Chapter 3: Cruelty

The howling wind swept up the snow, making it dance across the ground. From afar, it seemed as though a layer of white mist covered the entire plain. Against the dim sky, it revealed a life-denying pale scene.

The “white-haired wind” referred to the bitter wind carrying shattered snow, ravaging the land. Ederit had experienced this before, but usually only during the Ice Moon. This time, it arrived more than a month early, prompting many intelligent beings living in this land to realize that this year was the “Year of Frost”!

“Damn it! I’ve never seen such a cold Wind Moon before! Ugh!” A demonized man cursed loudly at the terrible weather, only to be filled with snowflakes by a gust of wind blowing through the streets. He hurriedly spat them out.

His companion, listless and dragging his feet, walked lazily, holding two ropes with zombies at their ends—zombies that moved even more slowly than he did. At this time in the past, they would have been in a room, drinking with girls, but now they were leading zombies out into the wind!

“This is like a thunderbolt of a difference!” the listless demonized man muttered, pulling up his scarf.

“I wonder where Mike and the others went! Dozens of people have disappeared.”

“Some say they were strangled in their sleep. Well, even if that’s the case, where are the bodies? Could they have been carried away one by one, just like that guy from the Soul-Thief Tomb?”

“Besides, what’s the use of bodies? To create these things?” The demonized man kicked one of the zombies. The zombie reacted slowly, taking a long time to turn and glance at him, letting out a questioning sound from its throat: “Huh?”

The listless demonized man was clearly not a good listener, too lazy even to respond. He continued trudging forward, occasionally pulling hard on the ropes. Admittedly, herding zombies was far from as easy as herding dogs.

In a way, zombies were like intelligent beings who had forgotten their past and started anew in ignorance. They were interested in many strange things but had poor memories. Fortunately, they were stupid and slow under their controllers, so being rough with them didn’t bother them—after all, it didn’t hurt.

Two zombies, two demonized men—this was one of the 24 patrol teams assigned by Eirith and Imorton, now in the northeast part of the town.

The talkative demonized man couldn’t be silenced even by the strong wind and continued enthusiastically, “Due and Fatak, those two brats, always acting arrogant—I’ve never liked them. It’s great they’re dead.”

“Datha is dead too, which is a pity. Though he acted like he’d just lost his mother to everyone he met, he was quite capable and hardworking. With his death, our workload has increased a lot. Damn it!”

As they spoke and walked, the two zombies suddenly stopped, then, like male baboons in mating season seeing a mate, their eyes gleamed as they stumbled toward the southwest, letting out excited growls. They couldn’t be stopped.

The chatterbox and the sullen one exchanged a glance, realizing at the same time that the zombies had detected living beings. The sullen one released the rope and drew his blade, while the chatterbox pulled out his sword and put a whistle in his mouth—ready to blow it if things went wrong.

The zombies had found Caron’s corpse. Though their anger had subsided, the scent of blood remained highly appealing to them.

Caron’s body was stuck at the door, half inside and half outside, as if he had tried to climb out but got stuck halfway.

Zombies had no concept of preserving a crime scene; they rushed forward and began tearing and gnawing. At that moment, two demonized beings, sent to lead the undead, arrived not far behind them.

Eirwen’s research project was about “ghouls transformed from blood zombies.” Instead of using curses, he combined potions with magic circles to keep the zombies’ deformed cells active, thereby creating ghouls. If successful, this method would lower the requirements for the caster by an entire level, and Eirwen believed such ghouls would be stronger and grow faster.

These two zombies were still in the experimental stage. Unlike ordinary zombies, whose attacks were driven by pure hatred toward living beings, these two resembled ghouls who were perpetually hungry, always craving food. Although they had been kept in magic circles for cultivation, the instinct to feed on flesh was innate to them—just like a domestic dog that would eat trash even after being trained not to, and wouldn’t change its behavior no matter how many times it was taught.

Crunch! Crunch… The sounds the zombies made as they chewed were terrifying, yet the two demonized beings felt somewhat reassured.

Dead people, of course, were generally safe and posed no danger. The fact that the zombies were engrossed in feasting meant there were no living beings nearby—the corpse was the only reason they had come.

The chatterbox sighed in relief, spat out the copper whistle, and stretched his neck, squinting. “A dead body… seems fresh. From his attire, he looks like a mercenary or guard. See? There are ‘bandages’ wrapped around his neck and shoulders! I guess this poor guy was seriously injured and abandoned by his comrades. He might be related to Mike and the others’ disappearance…”

The sullen one pulled down his scarf and interrupted, “Nonsense. There are no signs of a fight in the inn, and the women in the wine cellar heard nothing either.”

“Tch! If I’d heard something, would I tell you?” the chatterbox snapped.

The sullen one gave him a glare, too tired to argue further, and pointed at Caron’s corpse. “Go check it out. Maybe we can find some evidence.”

The chatterbox snapped, “Why don’t you go yourself? Can’t you see how fiercely these two protect their ‘bone’?”

Just then, another gust of wind blew, but it didn’t sound ordinary.

Thwack!

“Hm?” The chatterbox turned his head and saw the sullen one’s eyes wide open, his expression frozen in shock. He stood there stiffly for a second before suddenly collapsing in the snow. Only then did the chatterbox notice that on the other side of the sullen one’s face, an arrow from a crossbow had pierced through his hood and driven most of the way into his temple.

The talkative man stared in terror at the direction from which the arrows were coming. His dark vision, limited to less than 10 meters, could only see swirling snowflakes and the dark night. The situation was critical. As he transformed into a demon, he grabbed a whistle and stuffed it into his mouth. Just as he did, he heard a fierce wind noise coming from his left side, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a small group of dark figures flying swiftly toward him. Instinctively, he shrunk back and swung his arms. This time, he reacted well—shoving aside a powerful wooden spear. But he couldn’t blow the whistle anymore. With the spear coming from the left, in his panic and lacking proper training, he used his left hand to throw the spear, while his right hand still held the sword.

At the same time, from the darkness in the direction where the spear had come from, a figure rushed out like a gust of wind.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Three sounds of bowstrings snapping marked the greeting.

The talkative man couldn’t see the arrows clearly, but he recognized the sound of the bowstrings. As soon as they sounded, he rolled to the side, yet he was still hit by an arrow. This arrow had been aimed at him from the start—unless he fell backward quickly enough, his chances of avoiding it were slim no matter what.

His transformation was almost complete, greatly enhancing his resistance. The arrow piercing his body only made him flinch in pain.

Seizing the moment, he threw the blade in his right hand. After transforming, he no longer needed a weapon. He wanted to use the sword to delay his enemy, even if just for a moment.

The next instant, he saw his attempt fail. Facing the blade flying at him, the attacker didn’t even make a basic dodge. The blade scraped against his helmet, sparking and making a “whoosh” sound, like a sword being drawn.

While throwing the blade, the talkative man tried to blow the copper whistle again—this was almost his last chance. His hands were rapidly turning into claws. Though claws were good weapons, they were far from suitable for holding a whistle.

Yet the attacker didn’t dodge his thrown sword, aiming instead to strike back. Also throwing, he sent a dagger without a guard flying. One of them pierced the back of the talkative man’s left claw. The injury was bearable, but the copper whistle fell into the snow.

The talkative man wanted to curse the attacker with the vilest words, but all that came out was a beastly roar. He had no time to pick up the whistle. The attacker was right in front of him, still moving forward, his hands gripping the hilt of the sword on his back, seemingly ready to throw himself at him in that posture.

The talkative man kicked hard at the ground, leaping into the air amid flying snow. With the strength of a bear or tiger, he spread his arms and used his massive claws to grab and strike from the outside in.

Interlocking claws, striking forward and backward—this was a move often used by demons, combining tearing and slicing forces. After interlocking outward, they would reverse direction and interlock again inward. Many people were torn to pieces or split in two by this move.

The attacker seemed unaware of its deadly power and continued charging unabated.

Just as he was about to be struck by the talkative one’s claws, the attacker suddenly accelerated and performed a backflip. At that moment, his twin swords were drawn, their blades emitting a pair of parallel semicircular arcs of light as the attacker flipped through the air. Wherever that light touched, the talkative one’s arms were severed at the shoulder!

Without their arms, the claws could no longer cause harm, but this only highlighted the attacker’s skill and precise timing, as he never even came into contact with those claws. The entire process was like charging at high speed into the talkative one’s embrace, then flipping backward through the gap between the talkative one’s chest and his arms. It was akin to a yo-yo being released and then snapped back in the opposite direction at the last moment.

“The Crescent Slash,” in any other setting, such as a gladiatorial arena, would be worthy of an award for its stunning technique.

The talkative one, now without arms, crashed to the ground like a stupid rock. Meanwhile, as soon as the attacker landed from his flip, he leaped forward again, this time performing a side forward flip, ending up upside down as he rolled over the talkative one’s body like a wheel. Using his swords as arms, he thrust one into the junction of the talkative one’s neck and back of the head, while the other pierced his heart. Leveraging his weight and the force of his bent arms, he drove the blades in fiercely while simultaneously pushing himself upward with a 720° forward flip, landing steadily on the snow behind the talkative one.

By then, the two zombies that had been alerted were already charging over. The attacker didn’t waste time fighting them; instead, he spun sideways to avoid them, shook off the blood from his swords, sheathed them after landing, then crouched and dodged one of the zombies’ grabs and bites. He picked up his spear, slid forward on one knee, turned while sliding, then jumped up and rushed back the way he came, picking up the purple-robed wooden bow he had discarded earlier.

The two zombies chased after him for a few steps before losing track of their target. After hesitating for a moment, they staggered back and continued eating carelessly. As for the two corrupted beings who had died, they didn’t even bother to look at them.

The bodies of those corrupted beings were filled with excessive dark evil energy, like rotten meat—how could that compare to the fresh, frozen meat of Karolyn?