Chapter 182: Chapter 181 – The Cursed Plague (3)
For a moment, Bald Curly felt this was an overreaction.
While scratching, he glanced back at the other beasts scratching themselves, and for a moment, he found this strange illness somewhat tolerable.
Because of this strange illness, only a few dozen beasts had died, while the Locksey ritual required at least half to perish.
“Humans haven’t been infected.” The Shaman Chief seemed to be trying to convince himself, saying, “Only beasts have been infected. I had a dream where the gods were angry with me. It must be because of our recent cowardly behavior in avoiding the human knights, reflecting our weakness.
“To live so weakly in this world, what’s the use? It’s better to please the Dark Four Gods with our blood; those who survive will become even stronger.”
Bald Curly felt that the Shaman Chief was merely unable to accept the reality of having no feathers on his wings.
No one could persuade the Shaman Chief. The last beast he convinced now had its head placed on the altar, mixed with a pile of human heads.
A quarter of an hour later.
The beast horde split into two factions, standing before the spiked altar of the Blood God, forming two lines. The line extended from the camp into the wilderness. Yellow flags waved in the wind. The fabric was new, and this was Bald Curly’s first time seeing such banners.
He learned from others that some beastmen had found the yellow silk from raided supplies yesterday, which made for quite conspicuous banners.
However, right now, Bald Curly had no mood to pay attention to this. He bent over, holding a shield in one hand and an axe in the other, suppressing the urge to scratch and fixated on the opposing faction of beastmen.
Their originally brown-gray fur had mostly fallen out, leaving large areas of pink skin exposed. The bull-headed beastman, standing nearly 2.5 meters tall, was scratching its back while exhaling hot air through its nostrils, surrounded by horned beasts. The lower-horned beasts climbed trees to prepare to shoot arrows.
Only the humans caged in the enclosure were fortunate enough to avoid this bloody ritual. From their cage, they pointed and commented on this group of beastmen, asking:
“Are they fighting among themselves?”
“May the goddess bless, let them all be slain.”
“Beastmen are inherently fools; one day we humans will kill them all.”
“No, it’s impossible.” Seeing the strong figure of the bull-headed beastman, a farmer trembled, “I watched helplessly as hundreds of young and strong in our village were slaughtered by this bull-headed monster, along with giants who could throw large stones.”
The Shaman Chief let out a roar, charging ahead, officially announcing the start of the Locksey ritual.
The beastmen, armed with knives and axes, charged forward with full force, crashing into each other. Axes swung, spears thrust, and blood flowed instantly at the point of collision, fallen beastmen trampled underfoot, battle roars drowning out the dying moans.
The Shaman Chief raised his staff, calling upon the man-eating crows, and the flock swooped down, pecking at the eyes of the beastmen. Lower-horned beasts in trees occasionally clutched their eyes as they fell.
The bull-headed beastman wielded a double-handed axe, cleaving horned beasts and lower-horned beasts in half wherever he went, and collided with the Shaman Chief. Both sides battled for nearly ten minutes, bloodied and bruised, until the fight ended with the Shaman Chief’s victory.
The entire bloody ritual lasted a full hour.
The not-so-large camp was littered with corpses, the earth dyed red with blood. The entire beast horde had shrunk to nearly one-fourth of its size.
“If the beastmen continue to fight among themselves like this,” an optimistic farmer said, “we might just go home tomorrow. Looking at their injuries, not many will survive.”
No sooner had he spoken than…
The Shaman Chief, devouring the bull-headed beastman, emitted the sound of bones growing from within. His entire body visibly expanded, his wings stretched out, the bare wings regrowing shiny black feathers.
Red light erupted from the spikes around the altar. The Blood God noticed the shedding of blood here, bestowing a blessing, the red light covering the entire surviving beast horde.
Regardless of how severe their injuries were, even if they lost limbs, grotesque yet powerful limbs gradually grew back from the severed ends, their physiques enlarged. The emaciated lower-horned beasts transformed into horned beasts, and the horned beasts grew larger.
Though the transformation was slow, it was visible to the naked eye.
Bald Curly touched his newly grown horns and dense fur, feeling the powerful strength of his new body, and joy filled his heart. He stood tall, looking down at the trembling humans in the cage, noticing they seemed even weaker than before.
“Ahhh!”
With a terrifying scream, a horned beast, bent over in agony from the blessing, began to deform. Its facial features warped, its organs shifted, tentacles emerged from its cracking back, its body swelling, fur rupturing to reveal pink skin.
Bald Curly quickly distanced himself from it; not everyone could withstand the blessing of the evil god. Those who could not bear it would turn into pure monsters.
“Thud!”
The beastman’s skin burst open, a belly housing a mouth filled with sharp teeth, and six strong tentacles was born. It stood three meters tall, shrieking for more slaughter, directly slicing a hapless lower-horned beast into three pieces with its tentacles.
Fortunately, the stronger Shaman Chief stopped it, assuring it that its desire for slaughter would be directed at enemies.
The red light around the altar piled high with beast heads dissipated. Beneath the skulls, dozens of heavy metal armors and serrated long spears appeared.
The blessing of the Blood God was not just limited to physical forms.
This Locksey ritual was a resounding success, catching the attention of the Blood God and overcoming the strange illness.
Bald Curly easily donned the heavy breastplate and grabbed a bloodletting knife with a serrated edge.
Cries of humans sounded from the cage.
Bald Curly looked disdainfully at the humans inside the cage, feeling they were truly weak. Seeing their sobbing faces made him want to chop off their heads. He truly wondered how these fearful beings of slaughter had managed to survive.
It was those despicable stone walls that sheltered the cowardly beasts.
Everyone was thrilled, but Bald Curly saw the Shaman Chief’s face was grim, his eyes shining with intelligence. Clearly, he had grown feathers on his wings, yet he seemed to mumble:
“I’ve been deceived.”
Bald Curly summoned the courage to ask, “Chief, what have you been deceived about?”
The Shaman Chief swung his staff at him, snarling, “Shut your mouth, beast!”
Bald Curly fell to the ground but quickly got back up. He sensed that although the Shaman Chief appeared smarter, he was in a worse mood.
With the ritual being a great success, what was there to be unhappy about? They had also rid themselves of the strange illness.
Bald Curly rubbed his thick mane and felt good, gazing at the yellow flags in the camp and thinking they looked much nicer.
That night, while chatting, they spoke about the origins of the strange illness. Bald Curly said:
“I told you all yesterday, didn’t I?”
“It certainly must be because the yellow-haired one ate the roasted leg of lamb and caught the strange illness, harming the entire tribe.”
This was old news; last night, Bald Curly had told almost every beast about this bizarre matter when he returned.
The next morning.
Angry cries echoed throughout the camp.
The Shaman Chief furiously pounded his wings, which had lost most of their feathers, squawking:
“I knew it! I knew this isn’t a disease! It’s a curse!”
Bald Curly finally understood why the Shaman Chief had such a sour face even after the ritual ended yesterday; it must have been the cunning reminding him.
Bald Curly touched his bald head, reminiscing about his once dense topping, and scratched himself absently. He was beginning to feel a bit numb.
The Shaman Chief flapped his decorative wings forcefully, the few remaining crow feathers gradually falling off.
Bald Curly kindly reminded, “Chief, if you keep flapping, all your feathers will fall off.”
The Shaman Chief stopped and glared at him fiercely, then rushed forward to wrestle with Bald Curly, knocking him down, tying him up, and hanging him from a tree.
Afterward, the Shaman Chief gathered all the beastmen of the tribe beneath Bald Curly.
The brown-gray horns swayed slightly; the beastmen’s fur had, to some extent, fallen out, and they had developed some red spots. However, they looked better than yesterday. They scratched themselves and chatted with one another.
The Shaman Chief discovered that he had lost the most feathers, feeling an ache in his heart, instinctively folding his bald wings behind his back.
“This is not a disease; this is a curse.”
“Now, I need to find the medium of the curse! Once I find it, I can destroy the curse through the medium.” The Shaman Chief raised his staff, which lit up with green light. “You all come up one by one, take out your belongings for me to check. If the staff turns red, it means that it is the medium.”
So, under the broad daylight.
All the beastmen stripped off their clothing, took turns being checked by the Shaman Chief, and after an hour, there were no results. The staff remained green.
The Shaman Chief looked exhausted; checking artifacts consumed magical power.
“What’s going on? To infect all the beasts in the tribe, the medium must have touched every beast within a short period.”
Could it be a traitor? As long as one traitor holds the medium, goes around spreading the curse, and then secretly hides the medium…
“Each of you confess, who likes to run around and engage with other beasts for no reason?”
The beastmen looked at each other, all shaking their heads, scratching themselves as they did.
“What’s wrong?” the Shaman Chief’s gaze turned dangerous, “You need to nominate the beast who likes to chat with others the most.”
In the end, a centaur beast was decapitated before everyone.
“Tonight, all beasts must sleep separately, and no visiting each other,” said the Shaman Chief, “Furthermore, some must sleep outside the camp.”
He suspected that the traitor or the medium was hiding within the camp; if it was the medium, it would certainly be something everyone would have encountered. As long as they separated the horde, no longer influenced by the curse, then everyone in the horde would become stronger, and the symptoms of the curse would definitely lessen the next day.
Thus, he could narrow down the range and pinpoint the medium… or the traitor.
Finally, the horde was split into two groups, one group in the camp, the other in the forest, and there was also a group that wasn’t allowed to sleep.
The next day.
The Shaman Chief woke up scratching incessantly, unable to stop itching at the base of his red-spotted wings, the few remaining crow feathers had all fallen off.
“It seems the traitor is in the camp,” the Shaman Chief seized his staff, scratching and stepping outside.
Sure enough, the curse symptoms among all beastmen in the camp intensified, including those who weren’t allowed to sleep.
The Shaman Chief nearly exploded with rage, planning to burn the camp down and uproot the traitor.
But one piece of news halted his savage actions: reports came in that the beast horde sleeping outside the camp was also showing worsened curse symptoms.
This meant that the Shaman Chief’s plan had utterly failed.
“What? Are you sure no one snuck into your area last night?!” the Shaman Chief nearly shouted, his staff glowing green as if mocking his incompetence.
“Absolutely none, Chief,” said the horned beast, “We split into dozens of groups and slept apart.”
Bald Curly, hanging in the tree for a whole day, was hungry and thirsty, his consciousness somewhat hazy. He couldn’t help but recall the delicious roasted leg of lamb, mumbling subconsciously, “Roasted leg of lamb… roasted leg of lamb…”
At this moment, the Shaman Chief discovered that his staff had turned red. He looked up and saw Bald Curly hanging above him.
