**Chapter 83 Chapter Eighty-Two The Mission to the Ogre Camp**
The night has passed.
The sun rises, and a turbulent wind of magical power sweeps across the land, lifting snowflakes of various shapes: some resembling arrows, knives, and bird feathers. Under the influence of the magical wind, Jima, being a demon, quickly regains her magic power and feels energetic.
She crawls out of her sleeping bag, stretches, rubs her eyes, and feels refreshed.
Then, she sees the bare-chested dwarf butcher, Crotic, humming a butcher’s song as he grabs a handful of snow from the ground and vigorously scrubs it under his armpits, using his own warmth to melt the ice and snow. The ring of fat around his waist wobbles up and down with the movements.
Her good mood for the day immediately vanishes without a trace.
Originally, upon waking up, she should have seen a pair of long silver legs standing in the snow, but now it has turned into this ghastly sight.
She complains in her heart, and thinking about having to travel later while bringing the dwarf butcher along, her mood worsens, and her facial muscles droop.
After complaining for a bit and eating some snacks, Jima finally manages to regain her composure. She stands up, opens the entrance to the Dream Palace, and turns to Crotic with a smile:
“You keep watch here; I’ll wash up and make you breakfast.”
The butcher Crotic replies, “No need.”
Jima doesn’t listen and has already stepped into the entrance of the Dream Palace.
Twenty minutes later, Jima emerges from the entrance of the Dream Palace carrying a silver platter with neatly arranged utensils.
Seeing her like this, Crotic feels embarrassed to refuse. He laughs, “Eating this in the middle of the freezing cold, it’s no wonder that holy knight wants to marry you.”
“Want to eat?”
“I won’t hold back.”
Jima bends down, and Crotic takes the platter from her, lifts the lid, and sees that it contains two bowls: one filled with a white, sticky substance and the other with milky white liquid.
Crotic dips his thick finger into the sticky food, tastes it, finds it a bit sweet, and quite tasty.
He asks, “What is this?”
Baby food.
Of course, Jima isn’t going to be that honest. She replies, “It’s an exotic breakfast made from a pure plant tuber, it emerges from the mud untarnished, and helps resist corrosion. I added some honey.”
In fact, it’s just lotus root powder, which is perfect for making baby food (subject to verification, needs Baidu).
“We dwarves are not that weak. Unlike humans with their long ears that are easily corroded by magic,” Crotic says, only now noticing the ceramic soup spoon, scooping a full spoonful and putting it in his mouth. “Not bad, better than what the halflings make, but you should’ve added alcohol instead of honey.”
“There’s also milk.”
Crotic takes the bowl and pours a large amount of milk into his mouth, displaying the swagger of a legendary hero drinking strong liquor from a big bowl.
Jima can’t help but want to laugh as she watches him eat baby food and drink milk from a large bowl, though she keeps her facial expression under perfect control without a hint of a flaw.
“Not enough flavor,” Crotic pulls out his precious metal flask, shakes it by his ear with a troubled frown. “Not much left.”
He twists off the cap and pours some liquor into the milk, taking a sip of both milk and baby food, enjoying it quite a bit, even licking the bowl clean.
“Ha, you make really good food,” Crotic hands the silver platter back. “I can tell you’re different from the crafty and vile long-eared ones; we are friends from now on.”
Baby food has made a friend… Hehe.
Jima pinches the platter with her thumb and forefinger, tosses it into the entrance of the Dream Palace, saying, “It’s nothing.”
“I have nothing to repay you,” Crotic pats himself and eventually takes out his flask after hesitating. He opens the cap and says, “Authentic dwarf brew, crafted by a famous dwarven brewmaster.”
Jima can smell a strong alcoholic scent and considering there’s a trace of Crotic’s saliva in it, she waves her hand in refusal, “No thanks, I don’t drink.”
Crotic sighs in regret, “Then you’re missing out on a major pleasure in life.”
“Alright, we should get going.” Jima says, walking to a wooden stick stuck in the snow, pulling it out. The stick is tied with two loops of rope that can secure around Crotic’s armpits, lifting him up.
Crotic complains, “This thing is rubbing my armpits raw.”
“Can’t stand it?” Jima says, “Shall I change it to one more suited for elves?”
“No.” Crotic puffs up his comb-like hair, “Dwarves are resilient, not afraid of a little pain.”
With that, Jima holds the stick in both hands and flaps her wings to take off.
The leaden-gray clouds quickly block the sunlight. Jima flies under the dark clouds for a bit more than an hour, resting multiple times to stretch her arms before finally arriving at the ogre mercenary camp.
The camp stands on flat ground, with rough animal skins stitched together to create dark gray tents. In the center of the group of tents is a bonfire, burning building materials salvaged from houses, with various meats hanging on iron racks, including human flesh.
The ogres, with their massive bellies, gather around the bonfire, laughing and talking. Occasionally, they toss bones outside, which a group of goblins rush to snatch.
On the outskirts of the camp, shaggy beasts pull giant four-wheeled carts. Jima notices that there are eleven four-wheeled carts total, but only three of them are filled with loot—though calling it loot is misleading; it looks more like a heap of somewhat valuable trash.
Besides that, among the spiny dead trees, a group of tusked beasts are tied up; they appear to be oversized wild boars, ferocious mounts.
As Jima slowly descends, the rope sways. Before her feet touch the ground, Crotic jumps down, pale-faced, and bends over to vomit.
Seeing someone else suffer makes Jima feel a bit happier, and she puts the stick aside.
The ogres had already spotted Jima flying in, and just as the stick hits the ground, three ogres dressed in coats and furs approach, wielding long knives and long-handled hammers, and sternly ask:
“Who are you?”
Jima crosses her arms, holds her head high, and declares, “Your future employer.”
The lead ogre, wielding a long-handled hammer nearly the size of Jima’s head, sizes up the two of them:
“One demon, one dwarf? What’s the dwarf here for?”
“Bodyguard.”
Crotic’s vomiting was nearing its end.
He says, “I hate dwarves; they’re tough and not tasty.”
Jima appraises them, thinking that the ogres look a lot like ancient Mongolians from Earth, with big round faces, narrow eyes, shaved heads except for a single black braid, and most have thick black mustaches.
Every ogre appears fierce, but this one particularly so. He’s a cyclops; as he talks to Jima, his eyebrows raise, swinging his hammers threateningly in her direction, as if highlighting that he might crush her head at any moment.
Jima ignores the provocation and says, “Take me to see your chief; I want to hire you rascals to go to war.”
However, her external appearance and tone make the statement sound rather soft.
The cyclops ogre laughs heartily, saying, “If you’re not afraid of being the meat on the barbecue grill, then come in.”
With that, he steps aside to make way.
Crotic, having finished vomiting, picks up an axe and walks over.
Jima reveals her branch axe spear, hoping that its appearance, complying with the Blood God’s aesthetics, will intimidate the ogres. She says to Crotic, “Let’s go together.”
Crotic, holding his rune axe, follows behind Jima.
The cyclops ogre’s gaze is fixed on Jima, observing her exposed neck, her slender wrists, and her skin. When Jima makes eye contact with him, she can see the abundant red of his chest, symbolizing gluttonous desire.
As Jima walks past him, she hears a loud swallowing sound from behind.
It was intentional.
Jima suspects the ogre is deliberately provoking her, trying to frighten her off so he can capture her openly, chop her up, and roast her on a grill.
After all, the two of them came to the ogre mercenary camp to hire them, without being followed by a troop or carrying a treasure-laden cart; it’s hard for the ogres to connect them with an employer.
They step into the camp, followed by the cyclops ogre. After circumventing three large tents, they arrive at the bonfire site where the ogres gather, with a group of thin goblins fighting over a beef leg bone.
Their weapons are all scavenged from the garbage, makeshift prosthetics, burning sticks, and clubs studded with nails, while the armor they wear is nothing more than tattered clothes taken from the dead.
Before they reach the bonfire, the ogres suddenly burst into laughter as a taller ogre casually tosses a goblin aside. The goblin is wearing men’s underwear as a hat, painted like a clown, holding a bone in his mouth, crawling on the ground like a dog, occasionally barking and making noises:
“Crafty villains… in the name of the Bear God, I condemn you.”
“I am the Lord of the End, forever the chosen one!”
The ogres burst into another round of laughter, patting their bellies, and a tall ogre throws a bone with a bit of meat on it, which lands on the clown goblin’s head. The goblin expresses his gratitude and leaves.
Jima, holding her branch axe spear, approaches the tall ogre, sizing him up. The ogre looks confusedly at her, taking a half-cooked piece of meat off the grill and bringing it to his mouth, which opens wide, revealing rows of sharp teeth, as he eats the bone and meat.
This is a mutation caused by corrosion.
But the other ogres look on with envy—having more mouths to eat meat is the greatest happiness for an ogre.
Jima isn’t frightened; as a demon lord, she has seen much and has even seen followers of dark deities eating with their rears. Crotic, however, is scared and tightens his grip on the rune axes.
This provokes the two-mouthed ogre leader into laughter: “Who here wants to crawl in and make friends with my belly?”
Jima, holding her branch axe spear, states, “I’m not here to make friends; I’m here to hire people to fight.”
“Fight?” The two-mouthed ogre leader doesn’t even stand up and looks back. “Where’s your money? Is your payment just two chunks of meat?”
“You’re truly a bunch of paupers,” Jima retorts. “Don’t you know that there are things in this world like dimensional bags?”
“Your words are displeasing me, demon.”
The cyclops ogre behind them interjects, “Demon? I see just a two-legged sheep with two horns on its head.”
Jima reaches into her dimensional bag and pulls out a heavy pouch of gold coins, throwing it to them. “This is one part of the payment.”
The two-mouthed ogre catches the coin pouch and opens it, finding it full of gold coins.
“No need to count,” Jima says. “One thousand gold coins.”
It’s heavy; even an ordinary person would need both hands to throw it.
“Good, consider this a meeting gift,” the two-mouthed ogre says. “You can call me Sanwei. Do you have more money? Show me.”
Jima furrows her brows; one thousand gold coins is no small amount, yet it’s being treated like a meeting gift. It looks like they intend to take advantage of her, or perhaps engage in a bit of blackmail? No, they have no sincerity in wanting a proper business deal.
Jima asserts, “This is not a meeting gift; this is the hiring fee.”
The cyclops ogre scoffs, “Is that all the money you have? We have over fifty brothers; this isn’t enough for us to eat.”
Crotic tightens his grip on the axe handle, suppressing his anger and remaining silent.
The two-mouthed ogre says nothing, not even a response.
Jima believes they are testing her strength, so she retorts to the cyclops ogre: “Shut up, I’m not talking to you.”
“I want to speak,” the cyclops replies with a laugh, opening his mouth to reveal his white teeth along with meat stuck in the gaps: “What are you going to do about it?”
As soon as he finishes speaking, the flying rune axe smashes down onto his mouth.
