Chapter 226: Dream·Madness (Part 3)

  "Rodhart, squad leader of the Ainfast Paladin Order, requests an audience with Lord Inham·Erney Marquis and the mages of Diya Valley..."

  The voice boomed and reverberated through The Shadowspire Peaks, silent for who knows how many years, like a lone, lofty wave-crest sliding across a mirror-smooth lake. The voice was loud and full of vigor, brimming with vitality and a sense of power.

  But no response of any kind echoed from anywhere in the mountain range. The entire The Shadowspire Peaks was like a colossal, lifeless object carved from obsidian, deathly silent. Only at the source of this call was there a hint of sound—the entrance to a valley in The Shadowspire Peaks.

  This was the border region between The Shadowspire Peaks and The Wyvern Wastes. Whether due to the wind direction or other reasons, the golden sand particles gradually diminished before these gray-black mountain bodies, the two different colors drawing a boundary line. But what they had in common was that both were colors of death. In the desert, it was a golden, dry, scorching death; in these gray-black mountain forests, it was a death closer to the color of death itself.

  Right now, a series of dull, lifeless sounds of impact and rupture were being issued here. Dozens of undead monsters, emerging from rock crevices and from underground, were besieging the person who had shouted that call.

  A skeleton soldier's broken iron sword scraped across his leather armor with a sound like tearing thick paper, while another skeleton's spiked mace struck his forehead with a crack.

  It was not his forehead that cracked, but the handle of the spiked mace. These skeletons had slept in this valley for who knows how many years, and their weapons were already tattered beyond recognition.

  But even so, the rusted hammer, almost crumbling to slag, had opened a sizable gash on his forehead. Blood and fragments fell. But Rodhart did not even blink.

  He could not blink, because he had to watch carefully every move of everything before him. He paid no mind to the impact of the two skeletons' weapons on his body, forcefully shoving the two bone frames apart, and stepping on the arm of a zombie that was swinging at him to leap into the air. Just as he jumped. A cloud of green mist flew past, almost grazing the soles of his feet.

  The green mist gathered without dispersing, floating like a large ball of green cotton out of the valley entrance and straight into the desert. A camel unfortunate enough to be in the desert was brushed by some of this swiftly flying green mist. The camel let out only half a cry before collapsing, the foam from its mouth and nose already greenish-black, and its eyes directly melted. The lethality of this direct-attack Necromancy against life was something even an elephant could not withstand once.

  "In the name of the Lord, cleanse the unclean." A white magic light erupted from Rodhart's hand mid-air. Four or five wraiths hastily fled the area. The two closest were directly torn to shreds in the light, letting out a strange hiss before vanishing like smoke. Although this white magic was half-baked, to these ethereal undead creatures, it was no different from pouring boiling water on ice.

  Rodhart paid no mind to these ethereal monsters. His gaze was locked ahead. Behind the dozen or so skeletons and zombies, a very withered zombie was waving a staff; the cloud of green mist from earlier had been issued from his staff. Not only that, but all the wraiths, zombies, and skeletons around were also under his command.

  This withered zombie was still wearing an extremely tattered robe. Though weathered and tattered beyond recognition, it could still be seen as a long robe worn only by mages. This was actually a zombie that had retained some consciousness and magical power, or in other words, a Wight.

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  The Wight's empty eye sockets watched his flying opponent. With a gesture, four or five intact, more mobile skeletons immediately pounced. At the same time, the surrounding zombies all converged toward him, and the staff in his hand began to gather another green cloud of mist. Although these Wights no longer had the capacity for independent thought, their combat instincts remained fully intact. All the magic from their living days had been converted into a single necromantic mist, making their combat prowess far beyond what skeletons and zombies could compare to.

  The skeletons successfully intercepted the opponent mid-air. Although they couldn't cause any substantial harm, they did their best to grab onto his body with their bony limbs, forcefully pulling him down. The zombies on the ground also pounced toward that spot. Their mission was not to injure or attack, but to pin him down.

  Death, wins. The Wight's empty eye sockets were still empty, and its half-skeleton, half-zombie face remained expressionless, but this thought surfaced in what little mind it had left. The green mist on its staff quickly thickened and grew, but just as the cloud on the staff was about to be released. Its withered head and upper body suddenly exploded, scattering apart.

  A long sword, radiating a slight white magic, tumbled and stabbed into the ground not far behind the Wight. The Wight's lower half collapsed to the ground. The remaining zombies and skeletons continued to surge toward Rodhart, paying no mind even as those in front were constantly smashed and destroyed by his fists, feet, and white magic. But having lost a leader like the Wight, it was only a matter of time before these bone frames were completely disassembled.

  After completely finishing off these skeletons and zombies, Rodhart was already panting for breath. There were at least five or six wounds on his face and body, and the hand bone of a skeleton was still stuck in his shoulder. His mana and physical strength were also nearly exhausted.

  "Rodhart, requests an audience with Lord Inham·Erney Marquis and the mages of Diya Valley..."

  He once again faced the depths of the gray mountain range and shouted loudly. Though his voice was still resonant, it was more weary and desolate than before. The sound echoed a few times in the mountains, then gradually faded, still failing to provoke any response.

  Silently listening to his own voice being completely devoured by the surrounding dark mountains, Rodhart turned and walked out of the valley entrance. He hesitated as he passed the camel corpse, which had already become a pile of rotting flesh, looked at the bundles of water and food it carried, and sighed. It had been brushed by the Wight's deathly mist; it was no longer edible.

  There was still some water and food on the other camel, but Rodhart could not make the camel enter the valley no matter what. Even with Rodhart pulling it from the front, as soon as it stepped into the grayish-black rocky terrain, the camel began to struggle and retreat frantically, as if out of a primal animal instinct, it sensed that this region did not belong to anything living.

  After trying twice, Rodhart finally sighed, swung his sword, and the camel's head, trailing a spray of blood, fell into the sand.

  After drinking several large mouthfuls of the camel's blood, Rodhart took the meager water and food, along with a severed hump, and walked into the valley entrance. The two sides of the valley, dark, huge, and lifeless, were like two giant undead monsters, silently looking down upon the human who entered their shadow like an ant.

  Three days later.

  "Rodhart, squad leader of the Ainfast Paladin Order, requests an audience with Lord Inham·Erney Marquis and the mages of Diya Val..."

  This voice, which had sounded out countless times, echoed through The Shadowspire Peaks once more. But this time, it was no longer a shout, but more like the howl of a dying beast.

  Standing on a peak in The Shadowspire Peaks, the endless, dark-gray mountain ranges stretched before him, and he could no longer distinguish where he had come from or where he was supposed to go. He no longer knew if this was his final shout.

  Behind him, around him, and on the slopes and at the foot of the mountain, over a hundred skeletons and zombies were converging on his location. Mid-air, more than ten white, fog-like wraiths drifted and flew toward him. All empty eye sockets were focused on him, as if hurrying to a grand feast.

  His own roar still echoing among the mountains, Rodhart turned and pounced toward the approaching undead army.

  The long sword in his right hand flew up, taking the heads of two zombies with it, the scimitar in his left hand disassembled three skeletons at once, and in addition, he used his own body to forcefully smash two bone frames apart and then rammed headfirst into a zombie's face. But at the same time, he also took at least five or six hits. A zombie's sword stabbed into his lower abdomen. The water magic attached to the sword formed two intersecting ice spikes inside his body. He could feel his intestines pierced by at least three points of icy stinging pain. A wave of heat washed over his face, and the hand of a nearby skeleton nearly scraped off half of his face.

  As he advanced continuously through the mountains, the weapons held by these skeletons and zombies were now, astonishingly, many high-quality magical weapons. Though they had endured who knows how many years, they were still sharp and effective, and piercing the magic leather armor on his body, now riddled with holes, was no problem.

  Rodhart twisted his body and split the zombie in two with one slash, then shattered the remaining two skeletons. As he twisted, he could hear the sound of the two ice pillars in his intestines breaking and piercing two more places. He threw the knife in his left hand, piercing a wraith that was pouncing from mid-air. The fire magic attached to the knife itself tore the wraith to shreds.

  In the instant the wraith dissipated, Rodhart thought he saw that its shape seemed to be that of a mage wearing an archmage's robe. This wraith might have been an archmage in life. And the fire magic knife that had pierced the wraith was one he had picked up from a zombie's hand. On that knife was a very familiar Paladin Order emblem, though he didn't know how many years old it was.