Chapter 108
Chapter 108
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 108
Chapter Title: Wildcast (1)
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The Great Wasteland had always been a place where rumors and superstitions came alive, ever since ancient times. Somewhere, tales spoke of massive serpents that devoured people. Elsewhere, pits yawned open to swallow entire cities.
There were even whispers, every now and then, of enormous islands floating high above the clear blue sky.
Like mirages one easily encountered after trudging through the wasteland for long hours. Shapeless rumors drifted endlessly across this vast expanse.
But the beacon fires of Mosat City, the revival of the Three Dynasties, Kirjat's retreat, the advance of the Eastern Kingdom Alliance, the intervention of the Crusader Knights...
Three months after those events. Now, in this barren waste, rumors swirled more fiercely than ever before—and far more concretely than in any previous era.
-I have returned.
A man was said to utter those words. In the dead of night, in the deepest hours before dawn, when all were asleep. From the power brokers of oasis cities to the beggars huddled in drug dens, a low whisper reached every ear.
-I have returned.
Some claimed the figure behind the rumor was the Emperor's Grand Chancellor. Others insisted it was the Sultan's Caliph. There were even tales linking it to the malevolent spirit from the days of ancient Ashit that had haunted the wasteland for ages.
Of course, to the pharaohs who had awakened from their tombs in the Ivory Ashit Empire era, such rumors seemed laughable. Yet as the tales overlapped and twisted, not a single resident along the wasteland's borders or near the front lines doubted their truth.
Because something—or someone—was undoubtedly there.
*
An old man crossed the wasteland, two greatswords strapped to his back and a weathered ebony staff gripped in his hand. His purple robe, faded by wind and weather, fluttered raggedly, while the deep night sky—ablaze with brilliant starlight—sparkled with a green moon overhead.
-Tok.
A bony finger tapped the staff. Humming lowly in a raspy, cracked voice, the old man murmured a tune. The muscular beastman following at his side bowed his head silently.
"Master. We've come too far already. We can't afford to linger here any longer."
"Hush, hush—quiet now."
The old man thrust his staff deep into the sand. His eyes gleamed with a mad, dark-green light from beneath heavy lids. He gazed up at the sky.
Astrology had been one of his foundational studies. Reading the stars and their currents was now as natural to him as breathing.
Staring at the stars, he discerned patterns beyond the heavens. The flow of mana woven among the clusters felt tangible in his grasp.
"Let them think us fools."
"Master? But endless retreats like this are far too draining. And we're heading the wrong way! The Alliance territories lie farther south from here. The tribe warriors' discontent is boiling over, and morale has hit rock bottom!"
The warrior couldn't quite bring himself to say, 'The tribe warriors want to cut your throat.' Not that any who had tried had succeeded. Besides, this old man was the mage who had saved his tribe.
The old man caught the heavy implication in his words and cackled.
"Even if I took up the sword myself, could I handle all of them? The nerve!"
"What lies ahead if we keep pushing west?"
"Death."
The old man snickered. The wasteland might look like an endless, fence-free plain in every direction, but it wasn't. Deep canyons, sheer cliffs, vast mountain ranges, and sudden jungles abounded in this bizarre land.
From the start, ancient magic was the reason it had become a wasteland—not natural desertification.
And no one knew that better than he did.
-Thud.
He yanked the staff from the parched ground.
"The death of death itself."
-Whoosh.
Green flames erupted from the staff's tip. The warrior flinched. Within the dark-green fire writhed screaming skulls and specters. The old man's face, flickering in that glow, twisted into something grotesque.
"Let them grow arrogant and chase us like this. Then pick out the useless ones among your warriors and toss them as bait."
"Master..."
Discontent flickered in the warrior's eyes. No matter that this great mage had saved his tribe, he had no intention of becoming a puppet.
"It'll take three days. Until your tribe's escape proves effective. After that, only weaklings too feeble to fight will remain. Tail-tucked dogs, every one."
The old man chuckled for a long while before continuing.
"And make sure our pursuers learn it too. That we've grown weak. That we can run no more."
*
[Tiresome beasts...]
Prince Neferka rattled his skull in irritation. Aboard his floating golden palanquin. They had been pursuing the foes for dozens of days now. A mere small tribe, but under the pharaoh's solemn command, he was tasked with eliminating these dissenters.
His legion had wiped out every beastman tribe that got in their way or hindered them. Savages who, in the empire's glorious days, wouldn't have dreamed of defying the pharaoh's armies.
Even as their muscles withered and bones crumbled, the elite of great Tutan Gartep overwhelmed them one and one. So Neferka saw this not as battle, but as a hunt.
Hunting was a noble's pastime. Neferka extended his golden goblet. His attendant promptly filled it with rancid wine. Out of lifelong habit, he elegantly swirled it, pretending to savor the aroma, then held it in his mouth.
-Splash...
The wine trickled down through his empty jaw, soaking his ribs and dripping into the palanquin. The attendants deftly wiped the spills with worn linen cloths.
[Your Highness, pressing on like this will bring us to the Sarrio Gorge. It's prime ambush terrain—send scouts, sire.]
[Foolish talk, Imart. An ambush requires troops at minimum. After days of nothing but fleeing, do you think they've prepared one?]
Neferka snickered at his accompanying priest. This wasn't arrogance; it was simple fact. Their pursuit had maintained a tantalizing near-miss distance for days.
That precarious chase had only continued thanks to the young beastman warriors who leaped out at critical moments, baring their fangs at the cost of their lives.
Each time Neferka's legion closed in on the fleeing tribe refugees, a few broke off to desperately hold them back. Impressive last stands, but Neferka was sick of it.
Given their numbers, they had no more troops to spare. Losing more would leave them below even the bare minimum to function as a tribe.
So Neferka mocked their incompetent chieftain. Pure beastly instinct—tails aflame, charging blindly ahead.
-Toooooot...
[See? Where can they flee now?]
[That's the Sarrio Gorge, Your Highness. The priests are exhausted from ceaselessly sustaining the legion. Our forces are crumbling.]
[Open the ossuaries and draw power.]
[That's a last resort, Your Highness.]
[What are you so afraid of? Take their heads, and we'll replenish our bone dust.]
Neferka grumbled in dissatisfaction. At that, Imart bowed his head cautiously.
[Contact with Prince Merenre's legion has been lost. He too was tracking nearby beasts on the divine pharaoh's orders.]
[That smug bastard's probably celebrating his hunt with a feast. Knowing him, he'd party for a month straight and still want more.]
[The astronomers' omens are dire. Advancing rashly now is unwise.]
[You dare lecture me on wisdom?]
As Neferka's fury rose, Imart immediately pressed his forehead to the ground in a deep bow. Just then, a messenger approached, bowing.
[Long live the great Prince Neferka. The beasts are passing through the gorge.]
[See, Imart? They're just fleeing blindly in terror. You there! Order the advance! Before they fully exit the gorge! Before they scatter!]
It had worked out perfectly. Better they funneled into a gorge open only front and back than scattered like vermin across the entire wasteland. Neferka smiled in satisfaction and gulped his wine.
*
"Master, they're sending chariot troops! If they catch us like this, we're all dead. Damn it—tell me there's a way!"
"Isn't it amusing?"
"What... did you say?"
The warrior scowled at the old man. He stood ramrod straight at the gorge's cliff edge, staring at the horizon. A hazy dust cloud rose at its far end. A great host.
Meanwhile, the tribe hadn't even crossed half the gorge. At this rate, it would become their tomb.
The old man smiled.
"They're ghosts who long forgot caution, but they've truly abandoned even the barest precautions now."
"Of course! Our tribe warriors lack the strength to stop them. We can't attack, let alone defend—how could we?"
"As weary as we are, so are they."
"How can skeletons and specters grow weary?!"
"How could they not? They're made of mana, those fools. Is their mana infinite?"
The old man cackled. He raised his staff and slammed it into the gorge rock with crushing force.
-Krrrrack!
The power was unbelievable from his frail frame. The stone shattered, revealing chunks of glowing blue crystal within. Mana stones.
"Beneath this wasteland's bedrock lie veins of mana stones, young beastman. And the priests sustaining their legion haven't rested any more than we have these past days. Especially their commander, whose form burns hottest."
"..."
"Your tribe warriors did well. Keeping just out of reach. Carving off their own flesh, as it were. Wagging those tails like tasty prey. And now their tender spots lie exposed."
As the warrior listened, he shrank back. Behind the old man's head, black flames began to flicker.
-Oooooh...
-Clatter. Clatter.
The gorge's stones trembled. An earthquake? No, less a quake and more...
As if the gorge itself were screaming.
-Drip. Plop.
"Wh-what...?"
The warrior's eyes flew wide in horror and shock. The wrinkled, lifeless skin covering the old man's face cracked and peeled away in shards.
Beneath gleamed pale, vibrant flesh. And beneath that, somber blue eyes...
'I've heard tales of mages aging to death from overusing magic, but... growing younger?'
A dagger flashing green emerged from the old man's sleeve. Slowly, he drew it across his arm. Blood welled up and splattered the ground.
In that instant, his fingers wove mudras at blinding speed. Mana enveloped him, surging upward as a halo of black, hellish flames ignited brilliantly behind his head.
*
The saint's blood, the mantra captured at the perfect angle in the perfect moment, the familiar—nay, instinctive—bronze throne's mana circuits. And now, the mana stone veins piercing up through this gorge's bedrock.
Everything as planned. Even the beastman warriors' blood, sacrificed to goad the spectral legions into a frenzy.
Beneath the old man's mask, a young man twisted his lips in a grin.
The Necropolis dagger's curse was [Soul Destruction]. Shatter a saint's soul, forcibly twist open a rift, then overlay a new spirit to slyly evade divine resistance.
Now one foot stood in the realm of souls. Far off, faintly, he felt Mumto's gaze. This wasteland's spirit realm belonged to Mumto.
Even as its power waned beneath the seal, Mumto could still peer outward.
Yes, watch. Watch as I draw near.
Feizashi smiled.
*
"...Wings..."
The warrior stumbled back. Gaunt arms sprouted from the old man's back like wings. Pale, translucent limbs writhed upright, twisting into grotesque angles in midair.
One, two, three... a total of six. Three pairs of arms, each weaving mudras in different directions...
-Rumble!!
The gorge began to scream.