Translator: CinderTL
The death of the Bloodscale Kobold seemed to trigger a signal.
The kobolds, who had been gradually closing in on the village entrance, suddenly scattered like startled birds.
Screaming in a language incomprehensible to humans, they retreated step by step, vanishing into the shadowy jungle within moments.
In an instant, the village, once filled with wails and the clash of battle, fell into deathly silence.
Only the crackling of burning flames and the pained groans of surviving villagers remained.
"What... what just happened?"
Peyton, his face pale, struggled to his feet, his eyes filled with confusion.
Though he had evaded the Bloodscale Kobold's death throes, the wounds from the earlier battle had reopened, blood soaking through his bandages, and his arm was completely drained of strength.
Roland didn't answer Peyton's question.
After confirming there were no immediate threats, he slowly approached the charred remains of the Bloodscale Kobold. Bending down, he retrieved a small object embedded in the ashes.
It was a blood-red crystal, no larger than a fingernail, with a surface as smooth as a gemstone. Within its depths swirled amber-colored light, as if liquid fire were sealed inside.
"What is this...?"
Roland was frowning, examining the crimson crystal in his palm, when he suddenly heard unsteady footsteps behind him.
He quickly pocketed the crystal and turned around.
John, covered in blood and leaning on his broken sword, limped toward him.
The old soldier froze when he saw the excessively young face illuminated by the firelight.
"Y-you're... hello," John rasped, his voice still tinged with the metallic tang of blood.
He never imagined that the powerful figure who had crushed the Bloodscale Kobold with such thunderous force would be a slender youth.
Remembering the devastating sword strike he had witnessed, John endured the searing pain in his ribs and bowed deeply in respect.
"I am John, captain of the Third Patrol Team under Baron Forslin. May I ask your name, sir?"
"Captain John," Roland said with a soft laugh, reaching out to steady the man's trembling arm. "Don't you remember me?"
He leaned closer, letting the flickering flames illuminate his face.
"I'm Roland, the boy who trained at the manor. Before the festival, I even ran errands for Mr. Hawk. You personally questioned me at the manor gate back then."
"You!" John's eyes widened.
The memory of the shy, handsome youth gradually overlapped with the blood-stained, sword-wielding figure before him.
Recognizing Roland, John's tense shoulders finally relaxed.
He braced himself on his knees, gasping for breath, blood dripping steadily from his cracked leather armor.
"I never expected..."
He forced a weak smile, his blood-stained beard trembling slightly.
"You're quite skilled."
"You saved my life. If you ever need anything, just ask."
As they spoke, Peyton and Gary staggered over, supporting Tom between them.
After hastily bandaging their wounds, John wiped the blood from his face and asked, "Where do you plan to go next?"
"We're heading to the Baron's Manor for refuge," Gary replied.
John shook his head, cutting him off. The veteran pointed at Roland.
"He's been training at the manor. He might have a chance, but you... don't waste your energy."
A bitter smile crossed the old soldier's face.
"The Lord Baron never allows commoners inside. Even our families were turned away at the drawbridge during last year's famine."
The torches crackled, casting harsh shadows on their suddenly somber faces.
As the euphoria of their narrow escape faded, Gary and Peyton regained their composure. They exchanged a glance, both recognizing the same truth in each other's eyes:
The aloof Baron would never make an exception for commoners like them.
"Let's head north," Gary said.
Seeing their silence, John struggled to his feet.
"Lord Beckham is recruiting soldiers there to fight the demonic beasts of the Black Cedar Forest. With such a powerful knight leading the defense, it should be safe."
He helped Tom up and handed him over to Roland.
"You and Tom should return to the manor together. With his testimony explaining what happened, the guards will surely let you in."
"What about you?" Roland asked, supporting Tom as he looked at the resolute old soldier.
"I need to report this situation to the front lines."
John sheathed his iron sword with difficulty, his face grim.
"We originally set out from the manor and rushed to the border with the Dawn Territory to garrison the area. But after waiting for a long time, we never saw any sign of demonic beasts. The front-line commander then sent a few of us back to deliver the news. I never imagined..."
He surveyed the village's devastation, sighed heavily, and his eyes gradually dimmed.
"How did these kobolds bypass the defenses and infiltrate this far? I've fought kobolds before, but they've never been this cunning, let alone..."
John nodded toward the mangled remains of the Bloodscale Kobold on the ground, his voice hoarse.
"For such a powerful monster to appear..."
He shook his head slightly and waved his hand dismissively.
"Enough about that. You should get moving. Who knows if those damned mongrels will try again."
With that, he turned and strode away.
Roland and his companions exchanged glances before setting off northward.
As they traveled along the narrow forest path, Roland remained vigilant.
Fortunately, they arrived at the manor without incident.
Tom entered ahead to explain the situation, then waved Roland over from atop the high wall.
Seeing this, Roland exchanged a few words with Peyton and Gary before stepping into the manor grounds.
With Tom's endorsement, he moved freely through the manor, quickly reaching the dormitory area.
Though it was late at night, the towering flames from the village made it impossible for the young apprentices to sleep.
They had gathered in the courtyard, gazing at the distant fire and murmuring anxiously, completely unaware of Roland's presence.
Some were panicked, others terrified, and a few were sobbing quietly.
Only Marco and a handful of others stood silently, their families not residing in the village.
As for Marco...
Roland recalled passing by Marco's father's blacksmith shop during their escape.
He had intended to pilfer some weapons and armor, but upon entering, he found the place deserted.
Marco's father must have evacuated immediately after receiving the news.
Roland shook his head, ignoring the youths in the clearing, and forced his weary body into the dormitory.
After stowing his belongings, he collapsed heavily onto his bed.
The repeated use of his Focus trait, combined with the intense battle, had left him utterly exhausted, his mind blank.
He sank into dreamless sleep the moment his head hit the pillow.
As the night gradually faded, the faint light of dawn soon bathed the manor.
The estate remained as serene and peaceful as ever, as if the bloody battle against the kobolds the previous night had been nothing more than a nightmarish illusion.
It wasn't until Roland's hand brushed against the warm, red crystal nestled in his chest that his groggy consciousness fully cleared.
He sat up on the edge of the bed, holding the crimson gem up to the light for closer inspection.
After studying it for some time, he still couldn't discern its purpose. Reluctantly setting aside his curiosity for the moment, he rose to perform his morning ablutions.
As the icy water splashed against his face, Roland's thoughts gradually cleared, and images from last night's battle began flashing through his mind.
"With my current strength, enhanced by the Focus trait, dealing with low-level demonic beasts like kobolds shouldn't be a problem, as long as they're not too numerous. But as for..."
Roland shook his head and sighed, recalling the Bloodscale Kobold that had suddenly burst into flames last night.
"As for that Aberrant Kobold, its strength was simply overwhelming. Even with its sluggish movements, I couldn't handle it alone in my current state."
"Last night, even with Peyton and John assisting me, I barely managed to critically wound it after exerting all my strength. If I had faced it one-on-one, I doubt I would have survived a single exchange."
Fueled by this realization, Roland's desire to improve his strength intensified. He quickly opened his pack and began meticulously checking its contents.
"Thankfully, these items weren't damaged too badly during the fight."
He let out a long breath, then followed the recipe on the parchment, grinding each medicinal herb into a fine powder.
The mortar and pestle rubbed against each other, producing a soft, rustling sound.
After a moment, Roland stared at the grayish-black powder in the mortar, his brow furrowing involuntarily.
"Can this stuff really refine the body?"
Despite his doubts, his hands continued to move with precision, carefully adding the final ingredient, Silver Dust.
The instant the grayish-black powder came into contact with the Silver Dust, they fused silently, like ice melting into water.
At first, only tiny silver sparks flickered.
But soon, the entire mass of powder began to writhe and contract, as if drawn by some invisible force.
The dry powder gradually became moist, its surface gleaming with a silvery sheen, flowing slowly like mercury.
Within a few breaths, the entire mixture had transformed into a viscous, silvery liquid, gently rippling in the mortar, occasionally sending out fine ripples like a living thing.
"This is..."
Roland's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed dryly.
He stared intently at the constantly shifting silver fluid in the mortar, momentarily at a loss for what to do.
After a moment, he gradually calmed down and began meticulously cross-referencing the process with the instructions on the parchment.
Once he confirmed that the final product matched the description perfectly, he stripped off his clothes and swiftly applied the viscous silver liquid all over his body.
The instant the last trace of the silvery fluid covered his skin, a refreshing coolness, like early spring stream water, washed over him, easing his taut nerves.
But this relief lasted only a moment. His muscles suddenly contracted beneath his skin.
A sharp, stinging pain surged through him like a tidal wave, as if ten thousand silver needles were simultaneously piercing his pores, then coursing wildly through his veins to every limb and bone.
(End of the Chapter)
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