Chapter 67: Chapter Sixty-Six: Jima is a Good Person
In a place called the shelter, which is actually a small ravine, the biting cold wind blows unrelentingly, regardless of the lies that have turned this place into a snow-covered mountain. The wind gusts directly into the crowd, making a whistling sound as it passes.
The cold wind makes Jima’s black hair flutter, “grinding” against her exposed nape, but she pays no attention; this little cold is nothing to her.
But for the survivors, it was quite serious. They ate the bread that Jima had distributed, drank diluted beer, and huddled together to fend off the cold. Not everyone had thick clothing; some only had thin layers of fabric covering their arms, which were now stiff from the cold.
The diluted beer was icy. Drinking it sent cold liquid down to steal away what little warmth remained in their bodies.
They tried to light a fire but couldn’t find any fuel, and no one dared to leave the ravine for fear of exposing the shelter.
Since bringing food to the survivors, Jima had stopped speaking to them. She took out a chair, left the crowd, and sat atop a high rock, carefully wiping down George’s massive golden sword.
Seriously, is the blood of fools so hard to clean?
Jima noticed a bit of blood on the weighted ball, engraved with sacred inscriptions, and rummaged through her toolbox, pulling out a needle to meticulously clean it.
Below, a few voices conversed:
“This place is so cold; it seems Peiji has fainted.”
“We have no fire, the wind is strong, and we don’t have many warm clothes.”
Jima ignored these words. After cleaning the blood, she scrutinized George’s sword. The hilt was wrapped in yellowing linen, tied neatly, and besides his scent, it carried another smell, likely from being soaked in fireproof liquid.
She pulled the sword from its scabbard, revealing a section of the blade. There were several tiny nicks on the edge, indicating it had been sharpened many times.
In comparison to George’s identity, a massive golden double-handed sword was genuinely unworthy of him. Although a paladin did not necessarily require a formidable weapon—any weapon infused with the power of faith became potent.
This sword’s chief characteristic was its durability, with a high density, fitting George’s personality quite well.
“What a pity.” Jima sheathed the sword. “He should be able to use a better sword; at least it shouldn’t be such a hassle to infuse it with faith every time he goes to battle.”
Jima wanted to continue admiring George’s sword, but footsteps approached from below the rock. Jima looked up to see someone climbing up.
There were no paths leading up the rock she sat on; anyone ordinary would have to climb.
Out of breath, he pushed himself up, standing to say:
“Merciful benefactor, we have no fire and no thick clothing; it’s very cold—”
Merciful? Benefactor? Ha, using those words, he probably wants to take advantage of me for free labor.
Jima interrupted him: “Do you want me to light the snow for you to make a fire?”
The petitioner showed joy on his face: “Yes.”
“But I can’t burn snow.”
“Do you have warm clothing? Can you lend some?”
Lending? What’s the difference from asking?
“No.”
“Can you take some young men outside to chop some wood?” he asked. “It’s very dangerous out there.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Jima felt annoyed.
She has always believed that asking someone “why” is an offense, forcing them to think and respond, whether with lies or in turning their thoughts into words, it requires mental effort.
And someone like this, who runs over wanting to take something from her using a couple of nice words while offending her, is truly irritating.
Jima said, “There’s no reason.”
“But—”
“It has nothing to do with me; if you disturb me again, this devil doesn’t mind tossing a few sulfur-smelling fireballs into your crowd.” Jima smiled and interrupted, “Burnt skin won’t feel cold.”
The latter was startled and frightened, wanting to back down.
Jima continued:
“By the way, let me tell you, we are looking for a guide familiar with the Noska Mountains. Whoever can be a guide will no longer be troubled by cold or hunger. I can tell you that we risked our lives to come here to save people and fight off a bunch of foul-smelling trolls.
“To save a group of panic-stricken cowards, and among them, there are always a few dimwits who ruin our rescue efforts. All just to find a guide familiar with the Noska Mountains. Whether you live or die concerns me not; I don’t care, got it?”
The latter looked quite disappointed and said, “I thought you were all good people.”
“I’m asking if you understood me?” Jima threatened: “If you want to experience what it means to not be a good person, I can pick a few from your group right now, chop off their heads, and dismember them to sacrifice to the Four Dark Gods.”
“I… I understand.”
“Extend your hand.” Jima said: “I’m going to chop off your right hand because you haven’t answered my first question. If you don’t extend your hand, it will be both arms.”
Saying this, Jima drew George’s massive double-handed sword.
The person’s face turned pale with fear, struggling to raise his right hand.
Jima suddenly smiled again; the smile behind her veil made the petitioner forget his fear.
“I’m just kidding. If I don’t do it this way, next time you all will have to come find me for your bathroom needs.” Jima laughed, putting the sword back, “Tell them to hold on, and when my teammates return, everything will be solved.”
The petitioner let out a sigh of relief, most of the fear and disappointment from earlier dissipating; he felt Jima was just joking. She was truly beautiful, as beautiful as her character; how could she possibly kill someone so easily?
She just didn’t want to deal with everyone’s bathroom issues.
He said, “Okay, I will tell them.”
With that, he eagerly climbed down.
He told everyone to endure and also mentioned they should trust Jima; she promised that once the teammates returned, she would surely solve everyone’s warmth issue.
Then, he couldn’t help but share his dialogue with Jima with everyone, like having a tasty meal and wanting to share a pleasant experience afterwards.
He recounted Jima’s threatening words but concluded with:
“She was just joking; in the end, she didn’t even chop off my hand. She must have been exhausted, expending a lot of energy.”
Someone else said, “Yeah, she’s always flying around with amazing magic.”
“Just like when I chop wood for a long time, my muscles get tired.”
The child Dagiji and his sister leaned together for warmth, hearing the discussion, couldn’t help but say: “She wasn’t joking; she really can chop off your hands, turn you to ashes, and stuff your souls into maggots to throw into the dung pit.”
The others looked at him, and the petitioner who had climbed the giant rock earlier flushed with anger:
“You’re slandering people.”
“What do you know, you little brat?”
“You’re still saved by her!”
In a fit of pique, Dagiji exclaimed: “I paid her back for the soul—”
“Brother!” His sister suddenly bumped him.
Dagiji’s fevered brain sparked; if the true identity of the Demon Queen got exposed, this queen possessed her own realm in the demon world, able to stop time and kill a hundred thousand troops in an instant. It wouldn’t be a difficult matter to shove him and his sister’s souls into maggots.
Thinking of this, he immediately shut his mouth and allowed the others to ridicule him in silence. He just felt angry, stood up in frustration, and ran off to a deserted place, with laughter trailing behind him.
The continuous cold wind chafed at the back of his neck, but more terrifying than the cold wind was the gaze that shot down from the rock; he realized Jima was staring at him, making him tremble all over.
This terrifying Demon Queen was indeed watching him at all times.
Meanwhile, Jima…
She merely glanced at Dagiji and thought: Is he going to the bathroom? If he is, I should shout at him not to do it within my line of sight; it’s disgusting.
