue that is deeply admirable.)