Round Nineteen: Three Sudden Attacks

The little half-goat, with multiple burns and a slight limp, was extremely unstable in mood. When he saw the forty-seven dark red flaming eyes, filled with grief and fury, he nearly broke free from the embrace of the two half-goat women guarding him and rushed headlong at his perceived enemy.
“Demon eyes!” the little half-goat shouted, his childlike voice revealing something that nearly ignited the half-goat warriors’ rage once again.
“Enough! How much more suffering will you inflict on poor little Oliver?” Scarred Half-Goat—his name was Brice—stood in front of Moriel. Though he had temporarily lost his double-bladed axe, he still clenched his fist like a hammer and glared at her, ready to swing it at the female mage’s smooth forehead at any moment. “Primary Material Beings, if you have any excuses, it’s best to speak now before your names are written in the Book of Death!”
“Be quiet, you fool,” Moriel rebuked him sternly, clearly ignoring Brice’s threats. Even though she was in a realm where her magical powers were suppressed and many advanced spells were ineffective, she said, “If your stupid, hard horns haven’t fully grown into your brain yet, you should realize we have nothing to do with the massacre that happened here. And if you can set aside your arrogant prejudices and step aside, I can talk to this little half-goat and perhaps even help you find the real culprit behind this tragedy.”
At Moriel’s words, veins bulged on Brice’s bald head, and every hair stood on end in anger. With just a glance, he could have torn her to pieces—luckily, he wasn’t so disorganized as to ignore the chief’s will and attack recklessly. The half-goat chief was talking privately with the plane merchant Jacob. Though the old chief showed signs of anger from time to time, he never acted, eventually raising his oak staff to signal his people not to act rashly.
“Have we reached an agreement?” After adding that, Moriel turned to Forty-Seven and said, “Alright, stop staring at that poor child. You’ll scare him.”
To be fair, Forty-Seven didn’t do it on purpose. So he shrugged, indifferently shifting his gaze and beginning to observe his surroundings.

It was truly a mess—this small grassy area had been the resting place of the centaurs and also the site of the tragedy. The bodies had been buried by the centaurs who arrived upon hearing the news, leaving only charred grass stems and large patches of ashes on the hard ground, as if hell itself had shown the world its ruthless power to avoid being forgotten. Some blackened objects were haphazardly piled in a dully shaped pit further away—what seemed to have been a small pond, also dried up by some unimaginable heat. A few vultures circled above the piles of corpses, frequently dipping their heads in to pick out charred but still tender internal organs to eat. If one examined those black objects closely, one could faintly make out the burned bones of goats, emitting a foul smell from their completely roasted flesh. Although these poor creatures had also suffered misfortune, it was only natural that they received less favor compared to their more intelligent relatives.

A stray dog would carefully guard its young, a bird would circle where its mate had disappeared, and a pig raised by farmers would let out pained grunts when witnessing its kind being slaughtered. They all showed compassion for their kin and grieved over the loss of their loved ones. Emotion is a trait shared by all living beings, but intelligence—is intelligence alone what distinguishes creatures as lower or higher, is it that gives rise to love, morality, law, and other related concepts, and is it that determines who will occupy the most prominent place in the history of the multiverse.

Although Si Forty-Seven had average intelligence, he was the product of countless highly intelligent beings, an industrial masterpiece, in any world. Ignoring the centaur warriors still lurking around, the robot strolled leisurely across the scorched land, scanning the area with his gaze, stopping from time to time to examine the cracked ground that had almost turned into ceramic. These traces seemed familiar.

Morrill withdrew his hand, feeling quite disappointed.

The pitiful little centaur had fallen asleep in his caregiver’s arms. Partly due to the exhaustion caused by the intense emotional turmoil, trying to maintain calmness and rationality amidst the swirling wheels of anger and sorrow was too difficult even for an adult; partly because of the effect of Morrill’s spell—“Mind Probe”—the most advanced divination spell that could be cast in this area. Controlling someone’s complex mental currents to extract desired information and knowledge also drained a considerable amount of energy from the subject unnoticed.

Yet the female mage achieved nothing notable. Apart from the blazing flames and the panicked figures of the centaurs, Oliver actually couldn’t see the true face of the killer. Not to mention a “woman in red,” even the “demonic eyes” deeply imprinted in his mind had various owners, each with a different appearance, leaving no consistent pattern. If it wasn’t really so many abyssal demons who had visited this place, it could only be attributed to a child’s overly rich imagination, which distorted the true reality he saw.

So Moriel found no further evidence to support her guess. “Retrospective vision” might have helped, but when she tried to summon more powerful spell energy—ensuring no mistakes in spells, gestures, materials, or even the pace of her voice—the magic network remained completely silent. The female mage couldn’t access the higher levels she had already grasped. It wasn’t like a staircase right in front of her that she couldn’t reach due to constraints or lack of strength; rather, it felt as though the magic network branching out from the source of magic was merely this extensive and deep. The so-called Nine Rings of Magic… simply didn’t exist.

This damned foreign land!

“The two attackers started from over there,” a resounding metallic voice interrupted the mage’s thoughts. Moriel looked up in surprise and saw metal fingers pointing in a direction—the edge of the sky where day and night couldn’t be distinguished, where the Sunless Peaks were faintly visible.

Forty-Seven didn’t wait for anyone to ask questions and continued on his own: “The sentinels didn’t detect the enemies. No wonder—these goats can’t even tell the difference between Li Gui and Li Kui.”

“The attackers first unleashed firewalls to cut off the entire camp, preventing the adult warriors from quickly assisting the women and children they were protecting. The goats fought back, but their swords melted like tin strips in a fire. They tried to gain distance and use their agility and archery to suppress and eliminate their opponents, but the enemies fired fireballs from the sky, ruining this seemingly brilliant strategic plan. Here, here, and here… a great bombardment, or you could call it a carpet bombing.”

As he spoke, Forty-Seven kept pointing in different directions—thin beams of blood-red light shooting from his fingertips, piercing through obstacles to illuminate where he wanted them to go. The half-goats scattered as if avoiding plague, going into high alert, but no matter how agile they were, they couldn’t keep up with the speed of his finger movements. Fortunately, the red light was merely for guidance and carried no lethal force.

“Hey… wait, stop your little tricks,” Moriel said skeptically, staring at the metal man’s blazing eyes, which resembled two burning coals. “How do you know all this?”

Forty-Seven also looked at her “skeptically.” The mage was almost certain his gaze was meant to annoy her.

“Of course I know,” the flames in his eyes flickered. “I saw it.”

“You saw it?” Moriel couldn’t help but look around as well. “What did you see? Stop acting like some fake shaman!”

“My visual range covers all spectral bands—ultraviolet, infrared, and heat energy. If you paid closer attention, you’d realize the residual heat left by these guys is visible even to civilian detectors.”

Morrill couldn’t see it, nor did she really believe any vision could detect the trajectory of a spell flame—especially one from two days ago. But Forty-Seven was always like this; when he seriously discussed something with someone (though that didn’t happen often), the best choice was to listen to him. It was like a machine reaching a conclusion after calculation—no matter whether you understood what those long and short codes and cursors on the screen meant or not. In fact, they all conveyed the same message: Idiot, hit Enter quickly.

“I admit, you always manage to surprise me,” the female mage said, brushing her hair aside. “So, did you see what the attackers looked like?”

“How is that possible? I’m not a camera on a supermarket wall. But…” Forty-Seven spread his hands and waited for a moment.

A faint, anxious heat could be sensed in the wind, mixed with a sulfur smell. At first, Morrill thought the heat was coming from Forty-Seven’s hands, as she could see his steel fingers slowly turning red-hot—but then she realized the heat was actually drawn from the air, gathering on his hands like iron filings attracted by a magnet.

The last cluster of black flames was spat into the air with a whoosh from his palm.

“You’re familiar with this, right?” Forty-Seven grabbed the black flames tightly, as if catching a bouncing baseball.

“Yes. It seems a few old friends are worried we might get bored on our journey and want to catch up,” Morrill said, also looking past the metal man’s shoulder toward the Peak of Infinity, where the City of Ten Thousand Gates still hovered like clouds. “Where did they go? Maybe you can track them?”

“Maybe. Who knows?” Forty-Seven resumed searching. Who knew what the Outer World looked like to him at this moment? “I hope they’re having another barbecue party somewhere, so I can find more clues… Hey, you blue elves over there—where does this road lead?”

Forty-Seven pointed in a direction where several piles of strange rocks stood, their sides facing the small grassland, mostly blackened. Under the gradually darkening sky, they looked eerie, casting vague shadows that almost blended in with the rugged mountains behind them, like small protrusions on a giant monster’s spine.

“Over there?” Jacob interrupted his conversation with the half-goat chief, looked up carefully for a moment, and said, “I think… respected Steel Warrior, I believe that’s the road to the City of Ribcage—definitely not a place ordinary people should go.”

The plane merchant paused, glanced at the half-goat chief’s expression, and then said, “Could it be… could it be that the real murderer fled to the City of Ribcage? …Ahah! I knew it! Only those connected to evil demons would commit such atrocities! Respected Chief Kaisak, this proves my innocence, right?”

He said “I” rather than “we,” and Moriel noticed the choice of words by this skillful merchant. It seemed he had quickly drawn a barrier between himself and the group of forty-seven, distancing himself from them. No wonder—within the vast and complex system of human languages, the word “I” has always held paramount importance. It clearly separates “I” from everything else, dividing the world into “mine” and “others.” According to the theory of “creating the outer world through belief,” the concept of “I” could even be considered the mother of at least half of the demonic beings in those lower realms.

“Hmph, anyway, the killer isn’t among us,” said Forty-Seven, seemingly uninterested in delving into such philosophical questions. “So, are we going to invite them out for some morning tea, or shall we go our separate ways?”

“You meddling fools! Trying to draw our attention to those filthy cities that aren’t part of nature?” Before Moriel could reply, Bries beside him angrily stamped his hooves, sending dust into the air. “Don’t think you can get away! Just because you suspects are spouting nonsense, do you expect us to overlook you?!”

“Listen.”

Moriel instinctively stepped back, perhaps afraid of getting blood on him.

“We don’t want to run, nor do we plan to beg you brainless goats to show leniency,” Forty-Seven said in a flat tone, as if one machine were simply activating another program. “Look at that road—I’m going that way now. You can choose to step aside obediently, or you can block the path and become an obstacle. Then I’ll crush you under my feet, stepping over your brains. If your kind wants to join in, go ahead. That way, after we leave, the vultures will have fresh mutton skewers to eat.”

“Metal trash—” Bries could no longer contain his anger, but the sudden chaos among the half-goats helped him do just that. He would likely never know how lucky he was to not have rushed forward to strangle Forty-Seven, as huge stones fell from the sky, and the sentinels shouted in the chaos, “The giants are coming!”

Perhaps due to historical reasons, half-goats have never liked giants, especially those evil ones, whom they consider mortal enemies. Fortunately, the grasslands where the half-goats roamed were usually not favored by giants, so large-scale conflicts between them were rare—but today seemed different.

At least twenty hill giants emerged from the distant mist in a loose attacking formation. Clad in dirty, stinking animal skins, with hunched shoulders, they swung their long, thick arms back and forth, wielding large wooden sticks and stones for throwing, resembling enlarged orangutans. Three or four ugly, deformed giant figures mixed among them, standing out like Quasimodo among monkeys. But judging from their fierce howls and eyes of varying sizes emitting an evil glow, these guys were definitely part of the Sixth Day’s trash, with no kind hearts like the bell ringer.

Perhaps this wasn’t much—after all, it was a towering giant, almost three times taller than the other giants, the Mountain Giant, who drove this force of attackers.
“As the old saying goes, misfortunes never come singly,” said 47 as he watched the half-goat warriors shout and reorganize their ranks, fearlessly facing those massive enemies. No one had the time to deal with these suspects now.
“Stop gawking and let’s go,” Moriel said, also holding little regard for the indiscriminate half-goats.
“Wait! You can’t leave!” A young half-goat warrior drew his bow and shot an arrow, noticing 47 and the others moving and trying to stop them—
Bris charged over from the other side, his hooves kicking up wind as he pushed the warrior aside with great force. “Kid! Be careful!”
And so, the Mountain Giant’s stone hit him. Bris could withstand a blade slashing from his head to his chest without dying, but a stone thrown by a giant dozens of feet tall and fifty thousand pounds heavy was still too heavy for him. The large stone rolled a long distance across the ground, crushing Bris—coming to a stop right in front of 47, covered in flesh and blood.
Kayro let out a cry. 47 and Moriel stared at the blood-soaked stone for a moment before exchanging glances.
“Kill these troublemakers.”
47’s move was swift and decisive, like Lu Zhishen punching Zhen Guanxi.
“Why leave the mountains and come here? Don’t tell me you wanted to enjoy the spring scenery,” 47 said, poking a hill giant captive in his filthy, greasy cheek with a half-goat spear. The reason he was still alive was that he had been knocked down by the half-goats before 47 found him. Bibi the Kid was floating beside the metal man, babbling endlessly about giant classifications, habits, and other racial knowledge.
“Fire eyes! Fire eyes! Fire eyes see the king! Fire eyes say, the king commands!” The hill giant shouted slurredly, too afraid to complain even though his cheek was almost pierced by the spear, as their “king”—with half of his face sunken—stared at him blankly from a distance with his remaining bloodshot eye, as if looking at a dead man.
The hill giant’s confession didn’t spare him from joining his king; the enraged half-goats quickly dealt with him.
“Please forgive our recklessness, traveler,” said the old half-goat chief, holding a small bundle of arrows toward 47. They didn’t seem to be made of metal but rather the bones of some creature, with two small spikes protruding from the center of each arrowhead. “These arrows were left by one of our ancestors… Once launched, they can automatically seek out the wicked, and with each enemy struck, a new arrow is created… bringing them a storm of righteous wrath. I hope they’ll be useful on your journey. Thank you once again for your tolerance and help.”
47 took the arrows, fiddled with them for a moment, then slung them on his waist—unaware where he had put them.
“Can we go now?” Moriel asked coldly with a bow.
The half-goat camp gradually fell behind them. The Grass Atom people would be there to feel victory and sorrow, and to hold new funerals.

“Beautiful mage lady, are you really going to Ribcage City? Please forgive me, but this isn’t the route I had planned… I think we should change direction. I can take you to Gate City, which is friendlier and safer. It will be easier and less troublesome to get to Seal City from there…”
“Blue Elf, come here for a moment,” called Forty-Seven, waving at Jacob, who was right beside Moriel.
“Oh, respected Steel Warrior…”
Somehow, another short sword with a silver glow and an unstable blade appeared in Forty-Seven’s other hand. “Come take a look at this.”
The merchant approached hesitantly, lowering his eyes to examine the silver sword in the metal man’s hand…
With a flash of cold light, Forty-Seven swung the sword at his wrist.
Jacob couldn’t dodge Forty-Seven’s sudden attack. His blue complexion turned pale, and his thin lips trembled slightly. “You… what are you doing…?”
The blade flowed like water, passing through Jacob’s hands. The hollow formed on the blade locked each of his long, jointed fingers in place. The inner edge of the blade would cut them off like cutting paper if he moved even slightly.
“If you’re with us, you have to get used to trouble,” Forty-Seven said coldly. “If you try to scheme out of fear of trouble from others, then be prepared for us to bring trouble to you. Understood? If you understand, nod and pull your hand back… I won’t move. Don’t worry about my hand shaking—worry about yourself. These hands can disarm a half-man, half-goat. They shouldn’t lose anything due to carelessness, right?”