Round Two: Contact

He encountered these two paladins on the rocky wasteland at the edge of the Howling Desert—where they were actually wearing shiny armor and riding tall horses, ready to cross the Howling Desert!
Seeing that they seemed to have considerable strength, Freth proposed traveling together.
There’s never enough skilled warriors when traveling through the Howling Desert, even if they’re inexperienced paladins. Their strength had been proven just a few days ago in a battle against a group of desert lizardmen—equivalent to having twice as many mercenaries, for free.
“I sense greed, indifference, and scheming in these people.”
Milia removed her helmet, revealing a face with a manly vigor.
“Why travel with them? We’re not mercenaries!” she said, slightly displeased. “They don’t need our help, and they’re arms dealers—”
“But we need their help.”
Josen tightened the curtains of the small tent, checking for any loose parts. Even sitting cross-legged, he was almost touching the ceiling, with sand particles already hitting it and making cracking sounds.
“Without these caravans that travel through the Howling Desert year after year, we can’t move forward on our own,” Josen said, running his hand over the tent as he felt the sand hitting it. “The trade routes in the Howling Desert were explored over the years through countless efforts and sacrifices by the Northern Merchant Guild… If we want to cross the desert to the south, we must follow them. Only then can we complete the Order’s mission as quickly as possible…”
Suddenly, Milia raised her head warily, her hand resting on her side sword.
“What’s wrong?” Josen asked, also becoming alert at her expression.
Milia listened carefully for a while.
“I don’t know…” She stroked the cold blade, and as her fingers moved, a white glow flowed across it. It was hard to believe she could wield such a weapon with her slender arms. “I suddenly sensed an evil presence just now…”
“Hm?” Josen pulled back the tent slightly to look outside. Under the sandstorm clouds, everything outside was gray, and it was hard to see even the other tents.
“I can’t sense any evil creatures nearby…” Josen said doubtfully. “Should I go outside and check?”
“No, it’s unnecessary. Maybe I’m just too nervous.” Milia closed her eyes. “Please forgive me. I still can’t get used to the desert and this caravan…”
Josen sighed.
Milia, you’re a born knight blessed by the gods… It’s your duty to lead us in upholding justice under the light of the gods… Perhaps getting entangled with these worldly people is too much for you.
Pure evil often has nothing to do with feelings.
Forty-seven circled down, almost losing his direction again. But it seemed he still remembered where that camp in the sandstorm was. Every step he took was difficult, as the sand on the ground shifted with the wind, sometimes causing his entire foot to sink in—luckily, he didn’t feel tired from this.
Reaching a higher dune, Forty-seven was finally relieved to see the temporary camp in the sheltered area in the distance.

The sandstorm clouds finally showed signs of dispersing, and against the suns already low in the west, it created a magnificent sunset scene—the smaller of the two suns was almost invisible, while the larger one still unleashed its final heat on the horizon. Based on his observations over these days, 47 knew that sunsets in the desert were particularly long; the smaller sun would rise again once to give the desert one last bit of light and heat, followed by a brief but extremely cold night.

The entire camp was covered in a layer of fine sand—but it was still roughly recognizable. Dozens of trucks were parked in the center, surrounded by tents, with some larger structures scattered among them. 47 adjusted his visual mode, as if refreshing the image—soft red outlines appeared in what had been a black-and-white gray view, and those large crawling creatures seemed to be some kind of organisms, as they resembled large mottled red patches compared to the red human figures inside the tents. A few people were scattered around the perimeter of the camp, likely on guard. If not for using his new ability to see, he might have missed them.

47 wrapped himself tighter in his cloak and climbed over the dunes toward what appeared to be the nearest sentinel.

It took him a moment to remind himself that this was not a battlefield of bloodshed—so he shouldn’t fire first and ask questions later. But it seemed others didn’t think so.

An arrow pierced the sand just in front of 47’s feet, its tail feathers trembling slightly.

On a slope in the distance, a warrior clad in a cloak stood up, nocking a second arrow on the string. To shoot an arrow so accurately from such a distance amidst the windy sand required an excellent archer—yet 47 didn’t admire this at all. He stepped on the exposed half of the arrow and continued forward.

“Stop!” the archer shouted, drawing his bow taut.

By his estimation, this tall figure was at least nine feet tall, maybe even more—and he was alone. What kind of person would travel alone in the harsh desert?

More sentinels shook off the sand on their bodies and stood up, gathering in a semicircle to watch around, checking for accomplices, and blowing whistles to alert those inside the camp.

Another arrow flew over 47’s head, and the archer issued another warning.

It seemed the sandstorm wanted to show its last act of fury—a strong wind blew toward them in spirals. Carried by dense sand particles, even the sentinels wearing goggles embedded with crystals could barely see. After the sandstorm, the archer looked up and was shocked to find the other person standing right in front of him, within reach. The canvas wrapped around the figure, acting as a cloak, had just gone from swirling to calm. In that instant, the archer’s sharp eyes saw that the other person seemed to be wearing black armor, as if it grew from their body…

The archer tried to create distance and draw his short sword to defend himself, but the other person’s hand already gripped his neck—the hand felt unbearably hot, so hot that the air passing through his throat turned into scorching sand, filling his lungs and chest.

“Rain City… where is it? Agus… where is he?”
Having not spoken the common language for a long time, 47’s tone had become somewhat dull and strange—assuming his usual resounding voice could even be considered normal.
“Let him go!” With that shout, several arrows pierced 47’s cloak at once. Clearly, the sentinels believed force was more effective than words in getting obedience—
But this only made 47 more impatient. He was never good at social interaction, and his time in the Abyss had left him almost completely unaware of how to deal with others peacefully.
47 threw the archer away, sending him flying far into the distance, leaving a long trail across the sand like a rolling gourd.
The sentinels fired again, this time using magic arrows imbued with effects such as armor-piercing, penetration, fire, and cold. Though they couldn’t break through 47’s protective armor, they were enough to cause him some damage and discomfort.
“Is there really no one… who will answer?”
A wave of heat mixed with blood and decay surged as 47 leaped forward, even blowing away a large amount of sand and debris in his path, creating a small storm. A mercenary who stood in his way was instantly swept up into this terrifying aura of despair and horror. He dropped his bow and arrows, staggered back a few steps with a pale face, and collapsed, completely losing the will to resist. Those who were touched also felt as if they had come into contact with something utterly filthy, as if something alive was chasing and entangling them—a boiling mass of flesh and blood filled with countless creatures fighting among themselves. Fear and shock welled up from the depths of their hearts, akin to the instinctive urge to vomit after being punched in the stomach. Only the strongest willpower could withstand such an extraordinary evil aura…
47 stood in front of the mercenary who could no longer control himself. The air around him took on a faint, deathly black-red hue and twisted slightly. His anger flared: “I’ll ask one last time… Where is Rain City? Where is Agus?”
Obviously, the mercenary, whose face was contorted by extreme terror and pain, couldn’t answer him—but 47 didn’t notice. He drew his twin swords and raised them above his head. “If you won’t answer… then die!”