Chapter 225: Dream·Madness (Part 2)

  Chama's face was somewhat grim as he shook his head and said, "You don't understand. I heard it from an old adventurer who came here once. The terrain and climate in this desert are too peculiar, so the mirages that appear are always fixed, reflecting things at a fixed distance in the same direction. In other words, what we're seeing now is a phantom, but the real thing is also in this direction, just much farther away."

  "Then how much farther is it?" Rodhart asked.

  "I'm not too sure. Maybe several hundred li, but it's definitely in this direction."

  "Mm, let's go then," Rodhart said flatly. "Since we know the direction, we should be there soon, right?"

  "Are you insane!" Chama finally couldn't help but shout. "Do you know what that is? That is the legendary The Shadowspire Peaks!"

  "It's alright, let's continue." The young knight still seemed as unruffled as ever, only his expression appeared even more determined.

  Chama's pupils contracted into a tiny black dot. Looking at the young man, he asked, word by word, "Could it be... that you were heading there from the very beginning?"

  The knight did not answer, still looking at the distant phantom of the mountain range. Although it was a phantom, his gaze was truly as hard as steel and iron. These many days of traveling in the desert, the wind and sand had battered his originally handsome, somewhat feminine face until it was covered in wounds—the kind of wounds that the hardest granite gets from being battered by wind and sand.

  Taking a deep breath, Chama rode his camel back two steps and said, "I'm sorry. Sir Knight. I suppose I can only take you this far. That is not a place I can go. Please forgive me for parting ways with you here. I'm just an ordinary man trying to make a living. I don't dare to go to that place. I won't go, no matter how much you pay me..."

  "Mm, alright. It's been hard on you," the knight said, turning his head to look at him, not appearing surprised. In truth, the biggest reason this desert deterred countless people was not its environment, but the shadowy mountain range behind it. The deepest part of that mountain range was, in the hearts of nearly everyone on the continent, a synonym for fear, death, and darkness. Diya Valley. Indeed, no one was willing to go near there.

  "The rest of the way, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to go on alone, Sir Knight. I'll turn back here. For the water and food, I'll only take a third... oh, a quarter will be enough... I know the road ahead of you is very difficult. You must ensure you have sufficient strength. I'll use this water and food to make it out..."

  The expression on Chama's face now was completely that of a man whose ancestors for three generations had faced the yellow earth with their backs to the sky, mixed with the cowardice of a man who grew up under his mother's skirts. And this request was almost no different from begging for mercy.

  There was no other way. When Chama discovered that this young knight's destination was actually that mountain range, he recalled some stories he had previously dismissed as nonsense.

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  There was indeed a very rare type of person who would venture deep into this desert for a strange purpose. If one in ten thousand adventurers would enter the desert, then among that one-in-ten-thousand, there would be this type of person. They were not for the legendary treasures, but to go to The Shadowspire Peaks, to enter Diya Valley. To become a legendary Necromancer.

  The word "madman" was no longer sufficient to describe such people. They aspired to become Necromancers, regardless of whether they had the ability. At least spiritually, they might already be more dangerous than a Necromancer. So, when facing such a person, caution and care were the best attitude. A quarter of the water and food, although indeed very difficult to sustain a journey out of the desert, three-quarters should be enough for the other party to reach The Shadowspire Peaks.

  As expected, the young knight looked at Chama and said with a smile, "I know. You've worked hard these past days. Without your help, I absolutely could not have made it this far." Even so, his smile still looked very moving and kind. He was amiable and gentle, as if thanking a dearest old friend.

  Chama quickly bowed his head, the smile on his face becoming even more humble and cautious as he said, "Sir Knight, could you perhaps pay me a little of the reward you promised me..."

  "Of course, this is what you've earned." The knight reached into his robe and took out a few gold coins.

  Chama quickly dismounted his camel, walked over to the knight with a bent back and lowered head. His face was full of a careful, ingratiating smile, one hand held flat, the other supporting his lower back. This was the highest courtesy of desert nomads to the most honored guests. His expression, his demeanor, his tone, his body—his entire person now seemed completely soft, friendly, humble, and obedient.

  But in the instant the knight dismounted his camel and released his hand holding the gold coins in front of him, his entire body suddenly moved as if it had exploded.

  Logically speaking, it was impossible for someone whose whole body had gone completely soft, whose posture was even limp, to make such a swift movement, but he did it just the same. His entire body was indeed soft, but the hand he had on his lower back had been as taut as a string stretched to its breaking point. Every muscle and tendon was in a near-limit state, having gathered his entire body's essence, energy, and spirit to grip the short, curved scimitar behind him. In the instant the knight's hand released, he struck.

  The force and speed of this strike drove his entire body along with it. In that instant of the strike, all weakness vanished from his face, replaced by a ferocity, fueled by Battle Qi and killing intent, like that of a lion starved for a hundred years.

  Desert nomads always survive through battle; even the most humble posture can become the sharpest killing move. Moreover, Chama himself had specially studied this method of drawing a blade. With this posture, he was absolutely one of the fastest in his tribe. He had once used this method to feign surrender and kill a Church Templar in a squad of Crusaders.

  The water and food were reason enough for him to risk it all on this one throw.

  In that instant, even the scorching sun in the sky had to yield a little. The glint from the short blade, even amidst such light and in the desert, was still piercingly bright, and the explosive sound of it breaking the air traveled far into the distance.

  Following the flash of the blade came the flash of blood. The fresh red color added an extremely ornate embellishment to this monotonous-to-death backdrop under the strong sunlight. Chama could clearly see his own blade's glint, brighter than the sun, pass before the young knight, and then a sea of blood spread out, overwhelming everything.

  The light of the blade rose continuously from bottom to top, finally gradually weakening and slowing, reverting to a knife, its hilt still gripped tightly by a severed hand. Only then did Chama realize with a shock that the flash of blood was actually coming from his own body, from his own hand, and from his headless torso...

  "I'm sorry. Not a quarter, not even one-fortieth of the food and water can be given to you. You were right, I must maintain sufficient strength." The young knight sheathed his sword. He looked at the swaying corpse before him, seemed to hesitate for a moment, then reached out to support it, placed his mouth against the severed neck where blood was gurgling and gushing out, and took a long drink.

  "Salt is also being consumed faster than I thought. It's not enough..." Animal blood contains a lot of salt, but it cannot be consumed in large quantities as it is hard to digest. So after just two sips, the young knight released the corpse and let it drop. The blood from the corpse's severed neck continued to gurgle out, seeping into the scorching sand below.

  He tied the two camels together, mounted one, and looked toward the distant mountain range to continue his advance. His face and body were now covered in fresh blood, and some of the bloodstains, due to the oven-like heat and dryness, were beginning to dry and crack on his face. But even so, his expression held not the slightest hint of ferocity or terror. Facing the phantom in the far distance, his face was full of calm and an almost pious determination, just like a pilgrim.