Chapter 81: Chapter 81: Wailing Cliff, the Nature of Gnolls

Raindrops trickled down the rough beast-hide cloak.

Glack, the Jackal-Wolf Folk, squatted on the slanted wooden watchtower. His soaked fur clung to his skin, making him itch all over. He scratched at the fleas on his neck, caught one, and stuffed it in his mouth before squinting his glowing red eyes towards the distant muddy wilderness.

“Damn rainy season.”

The Jackal-Wolf Folk muttered a curse under his breath, his throat rumbling with a discontented growl.

The territory of the Red Eye Clan—Wailing Cliff.

This was a complex of mixed buildings made up of natural rock caves and shabby wood shelters.

The Jackal-Wolf Folk weren’t skilled builders, but they were adept at looting. The crooked wooden stakes had dried heads hanging from them, some belonged to beasts, others to unfortunate caravan travelers.

There were even a few belonging to the Jackal-Wolf Folk themselves.

Those were traitors or cowards executed by the Commander.

Glack was considered a sentry; his task was simple, watch the outside for any approaching monstrous beasts or figures from other Monster Races.

If there was, he’d blow the Bone Whistle to alert his companions.

But today, his gaze was drawn to something else.

Something seemed to be moving in the distant rain curtain, a fleeting shadow.

He squinted his eyes, the reddish-brown pupils narrowing into slits in the dim light, observing carefully, but the rain blurred his vision; he could only see the grayish wilderness and the swaying shrubs.

Seeing no suspicious target, he withdrew his gaze indifferently, yawning, and continued his surveillance in boredom.

A piercing laugh suddenly sounded from below.

He looked down to see a few of his kind dragging a deer carcass towards the direction of the rock caves, tearing at the flesh with their claws and stuffing it into their mouths. Their fur was covered in mud and bloodstains, saliva mixed with rainwater dripping from their fangs.

“Hey! Glack!”

One of the Jackal-Wolf Folk shouted, the voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping: “Come down and eat something! No one dares to approach Wailing Cliff in this weather anyway!”

Glack hesitated for a moment.

The terrain of Wailing Cliff was high, easy to defend, hard to attack, surrounded by spike traps and deep pits, the pit bottoms bristling with sharpened stakes, the tips coated with poison.

Unless the danger came from the sky, there wasn’t much need to be tense.

The watchtower was cold and hungry, but he knew even better the consequences of abandoning his post; last month, a sentry was torn in half by Commander Blood Fang for dozing off while shirking duty, and the corpse was still hanging on the wooden stake to the east, dried by the wind.

“No, you go ahead and eat.”

He shook his head, forcing himself to continue staring at the rain curtain.

In the Jackal-Wolf Folk society, survival of the fittest was the iron rule.

Nicknamed [Blood Fang], the Jackal-Wolf Folk Commander was the absolute ruler of the Red Eye Clan, his authority built upon violence and fear.

Glack had once witnessed Blood Fang bite off an enemy’s throat in battle and then dig out the opponent’s heart with his claws, swallowing it in front of all the Jackal-Wolf Folk.

Swallowing a companion’s heart.

Even to the fierce Jackal-Wolf Folk, this was a terrifying act indeed.

Rotting Claw Priest represented another kind of power.

Glack’s gaze involuntarily drifted to the depths of the rock caves, where there were faint chants and the smell of charred flesh.

As a priest, Rotting Claw rarely appeared before ordinary Jackal-Wolf Folk, always hiding in the darkest corners, using a dagger to slit the throat of captives, smearing the blood on bone fragments engraved with runes.

It’s said.

He could use curses to make enemy wounds never heal and could even revive dead Jackal-Wolf Folk temporarily, at the cost of disturbing their souls, to continue fighting.

Thinking of that horrific scene.

Glack shuddered.

He didn’t like Rotting Claw, but he dared not defy him either.

Every Jackal-Wolf Folk knew offending the priest brought worse outcomes than offending the Commander.

At least Blood Fang would give you a swift death, while Rotting Claw’s curse could make you wail for three days and nights before dying.

Glack knew that the relationship between these two big figures was not harmonious, Blood Fang thought Rotting Claw’s rituals were too slow, while Rotting Claw felt Blood Fang was obnoxiously reckless and brainless, but nevertheless, together they ruled the Red Eye Clan, allowing these Jackal-Wolf Folk to claim a spot in the wilderness.

The rain intensified, and Glack hunched his shoulders, wrapping the cloak tighter.

In Jackal-Wolf Folk culture, there was no concept of ’loyalty’; there was only ’submitting to the strong’.

Glack didn’t think he had any respect for Blood Fang or Rotting Claw, but he understood clearly that in Wailing Cliff, the weak either obey, or become decorations on the stakes, a truth that held across the broader wilderness as well.

He glanced again at the distant wilderness, still desolate.

“Looks like today won’t bring anything……..”

Before he could finish, a shadow flit across the clouds, fast as an illusion.

Glack’s fur bristled instantly, a primal fear clutched his heart, he wanted to blow the Bone Whistle, but his claw froze in mid-air, his throat only able to squeeze out a faint whimper.

That thing appeared again, closer this time, and without concealing its figure.

That thing—that Dragon—hovered above Wailing Cliff.

Raindrops fell on its layered Scale Armor, trickling down the grooves, gathering into silvery strands at its claw tips. It just hovered quietly, no attacking, no roaring, quietly gazing down at the territory below, exuding an unspeakable might and oppressive aura, tranquil yet dangerous.

Seeing the Dragon Race’s silhouette, Glack’s limbs began to tremble.

He had seen fierce beasts, powerful magical creatures, but never felt such fear.

His stomach contracted, teeth chattered involuntarily, even his tail stiffened like a frozen rope.

He was naturally sensitive to danger, no one in the Red Eye Clan had senses more remarkable, thus he became a sentry, and at this moment, every nerve screamed.

Escape!

But he couldn’t move.

Stupid legs! Step forward, step forward!

Glack screamed in his heart, but his legs felt heavy as lead, becoming sculptures, defying his command, and amid extreme terror, the tension between spirit and body, this Jackal-Wolf Folk rolled his eyes back, fainting directly.

Galos blinked, noticing the startled Jackal-Wolf Folk sentry.

“Scared to death? No, seems like he fainted.”

He radiated his draconic authority, announcing his arrival, causing the majority of the Red Eye Clan’s Jackal-Wolf Folk to feel fear and panic, but seldom did a Jackal-Wolf Folk pass out directly.

Sometimes, dull senses were beneficial.

Like, not perceiving how dangerous and terrifying the Dragon before them really was.

Jackal-Wolf Folk sentry fainted, precisely because its senses were more acute.

At the center of Wailing Cliff was a half-natural, half-artificial rock cave, its interior hollowed into multiple layers.

The Jackal-Wolf Folk emerged en masse from the rock cave, their backs hunched, muscles tense, red eyes flickering within the rain curtain, saliva mixed with fear dripping from their fangs.

Galos could smell the scent wafting through the air.

Rotten meat chunks, poor-quality beast oil, and the unique stench of the Jackal-Wolf Folk.

Jackal-Wolf Folk clad in looted iron armor, wielding weapons like nail hammers, some larger ones bearing weapons inscribed with Alchemy Runes, of fine quality.

A few burly Jackal-Wolf Folk held hook chains but didn’t act rashly, watching Galos warily.

A silhouette appeared in the shadow of the rock cave.

The Jackal-Wolf Folk Commander Blood Fang, with copper rings on his ears glimmering with bloodlight in the rain, puffed his chest, flaunting the scar slashing across his torso, evidence of tearing a Petrifying Lizard apart.

He approached Galos, stopped beneath him, and spoke respectfully: “Noble Giant Dragon, why do you visit lowly Wailing Cliff?”

Jackal-Wolf Folk, by nature, liked to follow strong Dragons.

The key was strength.

If a weak Dragon recklessly visited, they wouldn’t mind killing it, using its blood for rites to bolster the tribe’s strength.

The Jackal-Wolf Folk Commander measured Galos’s physique with a sideways glance.

Although robust to an incredulous degree, the dragon body measuring under eight meters wasn’t particularly noteworthy in terms of size, after all, they had hunted enormous magical creatures exceeding ten meters.

Waiting for Galos’s answer, Blood Fang’s gaze flickered, spine straightening slightly, birthing intriguing thoughts.

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