Chapter 32: Bait
The battle did not last long. The lesser horned beasts crashed into the military formation like headless flies, the ones in front wanting to run back, while those behind wanted to charge forward, colliding and falling helplessly to a massacre.
A few lucky ones managed to escape, with George chasing them on horseback, and Eve Frostleaf keeping up with him, using her legs to catch up and kill them, leaving no survivors.
The hills were littered with corpses; injured beastmen lay on the ground, hissing in pain as the soldiers began to clear the battlefield.
The chaplain, holding a book, read aloud: “Brothers and sisters, do not be complacent; small victories are often precursors to great failures.”
However, not many paid attention to the chaplain.
Jima couldn’t resist testing the branch she had enhanced; she used “Power of Lies” to give the branch a spear-like appearance and jabbed it forcefully into the injured beastman on the ground, killing him. It felt smooth, and the straight shaft looked comfortable; the sensation of plunging it into flesh was exhilarating.
A horned beast lay on the ground, its brown eyes lifelessly staring at the sky, its chest fur soaked in blood, empty hands beside it, while an axe rested nearby. Behind it, another lesser horned beast cried out, having been trampled by a celestial warhorse.
Perhaps that bad horse wanted someone to share in its “duty.”
Jima thought, tightening her grip on the “branch spear,” and approached to stab the lesser horned beast.
Just as she passed by the beast, its lifeless eyes suddenly moved; it grabbed the nearby axe and lunged at Jima.
In order to find a scapegoat, it had pretended to be dead for a long time, even intentionally dropping the axe beside itself. Seeing the “corpse” with empty hands, people instinctively let down their guard.
But what awaited it was not the panicked face of a dark-haired girl. Jima turned her face, and the spear in her hand plunged into its throat, saying, “Oh, surprise! I already knew you were up to no good.”
The horned beast, filled with rage, saw Jima with her own dark horns and grew even angrier, pushing back against the spear, straining to reach her with the axe, but this only pushed the spear in deeper.
The force transmitted through the spear was very satisfying for Jima, who grinned at the horned beast.
The beast seemed to struggle to utter two words: “Traitor…”
“Uncultured; not every long-horned creature is a wild monster.” Jima pulled out the bloodied spear and forcefully stabbed it into the wolf pelt on the beast’s shoulder. The tip momentarily halted but penetrated the tough pelts smoothly. “This spear feels really nice.”
The horned beast was dead.
Jima extracted the bloodied spearhead and gestured at the injured beastman, “Don’t hide; if I miss, it’ll take a long time for you to die.”
The lesser horned beast cried out, using its hands to push itself backward.
Jima gestured for a minute before she accurately pierced its heart with the spear. Pulling the spear out, she looked around and found that there weren’t many injured beastmen left. Sighing, she said, “Time flies during joyous moments.”
At this moment, someone beside her said, “Every pleasant thought concerning slaughter becomes nourishment for the Blood God.”
Jima turned her head and saw it was the chaplain, wearing a red helmet to denote his priestly status, observing the spear in Jima’s hand warily: “Your weapon feels very evil.”
“I am a demon,” Jima smiled at him. “Besides, are you going to sympathize with the beastmen?”
The chaplain did not respond and kept his distance from Jima.
Jima looked at the “branch spear” in her hand, beginning to worry that George would find out this branch had been blessed by the Blood God, yet she was reluctant to part with it.
Such a straight branch was hard to come by, especially since it had been enhanced.
Jima shook off the blood from the spearhead, withdrew the “Power of Lies,” and the spear transformed back into a branch.
George rode back and commanded, “Soldiers, quickly pile all the corpses together.”
In less than half an hour, the beastmen’s bodies were stacked into a pile. Of course, the “blood-red rock” engraved with the Blood God’s emblem had been “purified” by the chaplain beforehand, but by now, it was just an ordinary stone.
After the corpses had been piled high, the chaplain did not pour holy oil to burn them as he had previously.
Instead, George hoisted a military flag from a sanctuary, climbed atop the heap of beastmen corpses, and thrust it down forcefully, then descended with disgust, shouting:
“Gather, all troops, gather.”
Except for Jima, the soldiers began to assemble.
Jima alone held a brush, writing words on a piece of cloth she had taken from a beastman.
“Warriors, this victory is thanks to your relentless efforts; the suffering of this land has lessened a bit.”
Behind George was the pile of corpses, the military flag flying above, with soldiers wearing relaxed smiles, yet they did not dare boast among themselves due to George’s authority.
“Furthermore, it was Jima who used divination, leveraging prophetic advantages to avoid our weaknesses, allowing us to easily achieve victory. I hope everyone unites to move from victory to victory.”
Many soldiers nodded. Jima listened and muttered, “Too formal; this must have been memorized from some book.”
“Finally, the situation is grave; everyone must work harder…”
Many soldiers perceived this as platitudes and had already taken off their gloves, preparing to clap.
“A warband of over a thousand beastmen has destroyed a village and is heading for the next. When we march to the Withered Wood Mountains, we will act as bait to lure them in circles.”
“Clap, clap, clap.”
The soldiers instinctively clapped; however, as they continued, they gradually felt something was off.
What did he mean by “a warband of over a thousand beastmen” and “acting as bait”? Were they seriously going to play hide and seek with ten times their number in a forested wilderness?
As the soldiers processed this, they stopped clapping, looking at each other in confusion. Someone asked, “What did the commander just say?”
“It seems we’re supposed to be bait, luring a thousand beastmen.”
“What? Isn’t that going to get us eaten?”
“That can’t be real. I didn’t hear that.”
The voices of the soldiers were low. George did not hear them and felt gratified, saying, “I knew it; everyone harbors faith and has no objections.”
Just as the soldiers were left in confusion, Jima took a piece of white cloth, tying it to a bent branch, climbed up the pile of corpses, and stuck it in. The white cloth unfurled in the wind, revealing twisted and malicious words that were difficult to decipher.
Many soldiers of the sanctuary could read, as one of the chaplain’s main tasks was teaching them. They widened their eyes, making efforts to decipher it; some read aloud, slowly:
“Imitating upright walking beasts, your lord of the sanctuary wants to put you into a pen; we will walk east, come if you dare.”
Suddenly, everyone understood. The pile of corpses was not for purification and burning but rather to provoke the beastmen, to serve as bait.
This revelation caused a huge uproar among the soldiers, who began to chatter among themselves, all feeling that their future was bleak and that they would inevitably fall into the jaws of beasts. They looked at the sergeant, saying:
“Sergeant, you should report to the commander; this isn’t just leading us into the mouths of beasts.”
The sergeant shook his head: “The commander has already made his decision.”
George, somewhat surprised, whispered, “Why is everyone reversing their stance again?”
Jima walked over to George and said, “Because you didn’t say any encouraging words. You need to silence everyone; I have something to say.”
“Silence, silence!”
The soldiers quieted down immediately, a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on George.
George said, “Jima has something to say.”
“Everyone need not worry; I can easily divine the enemy’s position,” Jima said. “As everyone knows, beastmen are fools, especially the leader of that warband; its brain is—”
George couldn’t help but interrupt Jima, whispering, “Don’t lie; lies affect morale more when exposed.”
Jima shot George a glare, saying, “The leader is very clever, cunning even, and can speak human language, with a tuft of white fur on its chin.”
The soldiers, who had finally calmed down, became restless again, beginning to whisper among themselves.
Jima turned to George and said, “See? Morale is high now.”
George replied, “Quiet, quiet.”
The soldiers settled down, all looking at the beautiful dark-haired girl.
Jima began to feel nervous.
Being with a dull-witted man was really troublesome; she couldn’t lie, feeling as if she were suddenly pulled in front of everyone, forced to sing impromptu.
After a pause, she said:
“But I am more cunning and clever than he is.”
“I will guide you in hiding our tracks; I have evil magic that can blind his eyes and mislead him. This wicked demon can deceive anyone. If there’s a cliff, I can trick them all into jumping off.”
“Though I speak many lies, I haven’t lied to you just now because—” Jima took George’s hand and said, “a righteous and honest holy knight vouches for me; he can see through all lies in the world!”
All the soldiers looked at George.
George said, “She hasn’t lied.”
The soldiers instantly gained confidence, releasing a collective sigh of relief. But an out-of-place voice questioned:
“What if there’s no cliff? Let’s dig a pit and trick the beastmen into jumping in instead.”
Jima pointed at the contrarian trying to hide in the crowd and said, “Could someone give this humorless pedant a kick on the backside?”
Someone slapped him on the rear, and he nearly fell, causing a round of laughter.
“Don’t worry. Before this winter solstice, everyone will return home to marry.”
The crowd applauded and cheered, some throwing their helmets into the sky.
George took mental notes of Jima’s content, hoping to use it for the next speech to motivate the soldiers.
Amidst the cheering crowd, the chaplain in the red helmet gazed at the white flag on the pile of corpses, murmuring to himself:
“This white flag is timely; it heralds our army’s future.”
Jima, with her horns, pretended to bow several times, saying, “Thank you, thank you.”
The chaplain eyed the branch at her waist, feeling a vague unease; he recalled the “blood-red rock” had been ordinary stone when he purified it. He felt he should tell George to be cautious.
But after just a few steps, he saw George approaching Jima to ask her about the art of speech, causing him to halt.
He felt that at this point, whatever he said would be useless, and perhaps it would only make things worse.
The chaplain stopped, murmuring sadly, “Our army is doomed.”
