Chapter 25
Chapter 25
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 25
Chapter Title: Gnolls
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Hyenas.
This race, resembling hyenas in appearance, had slightly protruding snouts and a base color of brown dotted with black spots.
They were fierce by nature and obsessed with hierarchy, leading to frequent fights within their packs, but among Lost World players, the consensus was that "such penalties were tolerable."
With well-rounded physical abilities and intelligence, they were accepted as a solid first-race choice for players, regardless of subdomain affinity.
Of course, none of this game-player knowledge mattered to Owen or the nameless man beside him.
The man said to Owen,
"What do you plan to do? From what I hear, gnolls and lizardmen in this region aren't on good terms."
"That's right."
Owen gazed down with a somewhat bored expression.
"It'll take them a while to climb up here, so let's think it over. They haven't spotted us yet. Do you think those are subordinates of 'Salkait'?"
Salkait was the chieftain of the Cropped Ear Tribe, a gnoll pack hostile to the Black Scale lizardmen tribe.
The Black Scale tribe coming from the south and the Cropped Ear tribe descending from the northwest were the two largest powers in the wasteland, and smaller tribes watched their every move with great interest.
Salkait and Rakrak worshipped different gods.
It was inevitable that the two chieftains would be at odds.
The man, too, was deeply interested in whether the two tribes would clash and who would emerge victorious.
At least in this wasteland, no human tribe could rival those two mighty forces.
"Who knows..."
The man trailed off but decided against a half-hearted reply.
His interlocutor was "Storyteller Owen."
The man examined the approaching gnoll pack more closely.
Then he reached his own conclusion.
"Honestly, I don't think so."
"Why's that?"
"For one, their presence here is suspicious. If they were Salkait's men from the Cropped Ear Tribe, they'd know Rakrak's group is moving this way. No way they'd wander so boldly. What if they ran into Rakrak's scouts?"
"Those gnolls are traveling in a pack. And gnolls are always brimming with confidence. They might think they could handle a scouting party."
"Sure, maybe, but... they're heading straight for that bone tower visible even from the base of the hill. What if they unluckily run into Storyteller Owen, who carves 'writing' into tombstones? I think those guys aren't thinking at all."
Owen shrugged.
"So what do you think?"
"In my view, they used to belong to Salkait's tribe but got pushed out in internal rivalries. That happens a lot with gnolls. They're armed, but look closely—it's sloppy. That one's got no sword, just a wooden club."
Owen chuckled.
"Same thought here. But my reason is they aren't watching their surroundings at all. Salkait's scouts would check the ridgelines first and avoid such an obvious path. They're tired and worn out. Definitely wanderers."
The man looked at Owen with interest.
'Not just empty rumors about his wisdom. Wonder what Rakrak, the one he follows, is like.'
The man said,
"So, what now?"
"Chase 'em off."
"Even though they're not from the Cropped Ear Tribe?"
"If they were Cropped Ear scouts, I'd welcome them. Even if hostile, a skirmish that small is pointless. They'd know that too. Probably share a meal and pry for info."
"Ah, I see."
"But those ones... just hungry raiders, right?"
The man agreed, but his mouth itched, and he couldn't resist adding,
"If they were wandering lizardmen or wandering humans, you'd think differently?"
"Of course. I trust lizardmen—and humans. But not gnolls."
The man nodded in understanding.
Owen grabbed his weapons and said,
"You stay here."
"You sure? Alone?"
Owen waved dismissively without answering and strolled down the hill.
The man thought it was for the best.
'Might get to see something rare.'
From atop the hill, the man watched Owen approach the gnolls, then draw the bow from his back.
The man recognized it immediately.
'A Black Scale lizardman composite bow.'
Made from the massive water buffalo herded by the Black Scale tribe, it was the longest-ranging bow in the wasteland.
The Black Scale tribe produced them sparingly, matching their warrior numbers, and rarely traded, so genuine ones were exorbitantly expensive or crude fakes.
'Why draw the bow already? At this distance...'
As if to counter his thought, Owen drew an arrow from the quiver at his waist and loosed it.
Owen had walked down some, but they were still over a hundred paces apart.
The gnolls, heads bowed as they trudged, hadn't noticed him.
When Owen released, the man thought it missed at first, but one gnoll collapsed with a thud.
'Killed it instantly? No, wait.'
The man had sharp eyes.
The arrow had struck the shield strapped to the lead gnoll's arm perfectly.
But the force was so immense it knocked him flat.
"Attack! Enemy attack!"
The gnolls panicked, finally spotting Owen.
Seeing just one foe, they charged straight at him.
Some gnolls had bows too—crude longbows of wood—but Owen held the high ground. Their arrows fell short of his feet.
"Lizardman! You scaly stink! What do you think you're doing?!"
Owen loosed several more arrows without reply.
None would wound with arrow alone, but each had enough force to unbalance. Hit or miss, the gnolls dodging frantically tumbled down the slope.
The man was impressed.
'Huh, easier to just kill them outright.'
But three gnolls reached Owen.
They drew bronze swords and lunged.
"You bastard!"
Owen effortlessly dodged the three close swings.
Then he grabbed three arrows at once from his quiver, rapid-firing at their feet.
The arrows pinned not feet but shoes to the dirt.
In an instant, all three were literally rooted.
Owen thrust out his empty hand toward the panicked gnolls.
"Hmph. You lot have no right to bring your foul-smelling feet into this holy site."
Rumble...
Not just the three gnolls—even those who'd tumbled down the slope and the man atop the hill felt their hackles rise.
One gnoll suddenly recalled the famous legend of the black-scaled lizardman.
"Gasp...! Chosen one?!"
Boom!
The gnolls squeezed their eyes shut, but azure light pierced even their eyelids.
As the stunned gnolls staggered up, Owen grinned.
"Oops, a miss?"
Only the distant man saw it clearly.
A massive bolt of lightning erupted from Owen's empty hand, spearing through the gnolls and vitrifying the dirt path into splintered wood-like shards.
'Insane.'
Naturally, the gnolls yanked free arrows from their shoes, hoisted fallen comrades, and fled without looking back.
Owen walked to where they'd bolted, collected intact arrows, and returned.
"Whew, using power after so long..."
Owen pulled a long pipe from his outer robe.
Its end was hollow; he untied a pouch, stuffed dried herbs into the hole, and tamped them with his finger.
Then he snapped his fingers, sparking a flame.
As the herbs caught, he inhaled deeply.
Exhaling, white smoke billowed.
The man knew the item.
'Pipe and tobacco. Ritual tool for Black Scale chosen ones. Burn herbs after using power, right?'
The man waited until Owen finished.
Noting the silence, Owen said,
"Speak if you have something to say."
"Hm... With that much power, why travel alone?"
"What do you mean? Without this power, how could I?"
The man conceded the point.
"Let me rephrase. Owen, you're beyond serving under anyone. Plenty in the Black Scale tribe follow you, or you could lead other lizardmen packs from afar and live easy. But 'Storyteller Owen' wanders alone. Dangerously, lonely."
Owen chuckled as if hearing an amusing tale.
"I've my reasons. Many sins, you see."
"You, a sinner? I've seen plenty of lizardmen who adore you."
"No, sinner... yes, that's true, but I've been forgiven by many tribesfolk. This is personal atonement."
"Atonement?"
"When you can't forgive yourself."
"I get it."
The man nodded, and Owen continued,
"But one path to forgiveness opened. This is it—spreading tales of the Blue Insect God and Chieftain Rakrak. Through stories and writing. Sometimes with a scare."
Owen glanced down the hill.
The gnolls were still fleeing afar. He counted heads precisely, figuring they wouldn't return today. Killing one or two might've bred vengeance.
'Sleep would be rough tonight, then.'
Pocketing the spent pipe, Owen said,
"Speaking of... you..."
"Ah, call me 'Hwi'."
"Hwi, eh. Hm. Where you headed, Hwi? You called me a wanderer, but you look the part."
"Me?"
Hwi scratched his beard and said,
"Truth is, I'm no wanderer. From Automaton City."
Automaton City.
A remote valley at the wasteland's southwest edge.
A human tribe living off a spring, with an earthen rampart at the entrance.
Not built by them, though.
An ancient wonder: waist-high mud soldiers endlessly repaired the crumbling walls—hence "Automaton City."
This let the humans hold it against larger tribes.
Both Cropped Ear gnolls and Black Scale lizardmen coveted it.
Owen said,
"Ah, messenger from Automaton City?"
"Right. Delivering the city lord's words to the Black Scale tribe."
"My apologies for not recognizing a guest. Anyway, good timing."
"How so?"
Owen told Hwi,
"I was heading to see Rakrak myself after ages. I'll take you to the Black Scale tribe."
"Oh, really?"
"Of course. But night's deep—how about dawn tomorrow?"
"Dawn, not morning?"
"Travel by starlight."
"Fine by me."
"As my guest, must treat you well."
Owen whistled. Hwi turned toward the brush.
A rough-looking rooster, about 2.5 meters tall.
Hwi drew his sword.
"Cockatrice?"
"Half right. This is a 'coruca'."
Hwi belatedly realized.
'The rumored cockatrice-chicken hybrid. No idea how lizardmen bred it...'
Coruca were mounts for elite lizardman riders skilled in horsemanship.
Like cockatrices but smaller, more docile.
Black Scales couldn't tame cockatrices but bred coruca.
Chosen ones astride coruca spread—or sullied—the Black Scale name far.
'Racing faster than men, loosing composite bows from a hundred paces. No fear of closing in. Black Scale warriors hope for the fight... but won't flinch.'
The next day, before dawn, they mounted the coruca and set off.
To both Hwi and Owen's surprise, the Black Scale tribe was nearby. Owen had figured Rakrak's group went farther.
Amid distant buffalo herds, approaching the cluster of huts, wailing reached them.
Hwi cautiously said,
"A funeral?"
Owen nodded.
This scale gave him a guess.
Black Scale funerals varied by rank.
"Likely... a chosen one has died."