Prologue: Dreams, Madness (Part 4)

With one swing of his sword, Rodhart shattered the last of the skeletons that had reached the mountain peak. He pulled the icy magic longsword from his gut, the blade coated with frozen blood and flesh. He could almost hear the sound of his own intestines tearing.

The icy longsword, still holding a piece of his flesh and a small fragment of his innards, flew from his hand and struck down the nearest specter. In that instant, he threw his last healing scroll onto himself. This was the final scroll he had found on the zombie priest's corpse.

Fortunately, it was a Divine Blessing scroll, ensuring that his wounds wouldn't be fatal. He reached up to adjust the loose flap of skin on his face, using his healing magic. He wasn't particularly concerned about his appearance, but he knew that if that piece of skin came off, it could very well tear his eyeball out along with it.

He felt no pain anymore—or perhaps, it was more accurate to say, he no longer felt anything. Two days without sleep had left him feeling as if his brain had turned to wood. Not only was his physical sensation dulled, but his mind had also become fragmented.

There was something odd in the air, something unnatural—a deathly aura that clung to the mountain. This must be the reason no creatures ventured into these mountains. The deeper one went, the more intense this feeling became. It seeped into his body and soul, sapping his strength and warping his mind. He could feel himself weakening under its influence, as if his body itself was starting to wither.

This wasn't a mere mental illusion. It was real. Every breath he took, every sound he heard, the touch of the air on his skin, the growing decay in his bones and soul—all of it was tainted by that strange aura. He hadn't rested in two days. If it weren't for a piece of weathered rock falling from above and crushing his finger with sharp pain, he might have never woken up again.

As he ventured deeper into the mountains, he was constantly fighting off the urge to succumb to the strange energy around him. The sheer exhaustion and mental strain had nearly stripped him of his ability to think clearly. The only thing that kept him moving forward was the belief that burned within him.

Perhaps the reason he hadn't gone mad yet was that he was already mad—mad for that belief.

There were roughly twenty skeletons and zombies about fifty paces behind him, and around forty more ahead, with four ghosts hovering in the air, likely to pounce in three seconds. He decided to deal with the ones behind first. There was no necromancer leading these undead, so they were simply fighting on instinct—there was still a chance.

His mind churned like a machine, focusing on the task at hand. He bent down, grabbed a mace and a longsword, and charged toward the rear, instinctively letting out a battle cry like a barbarian: "Rodhart, I seek an audience with Marquis Inham Ernie and the mages of Dehya Valley…"

He didn't manage to finish the shout. Instead, he slammed his head into the chest of a zombie, tearing off a chunk of rotten flesh. At the same time, he felt part of his scalp rip off from where the zombie's mouth had bitten.

His remaining consciousness was consumed by that belief, and he became little more than an animal struggling for it.

He didn't know how much time had passed—perhaps not much at all—but when he finally stood atop the mountain, he shouted once more, his voice no longer sounding quite human: "Rodhart, Squad Leader of the Einfast Holy Knights, seeking an audience with Marquis Inham Ernie and the mages of Dehya Valley…"

His voice echoed through the mountains, but it elicited no response.

Despite still holding his longsword, his body had reached its limit. Slowly, he collapsed to the ground. His resolve was still strong, but his body was battered beyond belief. He had enough wounds and fatigue to incapacitate twenty men.

The cold rock against his back allowed his mind and body to finally relax, like water breaking through a dam. He felt every cell in his body collapse and decay, as if the very air, the rock behind him, and even his soul were feeding into that deathly energy.

He was dying.

But even so, his belief and consciousness remained unbroken, as solid as the unyielding mountain behind him.

Am I dying? he thought. I still have to go to Dehya Valley. I still have a chance. My life shouldn't end like this. I can still go further… I can still make it…

"Ah, so you're a madman," a voice suddenly rang out.

For a moment, Rodhart's first instinct was to think that perhaps he really had gone mad. Hearing things in his final moments—wasn't that the definition of madness? Skeletons, zombies, and ghosts didn't speak.

But through his blurry vision, he saw not the shadows of the undead but a real person—dressed in a white robe.

"You dare venture alone into the Spiral Shadow Mountains?" the person said, glancing at Rodhart. He sighed, unamused. "I've never heard of anyone doing such a thing. But now I see, you're just a madman."

"Do you know," the person continued, "that among the skeletons, zombies, and ghosts you shattered, there were many who were stronger than you when they were alive? And they always traveled in groups. For someone like you to think you could single-handedly enter Dehya Valley? It's no wonder you're mad."

Rodhart's remaining energy and spirit gathered again, and despite his fading vision, he forced out the words that embodied his belief: "Rodhart… I seek an audience with Marquis Inham Ernie and the mages of Dehya Valley…"

The person smiled faintly. "Looking for Inham? Too bad he's no longer here... And since he never mentioned you, never arranged a meeting, it seems he doesn't care about you. That means you're of no use to him."

"I... I will... be useful…" Rodhart tried to say, but he couldn't find the strength.

"Useful?" The person scoffed. "So your madness is just about proving your worth? It's a pity, but Dehya Valley doesn't need useful people right now."

Rodhart tried to speak, but all he could do was cough up blood. His vision had completely faded.

The person said nothing, though they appeared to consider him for a moment. Then, they bent down and placed their hand on Rodhart. A glow of white magic enveloped him, and his wounds began to close, the bleeding stopping almost immediately.

"Impressive. With such power, you managed to get this far into the Black Star Barrier. I guess your madness is what pushed you to prove yourself. Perhaps someone like you might actually be useful after all."

As the white magic poured into his body, the vitality that was on the verge of vanishing slowly returned. Rodhart's vision cleared, and the first thing he saw was the white robes of the person before him and a face that was kind and gentle.

"I don't know if you're lucky or if you're just truly insane, but I suppose meeting me here is your fortune," the person said softly. "Dehya Valley may not need useful people, but there are other places that do. I need you."