Chapter 59: The Battlefield · Onlookers

  Bracada’s town hall had been converted into General Sanders’ command post. The general was now staring blankly in one of its small rooms.

  The air reeked of blood and rot. A hundred or more flies buzzed wildly, darting to and fro in the cramped space. In the center of the room lay three mangled corpses. The blood on their bodies had congealed into black crusts; their exposed muscles had shriveled, twisting dryly together with the dark stains. In some places, their internal organs were visible—dried by the highland air, their surfaces looked like leather, with fragments of bone jabbing out of their flesh. Only one corpse had an intact head, its dying expression still clear—but its body was unrecognizable. Flies crawled into its gaping mouth (frozen open by black blood) and its nostrils. Half of another corpse’s face was crushed flat; one eye hung from its socket, shrunken like a dehydrated grape. The third body had no major injuries—except that its upper head was gone, severed cleanly, leaving only the lower half of its jaw.

  To date, General Sanders had gathered plenty of information about Oufu City from various sources—but details about the orc army remained a mystery. How were they organized? What weapons did they use? How strong were they? No one knew. And that damn giant monster seemed to have vanished into the wilderness. Surely the orcs hadn’t defeated it? The general refused to believe that.

  Ten days earlier, he’d spotted traces of a small orc patrol in the wasteland. He’d immediately sent a hundred elite soldiers to capture prisoners for interrogation—but the entire unit had vanished without a trace, like a clay ox sinking into the sea. A search party he’d sent out days later had only dragged back these three corpses.

  The general was already furious and frustrated over these unexplained deaths when news arrived that morning: with Priest Nagas dead and unable to testify, the blame for losing hundreds of mages had been shifted to him. The court was already discussing who would replace him as commander.

  The general flew into a rage, nearly tempted to march his army back to the capital and slaughter every last politician in the Erney family. But he couldn’t—he was a subject, bound by royal orders. Besides, the Paladin Order existed precisely to prevent rebellions like this.

  Just then, a soldier entered, trembling, to report: the new cleric from the Magic Academy had arrived.

  He’d received no notification from the military. This was undoubtedly another lackey sent by those politicians.

  “Drag that bastard out and cut his head off! No—” The general roared in his fury, but cut himself off. He suddenly remembered the man wasn’t his subordinate; by protocol, he should go out of the camp to greet him in person. But in his current mood, such courtesy was impossible. He shouted, “Tell him to come see me here!”

  The general met the new cleric in the town hall’s main hall.

  “You’re the new cleric?” The general tried to cow the young man on the spot with a lion’s roar and a fierce glare. “Where are your attendants?”

  “There’s no rule that says I must bring attendants,” the cleric replied calmly, unaffected by the general’s authority. He pulled something from his robes. “Here’s my appointment letter from the Magic Academy, along with my credentials and token.”

  The general’s sharp gaze swept over the young man from head to toe. He was not what the general had expected: his travel-worn face lacked the solemnity of a clergyman, and his bearing had none of a soldier’s discipline or strength. Yet there was something odd about his unflappable demeanor—and a faint aura beneath his clerical robes—that made the general feel uneasy.

  Still, he stuck to his plan: he would humble this man first.

  “After years of studying at the Magic Academy, Cleric, you must be extremely knowledgeable and insightful,” the general said.

  “No, I’m not,” the cleric replied.

  Another spoiled rich kid—all looks, no substance. Watching the cleric’s flustered expression, the general’s jaw tightened. He even felt his canine teeth sharpening, as if he could bite this worthless fool to death in one go.

  The general snorted and waved a hand. “Follow me. I have some questions for you.” He led the cleric to the room with the corpses, then pointed at them. “These soldiers were killed by orcs. But we still know nothing about how orc soldiers fight, or how strong they are. I ask you, Cleric—use your vast knowledge to find clues for us in these bodies.”

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  Anyone seeing battlefield corpses for the first time would be scared out of their wits. He needed to cow this coddled weakling, to make him understand that war wasn’t just words in a book, or a game for politicians, or a casino for young men chasing glory and fortune. Only then would he dare not act recklessly like that previous idiot.

  The cleric’s face changed. He stared at the three corpses, frowning deeply.

  The general smiled triumphantly, waiting for the new cleric to vomit, wet himself, or collapse in fear.

  But instead, the cleric sighed, stepped forward, and began examining the bodies carefully—even reaching out to turn them over.

  “This corpse’s ribs are crushed inward, and there are deep indentations on its chest,” the cleric said calmly. “It was killed by a giant claw—probably a wyvern. Did you send your soldiers into the Lizard Marsh?”

  The general gaped. That was the very corpse he’d been unable to identify the cause of death for.

  “No,” he replied, his arrogance deflating by half without him noticing. “This was from the unit I sent ten days ago. Scouts reported a small orc patrol in the wasteland, so I sent men to capture them. We’re far from the Lizard Marsh—wyverns never come this far.”

  “Then the orcs must have tamed wyverns themselves,” the cleric said.

  “Impossible!” the general snapped. “No one has ever tamed such a monster—least of all orcs!”

  “Lizardmen can steal eggs from the marsh and raise them from birth, like we do with hunting dogs,” the cleric said, his tone so certain it was as if he’d seen it himself. “If they can build a city, they can certainly do this.”

  It sounded plausible. The general had no reply, so he simply listened.

  The new cleric continued flipping through the corpses as casually as a butcher inspecting pork, making deductions that left the general stunned: “This one was killed by a werewolf. The wounds are from heavy weapons—probably a mace or a spiked club. See these drag marks from the spikes? Since this was just an orc patrol, there wouldn’t be large, clumsy creatures like ogres. So the only ones who could wield such weapons are werewolves. This third corpse has no other injuries—only half its head cut off cleanly. That must have been a lizardman; only they have the speed and strength for that.”

  The general listened, his anger completely replaced by shock. He himself had only been able to identify the weapons used—nothing more.

  “If the orcs have wyverns for scouting, they can easily observe us from the sky,” the cleric said, turning his gaze from the corpses to the general. “Why would they need to send a patrol? This small orc unit was probably just testing our intentions. When your men attacked them, the orcs had no choice but to fight back—they didn’t want to be captured. Orcs with proper equipment are far stronger than ordinary soldiers.” He paused, then added quietly, “You shouldn’t have sent your men in so recklessly.”

  The general stared blankly for a long moment before regaining his senses. He nodded, his voice deflated. “Very well. Cleric, please tend to your own affairs first. I’ll handle the military matters myself.” Resentment and frustration gave way to a hint of respect. He nodded again. “Thank you for your advice.”

  Ethan walked out of the town hall and let out a long sigh, as if trying to blow the stench of corpses from his body.

  Bracada’s once lively streets were still crowded—but now, they teemed with soldiers clutching swords and spears. The town’s cleverly designed inns were piled high with weapons and grain. The entire city reeked of impending war.

  According to Bishop Ronis, the lives of all these people might rest in his hands. Just thinking about it made him tired.

  The setting sun dyed the clouds crimson. The stench of corpses still seemed to linger in his nose, and this blood-red sunset looked particularly ominous.

  An owl perched on a nearby tree, staring blankly at him.

  “Why is he here?” Vedenina stared in shock at the image in her crystal ball.

  “That’s the cleric Ronis sent there,” a necromancer replied, also watching the ball. “I was wondering where he’d dug up someone so out of the blue—turns out it’s the boy you mentioned.”

  Vedenina and four necromancers sat around an elegant, ornate round table. Though less than half the seats were filled, this was a rare grand gathering for the Necromancer Guild. Normally, guild members scattered across the continent, each living under a false identity and pursuing their own goals. They only gathered for occasional meetings or events.

  “So this is the boy who fell into the Sunwell?” one of the other three necromancers asked. “The elves are hunting him everywhere. And it seems he stole a leaf from the World Tree and escaped. This should be interesting.”

  The necromancer who knew Ethan turned to Vedenina. “I heard you used the World Tree leaf to create a true Dark Dragon—only for someone to destroy it and steal the leaf back. Is that true? You were quite generous. If you’d brought it back for us to study, we could have made several treasures with it.”

  “What I do is my own business,” Vedenina said coldly.

  “Women are such extravagant creatures,” the necromancer said, surprisingly humorous. He smiled at Vedenina. “Even when you’re no longer human, you still waste so much. Heh—just a joke. Ronis wants to end this war, but we don’t. After all, it’s been ages since we’ve had a proper war. The smell of blood and rot is almost gone from the continent’s air. We’re all here to watch the show. But we can’t afford to be as lavish as our lady here. Let’s use methods that are cheap and effective.” He turned to another necromancer. “Hey—lend me those gargoyles you just finished researching.”