Chapter 74 Chapter 75 Crisis of Trust
A group of people traveled south for two days.
On the road, they were not attacked again, but the relaxed atmosphere of vacation gradually faded away.
The further south they went, the more shocking the sights became, with traces of war everywhere. Along the way, refugees from Bartol were gathering in groups, heading north. At the old tree at the intersection, the bodies of robbers and bandits were hanging, which at least indicated that the local lord was still trying to maintain order on the brink of collapse.
The three passed a burned village, where a wooden orc head stood at the village entrance, crudely made from planks, but it was clear at first glance that it was a symbol of orcs.
George dismounted and walked to the entrance of the village. Next to him, a house was burnt down, leaving only a charred frame. George stood at the village entrance, motionless.
Jima urged her horse and asked, “What’s wrong? Was it the orcs again?”
Before she finished speaking, a foul smell wafted into her nose. Holding her nose, Jima looked towards the source of the odor.
She saw a large green pile of dung in the village, sticky and ostentatious, with flies buzzing around it.
“Ugh, it must be the work of the greenskins,” Jima said. “Only greenskins would take the time to leave a huge pile of dung in a destroyed town.”
George stared at the green dung pile, raised a finger to gesture, and said something trivial: “This is almost twice the size of the dung pile we saw in the ruins of the village the day before yesterday.”
“What’s the conclusion?” Jima said. “Did the greenskin warband have a big appetite?”
“The size of the northbound greenskin warband is getting smaller,” George said. “It may also be that the proportion of undead in the warband is increasing.”
“Aside from the dead goblin dive bombers, I haven’t seen any dead greenskins along the way,” Jima said. “There are no necromancers among the greenskin warbands, making it hard to control the undead.”
“Maybe they are using some kind of item.”
The two had no evidence, so they could only speculate as they mounted their horses and left the ruins of the human village.
Jima noticed a pile of charred bodies outside the village, and George rode over to check. After a while, he returned and said, “They are all human bodies. The local lord is aware that there are necromancers.”
“Orcs, undead, resurrected vampires,” Jima sighed. “The simple little task the church gave you is indeed misleading.”
“It’s normal for intelligence to be outdated,” George said. “That’s why tasks with unclear intelligence are generally assigned to people like me.”
Jima wanted to mock George for being a hardworking old mule, but then she thought this didn’t fit her “reformed” kind demon persona, so she said nothing.
The three continued riding, with two mules following behind, traveling on the main road. In the distance, at the foot of the mountain, a city surrounded by walls could be vaguely seen.
Jima stepped on the stirrups, lifted her buttocks, and rubbed her hands, saying, “Finally nearing the city. This journey has been slow; pessimistically, we might not reach the city until noon.”
As soon as she finished speaking, a series of dog barks and a miserable cry for help came from the roadside: “Help! Help!”
It was a male voice, with a heavy tone.
When Jima heard it was not a young girl, she lost the impulse to urge her horse forward to check. George and Jenna immediately pulled the reins, dismounted, and walked towards the bushes by the roadside.
“I was too optimistic,” Jima muttered softly. “We won’t arrive until the afternoon.”
After saying this, she also dismounted, holding her light crossbow and following behind.
The three passed through the bushes by the side of the road, and ahead was a forest where several farmers were armed with pitchforks, backed against the trees, protecting their children behind them, with their pitchforks pointed at the wild dogs barking around them.
Dozens of wild dogs circled them, occasionally pouncing to attack, only to retreat immediately if unsuccessful. One farmer was already battered and bruised, his pants torn to expose his bloodied calves. The farmers still able to fight had weary looks on their faces.
Most of these wild dogs were so hungry that their ribs showed, suffering from skin diseases, with patches of fur missing. Yet they would not die; instead, hunger had stimulated their primal instincts.
The farmers noticed the silver gleam of George. One farmer’s spirits lifted, and he turned to shout at George, “Sir Knight, have mercy and save us!”
A strong black dog with shiny fur seized the opportunity and lunged at the farmer. The farmer, startled, instinctively raised his hand to block. He was already exhausted and was knocked to the ground by the black dog, which bit his arm with its drooling mouth, whipping him and then lunging for his neck.
It was a dog that had killed before.
The other farmers could hardly react, most of them standing frozen in place or busy dealing with the suddenly attacking wild dogs.
A bloody stench wafted from the black dog’s mouth, and its sharp teeth brushed against the soft neck.
Suddenly, the black dog’s head exploded, its face disfigured as fur flew everywhere. It flipped over, having bitten down on the farmer’s neck, but lacked the strength to pierce the skin. The farmer escaped the catastrophe, instantly rising, only to see a stone embedded in the black dog’s head.
George lowered his arm that had just thrown the stone, grasped his great sword, and charged into the pack of dogs. A few wild dogs pinned their front paws to the ground, barking at him, but with a swing of his great sword, their bodies were cleaved in half.
The pack of dogs scattered in a panic, running away.
Jima lowered her light crossbow and followed behind, looking for an opportunity. Unexpectedly, as one fleeing wild dog passed her by, it suddenly lunged at her. Despite her protective supernatural charm redirecting its body, it still managed to sink its teeth into her bare forearm.
“Is this targeting me?” Jima exclaimed in anger, lifting a leg to kick the wild dog’s belly, knocking it to the ground. Before it could get back up, she pounced on it, drew her dagger, and plunged it into its chest with force.
Jenna’s voice came from afar. “Jima, are you okay?”
Jima lifted her forearm and saw only a shallow bite mark with a foul wild dog spit on it.
“I’m fine,” Jima said. “It didn’t penetrate my force field armor.”
“Just be careful from now on,” Saint Jenna said, turning to tend to the injured farmer.
Jima looked at her damp forearm, unable to resist sniffing it, a wave of rot filled her nostrils. She frowned and turned her head away, saying, “This wild dog must have eaten a corpse.”
She took out a handkerchief, thought it would dirty it, and didn’t wipe it. Finally, she grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground, vigorously rubbing her forearm while complaining, “No toilet paper, it’s such a hassle.”
She stood up and walked towards George and the others, seeing Saint Jenna pressing both hands on a dirty farmer’s chest. He was drenched in sweat, his tattered clothes filthy and black, a striking contrast to the immaculate saint.
As Saint Jenna pressed down, white light emerged, and the wounds on the injured farmer closed at a visibly rapid pace.
“Thank you, thank you!” the farmers stammered, “Lord Messenger, thank you.”
Jima found it utterly boring. She looked at the silver robe on Saint Jenna, relieved that it had not picked up a speck of dirt.
Someone’s dying, and I’m here worrying about my clothes getting dirty. Indeed, my conscience has long since been devoured by dogs.
Jima coldly watched the farmers, who looked excited, pondering if she were a foolish kind person at that moment, what she would do.
She had the answer in her heart. Putting on a mask of concern, she said to Saint Jenna, “Sister Jenna, although the external wounds are healed, I am very worried that they may still die. The saliva of the dogs carries a virus.”
“Virus” was a term Jima made up, and she didn’t use the root very well.
Saint Jenna asked, “Virus? Disease and poison?”
“Similar to poison, but not quite the same,” Jima replied. “It’s something that exists within the sick body and is contagious.”
The farmers, having survived the catastrophe, saw their joyful expressions from earlier immediately fade; they looked pleadingly at Saint Jenna.
Jenna said, “I used a divine spell to cleanse the poison from their bodies.”
“My uncle was bitten on the little finger by a dog the day before yesterday, had a high fever yesterday, and died this morning,” one farmer said, his face pale. “This is not an ordinary poison, Lord Messenger. Can you save us poor souls?”
At that moment, for some reason, Saint Jenna’s green eyes flickered, and she said, “Generally, it will be fine. Also, I am not a messenger; I am a devout servant of the God of Dawn.”
Seeing her eyes darting and her tone unconfident, the farmers grew anxious and asked:
“Am I going to die?”
“There is a possibility of that.”
“Please save us! You must be able to save us; you can heal wounds, so you should be able to cure the dog’s virus.”
“But I’ve done all I can do,” the saint said apologetically. “I can’t do better.”
“Please, use your divine magic on me just once more.”
The saint looked at a loss.
George noticed and stepped forward, intending to resolve the “crisis of trust” with straightforward honesty.
But Jima jumped in first, took out her water pouch, and said, “I almost forgot; I just so happen to have one that can cure viruses. It’s magical because it’s filled with the power of life.”
After saying this, she activated her “lie” ability, pulling out the wood. The pouch’s opening indeed emitted a faint light.
George recognized it was a lie, but did not stop her.
The farmers, expressing countless thanks, received the glowing water in their hands and drank it. They claimed to feel much better.
After resolving this minor trust crisis, George asked, “Are you all heading to the city?”
“No, we are fleeing.”
“Why?” George inquired. “Isn’t the city safer with the knight lord in control? I’ve seen many refugees heading toward the city along the way.”
The farmer cautiously replied, “Sir Knight, I’m not slandering, but many people saw it with their own eyes the night before last. The lord lord bit a living person’s neck; he has turned into a vampire, and the whole city knows. We are merely his backup food, and today we finally managed to escape.”
