Chapter 73: Torment
The army set out, retracing its steps.
When George mentioned Cardinal Gregory, a tall, thin old man with snow-white hair and a goatee jumped into Jima’s mind, his eyes shining with a silver light. He wore a solemn red robe with gold trim, and two silk ribbons hung down from his chest. Behind him, a blazing pyre could be seen, and a black shadow let out a wailing cry from the flames.
Amidst the cries, he himself was excitedly jumping around, having lost one of his shoes, exalting the divine with every drooling word.
He was a classic image of a fanatic, a villain that would make readers grit their teeth in the web novels from their previous lives, with a typically grim fate awaiting him.
Yet, he was George’s mentor, who had brought him from the countryside of Bart to the holy sanctuary. Considering this, Jima, who usually held grudges, decided to at least think it over regarding whether to display her magnanimity and not pursue him for his offense.
Even though she couldn’t say she liked Cardinal Gregory, after all, he was doing his utmost to see her sent to the pyre. However, Jima didn’t much oppose George’s decision.
After all, things were set in motion, and whatever Gregory did could no longer threaten her safety, nor could it affect her relationship with George.
Jima even hoped that Gregory would escalate his efforts; she was quite willing to play the role of the innocent victim being persecuted.
Until noon.
The army, now reduced in size by half, returned to Melon Village, which was now deserted, with not a single villager inside.
The tracks made by wheels and beast footprints stretched from the entrance of the village to the distant horizon.
The journey was calm and uneventful.
As the scout for the entire army, Jima had long since scouted in her dreams and confirmed that within a four-day travel radius of the army, there were no orc warbands capable of threatening them. Only a few warbands composed of at most a hundred orcs were sporadically scattered in the lush forest.
They posed no substantial threat to an army that had two and a half Platinum-level powerhouses.
Safety only meant boredom and monotony.
Despite the fact that it had only been a little over half a day since the last battle, Jima couldn’t stand this tedium. She left a message: “I’m going to play.”
With that, she opened her wings, taking off from the horse’s back, soaring above the treetops of the forest. Her four-meter wingspan flapped powerfully as she flew toward the bright sky.
Below, the forest, dirt roads, soldiers, and pack beasts grew smaller. After several minutes of flying, Jima spread her wings, hovering in midair, looking down.
At first glance, she spotted George, the size of an ant, riding a pure white celestial warhorse, leading the charge, while her chestnut mare ran alongside the celestial steed.
Jima murmured to herself, “What a lewd little mare.”
It was quite high up; Jima’s mild acrophobia kicked in, and she froze hundreds of meters above, feeling like she was dangling at the edge of a skyscraper.
She felt a little dizzy, her legs began to weaken, and as she flapped her wings again, regaining control over her body, the panic from her acrophobia gradually faded.
Despite knowing she wouldn’t fall to her death, and having a solid mental fortitude that could withstand anything, she still inexplicably felt fear of heights. This phobia was indeed one manifestation of emotional trauma.
The agony endured during her early years continued to haunt her, even though she had lived for nearly four centuries, experiencing countless brushes with death, transcending her former self, and becoming powerful.
“Hmph, that woman.”
She squinted, recalling a former girlfriend who had forced her to jump off a building, and her mood soured instantly.
“I wonder if Litice, that lewd thing, has found that item. Last month, she even asked me for three hundred gold coins for activity expenses, and still owes me three silver coins.”
This matter was neither big nor small; it was highly probable that Litice was scamming her. Jima had fallen for such tricks many times, even though she was very cunning. Whether a person was deceived or not had less to do with their intelligence or experience, but rather with the intensity of the deceitable person’s desires.
Jima longed to return to settle the score, even if Litice’s claims seemed like a scam; she had agreed, just in case it was real.
However, even though she had been scammed many times, Jima’s mood went from bad to worse. She even regretted not bringing Liesan to scare the cat; after all, she couldn’t be the only one afraid of heights.
Like an eagle, Jima soared high above the forest, flying and talking to herself: “Wild orc, wild orc, lovely wild orc, where are you? Let’s see who the lucky wild orc is today.”
Jima flew deeper into the forest, where fallen trees, twisted trunks, and sharply protruding rocks became more frequent, a sign of the forest’s decay.
She remembered that there were several orc warbands nearby; she had seen them in her dreams and knew the terrain well. Yet, upon returning to reality, every place felt oddly familiar.
After circling in the air for nearly twenty minutes, her “Desire Eyes” spotted small negative emotions under a massive tree in the distance, indicating that there were surely orcs below.
Jima became invisible, lowering her altitude until she flew above the orcs and landed on the giant tree.
This tree, corroded by chaos, was filled with grotesque vitality; its leaves were sharp as blades, and its branches twisted like strangling vines that deeply embedded themselves into a few old trees.
Perched on the trunk, Jima felt a sense of familiarity, as if returning to her hometown. She looked down and saw several inferior horned beasts covered in fur about thirty meters away, their only piece of metal being the tips of their spears.
One of the inferior horned beasts pointed toward the sky and said, “I think I saw a bipedal dragon flying toward us.”
“Where? I don’t see it,” another said.
“Just a moment ago.”
“It must be your eyes playing tricks on you; a bipedal dragon would make a lot of noise, unless we’re all deaf.”
The inferior horned beasts discussed among themselves, their gazes passing through Jima’s invisible body and aiming at the sky.
Jima raised her index finger, using her “Desire Eyes” to count the number of orcs below: “One, two, three, four… seventy-three. Hmm, a very common wild orc warband.”
Below, the orcs left, while the one who had accidentally seen Jima’s figure was pushed away by his comrades, left as a lookout.
Jima waved at him, and a force pulled him directly into a dream. The inferior horned beast lookout stood still, his gaze dazed. In the dream woven by Jima, he obediently revealed all information.
“Other than inferior horned beasts, there is only an One-eyed Greater Beast leading the charge. In the countryside, they are quite formidable war strength.”
After obtaining the information, Jima waved her hand, and the inferior horned beast lookout dreamily jumped off a spiky rock, far from his comrades’ sight.
Jima descended, landing beside him, and once she revealed herself, a strong sheep-like odor emanating from the inferior horned beast made Jima fan her nose.
Today, she would kill a dozen or so orcs to vent her emotions.
Thinking this, Jima thrust the “branch spear” toward the oblivious inferior horned beast lookout, but the spear tip only grazed his throat.
Jima halted, suddenly realizing something.
Why did she need to kill with her own hands? If she killed by herself, she could only manage to kill a dozen, at most twenty inferior horned beasts, and it would consume quite a bit of magic power. A brave knight, relying solely on bronze, could potentially take down twenty inferior horned beasts in a surprise attack.
Moreover, taking direct action didn’t suit her professional affinity.
Jima looked down at the “branch spear” in her hand, a weapon that was originally a straight branch blessed by the Blood God, which was also influencing her. The powers of this world worked that way, influencing users to some extent.
Jima began to miss the guns of Earth from her previous life; guns were just tools and wouldn’t affect the user’s character.
After some thought, Jima decided to leverage the characteristics of the “Pain Succubus” to torment this group of wild orcs. She turned and forcefully stabbed the “branch spear” into the ground, cursing the inferior horned beast lookout:
“You can only say, ‘I want to be the boss.’”
With that, Jima recited the lookout’s name; using the name as a medium, the malefic curse power easily pierced the lookout’s soul.
Jima vanished into the air again, secretly causing mischief, weaving the other’s dreams.
The inferior horned beast lookout dreamed that he had found a long spear bestowed by the Blood God, setting him on a path to overturn his beastly life. He became the leader of the warband, merging with other warbands, and expanding into a tribe, destroying the villages and towns of the “two-legged sheep” and feasting on their flesh, drawing the anger of the “tin cans.”
In a counter-attack, he fell off a cliff, landing in a cave where he found a magical crown, gaining magic. He turned the tide in battle, defeated the tin cans, and gorged on their flesh for three days and nights, growing tall and strong, mating with different animal females and siring a whole squad of personal guards comprised entirely of his offspring, obliterating the wretched stone houses of the two-legged sheep.
The dream felt so realistic.
This inferior horned beast, shorter than Jima, drooled white saliva that fell onto its fluffy chest.
A gust of wind blew, startling him awake. He woke up in a daze, instinctively reaching out for the fading dream. Realizing he had been dreaming, he felt lost, tears welling up in his sheep-like eyes, chewing as he recalled the flavorful canned meat from the dream.
He sighed heavily: “Moo~.”
Turning around, he almost bumped his head against a “branch spear” stuck in the ground.
The inferior horned beast lookout incredulously stretched out his hand to touch and examine the “beginner’s gear,” which looked just like the gear he had dreamed of that had led him to a glorious life overhaul.
He tossed aside the curved spear in his hand, grasped the “branch spear,” and joyfully declared, “I want to be the boss! I want to be the boss!”
As the words slipped out, he was startled and covered his mouth.
In the wild orc society, becoming the boss was simple; you just had to take out the current boss, and all the bosses, upon hearing this statement, would undoubtedly tear apart the “inferior horned beast lookout.”
He gripped the “branch spear,” determined to keep a low-profile and plot carefully.
Unfortunately, due to “coincidental timing,” at least five inferior horned beasts heard his words. They sprang out from the nearby bushes, astonished, shouting:
“You want to challenge our boss?”
“You think you’re worthy?”
They pointed at the lookout’s frail body. One of the inferior horned beasts shouted, “If you want to survive, give me the spear, or I—”
The inferior horned beast lookout suddenly grew agitated, puncturing his neck with the spear and cutting off his words.
The body fell to the ground, and the inferior horned beast lookout was exhilarated, stabbing another one who shouted, “I want to be the boss!”
Just then, the tiny leader of this beast group—a horned beast—also woke up from a delightful dream.
