Prologue: Dreams, Madness (Part 2)

Chahma's face turned grim as he shook his head and said, "You don't understand. I only heard about this from an old adventurer who had been here before. The terrain and climate of this desert are so peculiar that the mirages here are always fixed. They reflect objects at a specific distance in the same direction every time. That means what we're seeing now is indeed a mirage, but the real thing is in this exact direction—just farther away."

"How far?" Rodhart asked.

"I'm not sure. Maybe a few hundred miles, but it's definitely in this direction."

"Alright, let's go." Rodhart replied calmly. "Since we know the direction, we must be close."

"You're insane!" Chahma finally couldn't hold back and shouted. "Do you even know what that is? That's the Spiral Shadow Mountains from the legends!"

"It doesn't matter. Let's keep moving." The young knight remained unshaken, his expression even more resolute.

Chahma's pupils contracted into tiny black dots. He stared at the knight and asked, word by word, "Could it be... that you were heading there from the beginning?"

The knight didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the mirage of the distant mountains. Though an illusion, his eyes were as firm as steel. Over the past ten days of traversing the desert, the wind and sand had battered his once-handsome face, leaving it scarred like the weathered granite that withstands storms.

Taking a deep breath, Chahma pulled his camel back a few steps and said, "I'm sorry, Sir Knight. This is as far as I can take you. That place is beyond what I dare to venture. Forgive me, but this is where we must part ways. I'm just an ordinary man trying to make a living. I wouldn't dare go to that place, no matter how much money you offer me."

"Very well, I won't make it difficult for you," the knight said, turning to look at him. He didn't seem surprised. In truth, the biggest reason why countless people feared entering this desert wasn't the harsh environment but the shadowy mountain range beyond—the Spiral Shadow Mountains. Deep within those mountains lay a place that was the embodiment of fear, death, and darkness for all who lived on this continent: the Dehya Valley. No one willingly approached it.

"The rest of the journey will be up to you, Sir Knight. I'll turn back here. I only need a third of the water and food—no, less, a quarter is enough. I know the road ahead is treacherous, and you'll need to conserve your strength. I'll manage to make it out with what's left..."

Chahma's face now bore the expression of a man resigned to fate, like someone whose ancestors had lived humble lives of toil. It carried the same timidity as a man who had grown up under the shelter of his mother's skirts. His request was almost indistinguishable from a plea.

There was no other way. Upon realizing that the young knight's destination was the mountain range, Chahma had recalled some stories he had dismissed as nonsense.

Indeed, a rare few ventured into this desert for peculiar reasons. If one in ten thousand adventurers dared enter the desert, then perhaps one in a million might aim for the Spiral Shadow Mountains, seeking to enter the Dehya Valley and become a necromancer of legend.

The term "madman" wasn't enough to describe such individuals. Those aspiring to become necromancers were perhaps even more dangerous in spirit than the necromancers themselves, whether or not they possessed the capability. With people like that, caution and prudence were the wisest approaches. Even with only a quarter of the water and food, the remaining three-quarters would be enough for the knight to reach the mountain range.

As expected, the young knight smiled at Chahma and said, "I understand. These past days must have been hard on you. Without your help, I wouldn't have made it this far..." Even then, his smile was as charming and warm as ever, like he was thanking an old friend.

Chahma quickly bowed, his face plastered with a submissive smile. "Sir Knight, could you perhaps give me a bit more of the reward you promised me?"

"Of course, it's what you deserve." The knight reached into his cloak and retrieved a few gold coins.

Chahma immediately dismounted his camel, bowing low as he approached the knight. His face was filled with cautious, ingratiating smiles, one hand outstretched and the other supporting his back. This was the desert nomads' highest gesture of respect toward an honored guest. His expression, demeanor, tone, and posture all radiated meekness and submission.

But the moment the knight dismounted and extended his hand to drop the coins into Chahma's palm, Chahma's entire demeanor exploded into action.

Ordinarily, someone so completely relaxed and pliant couldn't possibly execute such a swift and ferocious move. Yet Chahma did just that. His body remained soft, but the hand that had been resting on his back was taut as a drawn bowstring, every muscle and tendon coiled to its limit. In one swift motion, he drew the curved dagger hidden behind him.

As the knight's hand released the coins, Chahma struck.

The force and speed of his slash were enough to carry his entire body forward. In that instant, his face lost all traces of weakness, contorted instead with the ferocity of a starving lion.

Desert nomads survived through combat, and even their most deferential posture could conceal a deadly attack. Chahma, having perfected this technique, was among the fastest in his tribe. He had once used it to feign surrender and kill a holy warrior of the Church in an ambush.

Water and food—these were reasons enough for him to stake everything on this gamble.

For a moment, even the blazing sun seemed dim in comparison. The gleam of his blade tore through the air, its light dazzling against the desolate backdrop of sand and sky.

The arc of the blade was followed by an eruption of crimson. The vivid red of blood painted the monotonous desert landscape with a shocking vibrancy. Chahma could clearly see his blade, brighter than sunlight, slicing through the air toward the young knight. Then, the blood came, flooding his vision.

The blade's motion slowed and finally stopped, revealing the knife still in his hand—but its hilt was gripped by a severed hand. It was only then that Chahma realized the blood wasn't from the knight. It was his own. His hand, and his headless body...

"My apologies," the knight said, sheathing his sword. "But I can't spare even a tenth of my supplies, let alone a quarter. You were right—I need all my strength."

Chahma's lifeless body swayed and crumpled to the ground. The knight hesitated for a moment, then caught the corpse and drank deeply from the gushing blood at its neck.

"I didn't expect to run out of salt so quickly..." he muttered, wiping his mouth. Blood contained a decent amount of salt, but it wasn't easy to digest. After taking two gulps, he dropped the body, letting its blood seep into the scalding sand.

Tying the two camels together, the knight mounted and continued toward the distant mountains. His face and body were smeared with drying blood, some of it cracking in the relentless heat. Yet his expression remained serene, his eyes filled with unwavering determination.

Toward the mirage of the mountains, he pressed forward with the air of a devout pilgrim.