Round 27: Rescue

As everyone seemed to have forgotten about the struggle between Jason and Billy, their duel was coming to an end, with the two masses of mist now so intertwined that they could hardly be distinguished.
“This place is about to collapse! I’ll use my last bit of magic to transport you away… Spread the sacred name of the Goddess of Mist to every corner of the world. The Lady of Mist will remember your help!” A red mist enveloped 47 and Morriel, leaving O’Sullivan and the others behind.
“Nobody leaves!” Jason, who was also turning into mist, tried to rush forward but was tightly entangled by the red mist.
“Hehe, stay and keep me company… Xeric, don’t even think about taking back the power you’ve been given…” Billy, who had sacrificed himself for others, spoke in the tone of a complete old pervert.
A magical tornado appeared again, with howling mist swirling upward. The temple, unable to bear the weight, collapsed instantly, and the ground sank in. But this didn’t change the swamp’s original landscape—it just added another pit that could trap people at any time.
47 got up and looked around. Aside from Morriel, who was lying unconscious beside him, there was no one else around. The mist seemed to linger around her, failing to disperse slowly.
47 scooped up some water with his hands and placed it on Morriel’s parched lips. He didn’t know any water purification magic, so he tried to find a relatively clean puddle. Thankfully, Morriel was unconscious; otherwise, he would have hit himself in the head again.
They had been in the swamp for two days. 47 still remembered the correct direction, but the path seemed different—huge, twisted broad-leaved trees began to appear, something he had never seen before. And the biggest problem was that without any food or water, 47 didn’t know if he could get out of the swamp. He himself wasn’t in much trouble, but Morriel on his shoulder showed no signs of waking up and had a high fever. It seemed she wouldn’t last the night if they didn’t find food and treatment soon.
However, knowledge of healing was something a former killing machine like 47 would never acquire. Suddenly, he thought of his new body. The anxiety and irritability over the past two days had made him overlook this. Wait—anxiety and irritability? Had he developed such strange emotions?
47 tried to transform into a spider or revert to his human form, but both attempts failed.
He then tried to transform into a starfighter, the fastest means of travel in space battles. Of course, such a pointless act that was almost a waste of time couldn’t yield any results.
His body structure was completely different from before. Although 47 still felt gears moving and tubes twisting inside his body, like internal organs. The new body forged by the Power of the Forging God still held many mysteries. He would have to study it thoroughly once he returned to the city—but now wasn’t the time to think about that.
The old pterodactyl, Blackwing, used to be the ruler of this area.

Its wingspan exceeded fifty feet, and its thick, cylindrical head and neck were covered in scars. Its terrifying maw was tightly closed, with sharp teeth protruding from it. The black membranes on its wings were tattered, and in some areas, it seemed to suffer from skin diseases, resembling a glaring stain on a gray cloth under the sky perpetually shrouded in clouds over the swamp.

Now, Black Wing was old, too old to care about the younger creatures soaring above it, shrieking and proudly displaying their healthy, perfect wings. But this didn’t mean Black Wing’s strength had declined—it could still dive down with a loud roar, snatch prey like cows and horses into the air, and tear them apart with its terrifying scythe-like claws. Yet it rarely did so now, even avoiding the edges of the swamp and those armoured bipedal creatures that often entered it, appearing like fresh meat to the younger ones. Years of living in the swamp had taught Black Wing that the more attention you drew, the more likely you were to suffer.

So when it sensed an abnormal, unnatural presence in its territory—its intuition in this regard was terrifyingly sharp—it decided not to hunt in the area for now.

It glided lazily through the air, the warm, humid air supporting its belly as its long, strong tail gently swayed to steer it. In fact, it had already seen those one or two travelers below several times. That strange beast, seemingly wearing armor, was hurrying through the swamp’s jungle, clutching its prey or companion, seemingly unaware that the great Black Wing was looming over them with authority.

In the past, Black Wing might have attacked—such solitary prey would eventually end up in the mouths of the swamp’s predators. But now, it didn’t want trouble. It was already full, as it had recently stumbled upon hundreds of corpses of swamp goblins. To Black Wing, the line between fresh meat and rotting flesh was never insurmountable. It had rudely driven away the scavenging wolves and feasted heartily on the mud, leeches, and maggots, even getting a bit stuffed.

So it flew over those poor wretches, deliberately flying low to show them a bit of Black Wing’s mercy.

But the poor wretches seemed to fail to understand Black Wing’s kindness, showing no gratitude for his tolerance.

A terrifying wind noise arose beneath Black Wing—even more shrill than the siege arrows it had faced in its youth.

With agility far beyond its age, Black Wing darted away, its massive body even rolling through the air like a butterfly.

Black Wing was annoyed. It felt another tear in its wing—any larger and it might affect its ability to fly. The attacker rolled through the air before landing on the ground. Black Wing had never expected a creature covered in iron to be able to jump so high.

Black Wing spread its wings and flew higher, cautious not to suffer another attack.

It circled high above, keeping watch.

That strange beast looked up for a moment, grabbed its companion, and disappeared deep into the jungle. Perhaps it was time to teach this guy a lesson—though Black Wing was old enough to be almost mythical, it still wouldn’t tolerate provocation. It circled, ready to retaliate.

Diving attacks when they emerge from the forest would be a good idea.
Blackwing glided above the tall trees, its eyes able to spot any opponent coming out from any direction. It wasn’t easy for such a forest to grow in the marshes—those trees were probably a hundred years old, ancient and towering, blocking out the sun. It itself was aging too, but its days alongside them wouldn’t last long. Blackwing felt a sense of desolation, even becoming distracted, forgetting it was still chasing its enemy.
There was some flickering light on the highest treetops in the distance. It had never seen anything like this. What was that orange glow? It decided to get closer and take a look.
It was that mechanical wretch. It was perched on the treetop, focused and ready, waiting for its prey to come to it. This time, Blackwing saw with its own eyes as it leaped at it—with such force that even the spring-legged marsh frogs couldn’t compare, like a cannonball. Blackwing couldn’t explain why it used such a comparison.
Of course, now wasn’t the time to ponder rhetoric or grammar. Blackwing flapped its wings to rise and circled to the right. The swirling wind disrupted its opponent’s trajectory. When it came to flying and controlling the wind, few in the marshes were as skilled as it.
It turned out to be a golden-haired werewolf. Blackwing finally saw clearly what that dazzling thing was. Though it had never seen a metal creature covered in pipes like this, its claws nearly touched its wings—just barely avoiding disaster.
But a barber didn’t have such remarkable aerial skills… Before Blackwing could rejoice and launch a fatal counterattack, excruciating pain pierced its bones. It bent its neck to look—one of the werewolf’s claws was almost buried in its chest, pulling it down with it. Blackwing was much larger than its enemy, yet it felt as if the other was heavier.
Who hunts with such desperation? Blackwing thought as it fell to the ground.