Chapter 94
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 094
Chapter Title: The Grotesques and the Curse (2)
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'Let's see here...'
While the group prepared for battle,
I watched the refugees.
More precisely, what was behind them.
They were closing in fast even now, so it wouldn't be long before I could make them out clearly.
'So that's why Connel said they were acting strange.'
The barbarians chasing the refugees.
Every one of them looked in rough shape.
Their skin was mottled and flushed, their eyes bloodshot like they might start bleeding any second.
Yet they seemed to see just fine, eyes locked on the fleeing refugees as they charged ahead.
'Gilbert, head up and rescue those refugees first. But don't push yourself too hard—fight while falling back so they don't surround you. If it gets too tough, pull out anytime.'
I sent Gilbert ahead first.
As an undead, he wouldn't catch whatever plague they had—I was sure of it.
I couldn't just leave the refugees to die, so it was the right call.
The barbarians were picking off any stragglers, and I wanted to help however I could.
'This is the best I can do.'
Deep down, I wanted to send Bear and Connel up front too, to back up Gilbert and save more refugees.
But what if the barbarians really did have some plague?
It could spread to them.
So I kept the two by my side.
They meant more to me than some nameless faces.
'Their physical abilities are impressive.'
The barbarians were catching up to the refugees without breaking a sweat, despite how wrecked they looked.
Their raw strength was fine—no, better than fine.
It even felt enhanced.
A few moved with superhuman prowess that no ordinary human could match.
They might've been trained knights, though, so I couldn't be sure.
I needed more info.
'But their intelligence seems shot.'
That explained why they hadn't overtaken the refugees despite the superior physiques.
It was their brains.
The second one refugee got grabbed, the lead barbarians all swarmed that way.
The ones bringing up the rear did the same.
Naturally, the gap between pursuers and prey widened.
They fixated solely on the enemy in front of them.
Not the sharpest display.
And what came next only confirmed it.
"Gaaahhh!"
The captured refugee was torn apart by the barbarians.
Incredibly, they did it barehanded.
But what followed was even more shocking.
The barbarians chewed and swallowed the flesh, gulping down the blood.
A brutal scene.
Nothing normal about it.
'Boosts physical power at the cost of intelligence, turning them violent. Is that the plague's symptom?'
But it still didn't add up.
I'd never seen a disease like this.
And there was more that bugged me.
'Mana's coming off the barbarians.'
These plague-ridden-looking barbarians.
Mana radiated from every one.
Non-mages with mana?
Only one explanation.
Some kind of magic was cast on them.
And the vibe felt familiar—like something I'd encountered before.
'It's curse magic.'
The black mages who'd attacked Chester.
Some gave off a similar aura.
All of them curse specialists.
Curse magic.
Magic that brings calamity or misfortune to others.
Fittingly, the mana they exuded felt deeply ominous.
A different shade from necromancy's gloom.
More malicious, maybe?
'Might be curses, not plague—but better safe than sorry.'
I had the group cover their noses and mouths with cloth.
If it was a real plague, bodily fluids like spit or blood could spread it.
Basic precaution.
Chapman Mercenary Band's leader, Chapman.
He watched in awe as the boy uttered a single command, and his group snapped into a perfect battle formation.
It was the kind of precision you'd expect from elite soldiers trained by nobles.
Shield-bearers up front, spearmen behind to support.
Arrayed to protect their young leader.
'Three knights in his retinue? Family must be loaded. Which noble house?'
Chapman couldn't stop eyeing Gilbert, Bear, and Connel.
Their mounts were all warhorses.
They held steady even in combat—bred for battle from birth, no doubt.
And those weren't just chain shirts over their torsos; full-body chainmail.
Top quality, too.
Warhorses, chainmail armor, and swords to boot?
Only knights fit that profile.
So the boy they served so loyally?
Had to be nobility.
And there was more proof he was highborn.
'Look at him—practically reeks of class.'
Smooth, dewy skin.
Pale as fresh cream.
Nothing peasants scorched by the sun could ever have.
Chapman was convinced: Heros was a noble.
'No idea why a noble young lord's slumming it as a merc captain, but it's good for me.'
A chance to connect with nobility.
He wouldn't pass it up.
"Everyone, prepare for battle!"
Chapman bellowed it to his men from in front of the boy.
His mercenaries grabbed their weapons.
That was it.
No formation, nothing.
After seeing Oak Tree's elites, it grated on him more than usual.
And that wasn't the only annoyance.
"Damn, that's insane."
"Definitely a knight."
"Strongest knight I've ever seen?"
Oak Tree Mercs stayed silent before battle.
Not Chapman's lot—they wouldn't shut up.
Topic: Gilbert.
The lone knight charging the barbarians.
Chapman glanced nervously at Oak Tree, worried they'd take offense.
But no reaction.
Relieved, he focused on Gilbert.
Truth was, he was curious about the guy's skill too.
'Frightening.'
Gilbert dismounted alone to save the people.
Blood sprayed in his wake.
Barbarians lunged at him—swords cleaved their necks before they could react.
Chapman lived for this stuff.
He knew how absurd this was.
'He'd chew up most knights.'
His gaze shifted to Bear and Connel.
Built just as solidly as Gilbert.
Probably just as deadly.
But no chance to see it.
Gilbert was dominating solo.
'Damn, he'll wrap this up alone.'
The barbarians chasing refugees now fixated on Gilbert, who'd stepped up to defend them.
They kept charging even as their fellows died by his blade.
Their numbers dwindled fast.
'How to make a good impression?'
Chapman racked his brain for once.
Then it hit him.
A perfect way to score points with the noble captain.
"Mind if we help with the fight?"
He called out to the boy.
Oak Tree's captain turned from the battlefield.
Their eyes met.
Chapman flinched.
No flicker in those blue eyes.
Uncanny calm for his age.
"How exactly?"
"With magic."
Couldn't just cast without permission.
Might hit Gilbert by mistake—then retaliation.
Three knights? No winning that.
"Oh?"
The boy sounded intrigued.
Chapman inwardly cheered—judgment spot-on.
Plan working.
He'd hook the kid with magic.
"Sure, go ahead."
The boy accepted readily.
With approval, Chapman returned to his band.
Spotted his man.
"Curtis! Blast some magic over there."
"Why me?"
Curtis grumbled.
Chapman clenched his fist.
Wanted to deck him.
But couldn't.
High-value asset.
A raw recruit weeks ago, now mouthing off.
Infuriating, but necessary.
"It's good for you too. Show off here, and that noble lord might take notice."
Curtis perked up, glancing at Oak Tree.
Cleared his throat, nodded.
"Guess I have no choice."
Curtis stepped forward.
Checked his audience.
All eyes on him—he thrust both arms out confidently.
Cast his spell.
The one that made him a mage.
"Dragon Rise!"
Curtis shouted the incantation with gusto.
And...
Nothing.
"It's such powerful magic, takes a moment to activate,"
Chapman hastily explained to the silently staring boy.
Luckily, the spell finished before awkwardness peaked.
Whoooosh!
A cluster of barbarians.
A whirlwind erupted there, yanking ten into the sky.
Chapman's mercs gawked, gasping in awe.
Familiar sight, but the raw power never failed to stun.
Thud!
The whirlwind faded.
Barbarians plummeted.
Head-first? Instant death.
Limbs first? Bones shattered, but alive.
Barely mobile.
One spell, ten barbarians down.
'Impressed yet?'
Chapman grinned smugly at the boy.
Curtis beamed toward Oak Tree, awaiting reactions.
But their faces?
Unchanged.
No one batted an eye.
'Why...?'
Whirlwind out of nowhere, ten foes crippled in seconds.
Yet no gasps, no shock.
Chapman couldn't fathom it.