Chapter 183: Chapter 182 Cursed Plague (Part Four)
The shaman chief screamed, “Get this beast down now!”
Thus, the curly-haired man, who had been hanging in the tree all day, fell to the ground with a speed that made his backside sore, before he could even move his bruised wrists.
The shaman chief’s nostrils flared with anger as he approached, his staff glowing green pressed against the curly-haired man’s cheek.
Balding and with curly hair, the man lowered his head in submission to the shaman chief’s authority.
The shaman chief cursed, “Why the hell hasn’t this damned staff turned red yet?”
Saliva dripped onto the bald man’s head as he scratched the itch without raising his gaze.
“Chief, let’s kill him.”
Machetes and axes closed in around the bald man.
He clenched his fists, even ignoring the itch now. If he had to die, he would take a few down with him.
“No, we must find the medium first!” The shaman chief kicked the bald man over, probing him up and down with his staff, yet to the chief’s frustration, it still glowed green.
“What’s going on?”
“Is the medium inside his belly?”
“Let’s skin him open.”
“Drain his blood; the medium could be in his blood.”
The surrounding beastmen proposed methods that were practical, yet they would surely cost the bald man’s life.
The balding curly-haired man nervously looked at the shaman chief, who was scratching himself while deep in thought, muttering in a low voice, “No, that can’t be it. If it was him, then logically there should only be…”
“Wait, what did you just say?”
“I… I didn’t say anything.”
The shaman chief slammed his staff down; the metal tip brushed across the bald man’s face and sank into the soil.
He spread his bare wings, exuding intimidation, “Do you think I’m a dumb pig?”
The slow-witted bald man suddenly had a moment of clarity. He strained to think, recalling something, but found it too absurd and hesitated to speak.
The shaman chief swung his staff at him, smashing it against his mouth and knocking out several teeth.
The balding curly-haired man quickly said, “I said roasted… yes, roasted lamb legs.”
No sooner had he spoken those words than the staff’s tip emitted a red glow.
What was happening? How could those three words be the medium?
It felt as if someone had stuffed blocks of ice into his chest, sending chills through him.
The bald man shuddered and said, “Baa… that’s impossible.”
This was too terrifying.
The shaman chief redirected his staff, now glowing green, casually pointing it at another inferior horned beast and asking, “Say those three words.”
The beast trembled and said, “Roast… roasted lamb legs.”
All the beasts widened their eyes, staring at the staff’s tip, and it turned red once again.
The staff’s tip returned to green.
The shaman chief held onto a glimmer of hope and spoke:
“Roasted lamb legs.”
It turned red again.
The beasts couldn’t help but scratch their itchy skin, feeling even itchier than before.
In the past couple of days, everyone among the beastmen had heard or said the phrase “roasted lamb legs”; it circulated among them, spreading the curse, taking root and sprouting on their skin.
“From now on, no one can say those three words!”
The beasts nodded in agreement.
The bald man couldn’t help but think of the delicious lamb legs he had seen that day, swallowing hard and tightly shutting his mouth.
Just as the shaman chief thought he could relax, he realized he had no idea how many other words could serve as curse mediums. But to identify the mediums would require magical energy to maintain the staff. With thousands of commonly used characters and tens of thousands of words, who could distinguish them all?
“Remember! You are not allowed to speak until the curse is lifted.”
The beasts nodded. The balding curly-haired man instinctively replied, “Understood.”
“You spoke! You are not allowed to talk.” The shaman chief grew angry, kicking the balding curly-haired man over. After kicking him, he quickly checked his staff and saw it hadn’t turned red.
“Everyone can report to me when speaking, but you must wait for my staff to glow green before you can say anything.” The shaman chief spoke as he kept his eyes on the staff’s tip, checking the color of the light, which remained green.
The beasts nodded.
The staff dimmed; the shaman chief could not maintain its glow for long.
Some beastmen sighed with relief, feeling they could finally escape the terrifying curse.
But the shaman chief still felt uneasy. He always thought the curse wouldn’t be so easily shaken off.
At that moment, a crow flew down from the treetops and landed on his shoulder.
His expression changed; he opened his mouth to announce something but then shut it again. Forcing himself to endure the dizziness brought on by too much magical energy expenditure, he gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the staff, causing its tip to flicker and emit green light.
“I have news; a damned knight stronghold scout is active nearby.” He spoke while watching the light on the staff, “We must meet up with the main force and shake off their harassment.”
He didn’t mention that the stronghold’s team had already wiped out the nearby beastmen’s strength, a discouraging fact.
“But we still have time; let’s take these human captives with us as offerings to the Mother of All Beasts while joining the main force.”
The beasts nodded in agreement.
The shaman chief’s staff dimmed further.
An hour later, the beastmen scratched themselves while tidying up the camp.
They also released the human captives. Those who had survived until now were all exceptionally lucky and physically resilient individuals. Starving, they fought amongst themselves for the scraps of food the beastmen discarded—often the remains of their fellow humans.
“Baa, stand up, you bunch of beasts.” The balding curly-haired man pulled up a starving, gaunt woman, binding her wrists tightly with a rope, astonished that there was still a female human alive, “You’re going to have to travel on your own now.”
The beastmen dragged the humans out of the cages one by one, tying them together.
As for those who couldn’t stand due to illness, hunger, or malnutrition, the beastmen dragged them out of the cages, stripped them of their clothes, and butchered them for food.
“Don’t! I’m not sick, I’m not sick, I can stand up.”
A fourteen-year-old human grasped the cage tightly with both hands. The bald man pulled at his legs a few times but couldn’t budge him.
“Baa, monkey!” The balding curly-haired man swung his axe down towards his hand, severing it.
The fourteen-year-old screamed in pain, releasing his grip, and cried as he was dragged towards the slaughtering point. His remaining hand arched, clawing at the ground, leaving deep scratch marks as his fingernails tore through the surface. Yet all his struggles were in vain against the overwhelming force, and he couldn’t even buy himself an extra second of life.
As the bald man dragged him past the woman.
The fourteen-year-old stretched his severed hand toward the woman and shouted, “Aunt Maria, save me, I’ll give you my apple; do you remember?”
The woman, whose hands were tied, kept her head down low.
The fourteen-year-old waved his bleeding wrist and cried out to the crowd, “Help me, please save me.”
No one dared to respond.
Then the bald man yanked his leg and tossed him toward the slaughtering point.
A middle-aged farmer, already being gutted, lay on the ground, his dead fish-like eyes staring at the young boy’s innocent face.
“Oh goddess, look at this,” he cried out to the sky, tears streaming down his cheeks, “Save me.”
A bloody machete fell from the sky, aimed at him.
An hour later.
The beastmen marched in clusters along the forest path, yellow flags fluttering atop their horns.
The next morning.
The shaman chief opened his heavily shadowed eyes, scratching at his itch.
The curse showed no signs of improvement; it seemed to have worsened.
The shaman chief activated his considerably sharper mind and continued to think.
If the curse medium could be words, could it also be sound?
Beastmen often make hissing sounds, especially during this day of marching when they were prohibited from speaking, which drove many beasts mad.
Forcing himself through the fatigue, the shaman chief ordered the beastmen to hiss, but found no medium.
It might require satisfying a certain pitch or volume of hissing as the curse medium.
Thus, the shaman chief commanded that anyone who dared to hiss or chatter would be killed immediately.
On the third day.
The curse clung to the beastmen like a festering disease, refusing to let go.
The balding curly-haired man suffered immensely, but greater than the curse was the pain from the shaman chief’s various orders to prevent its spread.
No talking, no hissing.
Violators were beaten or hacked down.
As the one who infected the entire tribe, the balding curly-haired man took quite a beating.
An elbow suddenly slammed into his side, and he bit down tightly, not making a sound but returned the punch with a clenched fist.
He saw with his own eyes a fallen beastman’s head roll away just for making a slight noise, executed by the terrified others.
The exhausting day of marching finally came to an end, yet the torment never ceased.
Just as the balding curly-haired man sighed with relief, the shaman chief, whose eyes were sunken deep, summoned all the beastmen and issued a command that everyone found hard to accept.
“From now on, all beastmen are prohibited from scratching any itches. You can rub against stones or trees,” the shaman chief said. “The sound of scratching is surely the curse medium.”
This was unbearable for beastmen already suffering greatly. Not being allowed to scratch instead of being permitted to rub meant there were many places they couldn’t reach.
In the end, the shaman chief killed a few beastmen who defied his orders to ensure the command was enforced.
That night, several beastmen quietly fled in the darkness.
The balding curly-haired man watched the deserters vanish into the night without moving. He was not being loyal to the chief; he sensed a terrifying presence in the night, hunting the separated beastmen.
A mournful beastly screech echoed from afar.
The balding curly-haired man closed his eyes.
On the fourth day.
The curse still had not subsided; in fact, it worsened.
A civil unrest was about to erupt; no beastman could stand the suffering brought about by the shaman chief’s commands any longer.
To avoid riots, the shaman chief summoned the remaining three hundred beastmen and announced they should enjoy human flesh and blood, using food to alleviate their suffering and dissatisfaction.
The now numb humans were all dragged together like wooden figures by the beastmen.
They gathered before a yellow flag.
The beastmen prepared to feast immediately; the balding curly-haired man dragged the familiar farmer woman, untying her wrists, kicking her down, and grabbing her calf, revealing a section of her leg, preparing to bite into it directly.
The farmer woman looked up, thinking of the boy who had died before, closed her eyes, and a drop of tear slid down from the corner of her eye.
At that moment, an off-key, awful singing voice came from above.
“Good people don’t die; bad people don’t die; only fools and the weak die, ha ha ha♪.”
It took the balding curly-haired man three seconds to confirm this was an awful song and not some malicious curse. He looked up to see a black-haired succubus gracefully land on the flagpole of the yellow flag.
