Chapter 111: Blood Answers the Arrow

[Present.]

The sight of Wilfred’s corpse lying motionless on the ground left his companions frozen in disbelief.

Blood pooled beneath his twisted body, soaking into the cracked stone of the mountain path.

His katana lay several meters away, snapped cleanly in half, its broken blade glinting faintly under the pale light.

His eyes were wide open, still reflecting shock, as if he had never truly accepted that death had come so swiftly.

Earlier, none of them had taken Thoren seriously.

A rookie.

A newly arrived necromancer.

Someone barely worth mentioning.

And yet.

A Level 16 Samurai had fallen in just three exchanges.

If they had not witnessed it with their own eyes, none of them would have believed it.

Fury surged through their chests like molten lava.

Shame followed closely behind.

Percival’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth creaked.

Thick veins bulged on his forehead as his killing intent erupted uncontrollably.

His heavy broadsword vibrated as he raised it high, muscles swelling beneath his armor.

“Die!”

With a thunderous roar, Percival dashed forward, his massive frame charging like a raging bull.

The ground beneath his boots cracked as he closed the short distance between himself and the undead servant that had crushed Wilfred moments earlier.

Bang!

Bang!

Each step landed with explosive force.

But Thoren did not panic.

He did not retreat.

Nor did he foolishly allow his undead servant to be hacked apart.

Shield.

The mental command was instantaneous.

The Level 16 undead reacted without hesitation, raising its shield just in time.

Percival’s sword came crashing down with terrifying power, sparks erupting violently as metal collided with reinforced bone and enchanted steel.

The impact echoed through the mountain pass.

Percival did not care that the attack was blocked. His rage demanded release, and he continued hacking wildly, each strike heavier than the last.

While Percival vented his fury, the others did not stand idle.

Stanley lunged forward, his longsword gleaming coldly as it caught the light.

His eyes locked onto Thoren’s silver hair and icy blue gaze, onto the man responsible for Wilfred’s death.

I’ll kill you, he swore silently. And use your blood to atone for my friend.

Unlike Percival, Stanley’s rage did not cloud his judgment. His movements were precise, efficient, and lethal.

But before he could reach Thoren, another undead servant intercepted him.

“Get out of my way!” Stanley roared.

His sword descended in a blur.

In the span of a single breath, he struck the Level 16 undead more than five times. Each slash rang out sharply, metal screaming against reinforced armor.

The undead skidded backward, boots carving grooves into the stone. Its shield trembled violently, and a deep gash appeared across the armor hidden beneath its tattered robe.

“Armor…?” Stanley’s eyes narrowed in surprise.

He had not expected Thoren to equip undead servants with such expensive defensive gear.

“Hmph. No matter what you put on it,” Stanley sneered, twisting aside to dodge a counterstrike, “I’ll kill you…and your master.”

The two clashed fiercely.

Steel rang against steel as dozens of blows were exchanged in rapid succession.

Sparks flew with every collision. Neither side gained a clear advantage, but the pressure continued to escalate.

Nearby, Percival remained locked in combat with the other Level 16 undead, his broadsword smashing down relentlessly.

Though the undead did not bleed, the sheer force of Percival’s strikes drove it back step by step.

Meanwhile, Rupert and Nyssa began casting spells in tandem.

Flames roared across the battlefield, engulfing several undead servants in searing heat.

Rupert slammed his staff into the ground, and the earth responded immediately, stone walls rose without warning, attempting to trap and crush the undead between them.

The battlefield became chaos.

Of the ten hooded undead figures Thoren had summoned earlier, three had already been smashed into fragments, their bones scattered across the ground.

Several others undead fared little better, their movements slowing as fire scorched their frames and cracks spread through their skeletons.

If they had been human, they would have fallen long ago.

But undead were different.

They felt no pain.

They knew no fear.

They did not retreat.

As long as their skulls remained intact, they would rise again and again.

Thoren observed the battle with cold detachment, his expression unreadable.

His gaze swept across the field, noting every movement, every weakness.

He saw that undead below Level 14 were struggling heavily.

Their robes had burned to ash, their bones blackened and cracked. Their movements had become sluggish, their reactions delayed.

Only the Level 14 and Level 15 undead continued to hold their ground reliably.

’As expected of high-level awakeners,’ Thoren thought calmly.

He had never underestimated his enemies. If he had not summoned his strongest undead immediately, his situation would have been far worse.

Even now, his enemies were relentless, offering him no chance to rest or reposition.

Still, he was not worried.

Whoosh!

They might be stronger than him individually, but Thoren had never fought personally.

His strength did not lie in his body.

It lay in his undead.

Come out.

Whoosh!

Four new figures emerged from the undead space.

Two Level 12 Skeleton Archers, their bows already in hand.

Two Level 12 Skeleton Assassins, their frames lean and eerily silent.

They stood before Thoren, awaiting orders.

Kill.

The command rippled through them instantly.

The two assassin skeletons vanished into the chaos, their presence erased as they blended perfectly with shadows and movement.

The archers stepped forward, one to Thoren’s left and one to his right. Hollow eye sockets burned with cold soul fire as they locked onto their targets.

They nocked their arrows and drew their bowstrings to the absolute limit.

“He has more!” Nyssa shouted, her voice sharp with warning.

“Look—!” Rupert cried.

His heart skipped a beat.

They had believed victory was already within reach. The necromancer was being pressed back. His undead were falling.

And yet.

He still had reinforcements.

In Nyssa’s perception, she felt the locking pressure of ranged targeting. Instantly, every hair on her body stood on end.

Just like necromancers, mages shared the same fatal weakness.

They were vulnerable to long-range attacks.

Only Earth Mages could mitigate that disadvantage.

Without hesitation, Nyssa dove toward cover.

Whoosh!

The skeleton archers released their arrows.

The bowstrings snapped forward with a sharp twang, and the arrows tore through the air at breathtaking speed.

Rupert’s eyes widened, but his reaction was swift.

He slammed his staff down and shouted a spell. A thick, sturdy earthen wall surged upward just in time.

Crack!

The arrows embedded themselves deep into the stone, nearly piercing through.

Then.

“Ahhhh!”

A soul-rending scream echoed across the battlefield.

Blood sprayed across the rocks.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep