Chapter 73: The Conspiracy of Jima
Eve Frostleaf walked a few steps to Jima, her green eyes, which seemed to speak, glanced at the departing siblings before turning to Jima.
Jima smiled silently.
Eve Frostleaf seemed to understand something but also appeared confused, so she nodded and left.
Jima watched Eve’s long legs disappear, quietly cursing, “Crazy.”
Elves loved to play a game called even when the fire was right at their brows, they wouldn’t tear the mask off, but instead communicated and compromised through hints without breaking the facade; whoever tore the mask off would lose.
Jima ignored the gossiping woman and focused on the child Dagji.
It might be too difficult for a hot-headed child to say disheartening words to adults. From a distance, Jima could see Dagji’s small face turned red like blood, and someone was yelling at him.
Dagji nearly cried.
It was unrealistic to expect a small child to persuade a group of adults who had lost their homeland and were filled with thoughts of death.
But extraordinary abilities could distort reality, turning the unrealistic into the desired reality according to one’s will.
Through Dagji, Jima spread rumors, which were more effective than her own lies. She infused the “power of lies” into the weak rumors that no one believed.
The adults who had shouted at Dagji were still spitting words at him: “You little brat! Coward! You must be scared!”
As the saliva landed on Dagji’s face, he couldn’t help but recall what he had just said.
Yes, the paladin only wanted a guide. They wouldn’t indulge us in our whims.
For a lost homeland, for those who had died and ended up as a heap of meat in a troll’s stomach, was it worth it?
This almost persuaded him. But this adult didn’t want to admit he was a coward, so he said to others:
“The demons are unwilling and have no weapons for us; why should we die in the shelter?”
Another person rebuked him, saying, “Don’t you remember our fallen brothers? We have no weapons, but we can use stones and fight alongside the paladin.”
At this moment, Jima flicked her tail at the “cloud of desires” above their heads, accurately suppressing the anger in their hearts.
Anger suppressed reason, and sometimes, reason was a shackle of bravery.
As the anger subsided, the second person calmed down, recalling the sounds of trolls killing humans, the crunch of vertebrae breaking, and the smell of blood and urine.
For such monsters, using stones was no different from suicide.
Why not flee? As long as they ran quickly, diving into the cold wilderness might give them a chance to escape the trolls’ pursuit.
But he didn’t have the courage to admit he was a coward, so he said, “Let’s ask the paladin whether we can win against the trolls.”
When everyone was discussing before, no one mentioned defeating the trolls; no one had thought to win against them, as everyone knew it was impossible. They were merely angry, wanting retribution from the trolls.
No one opposed.
They chose a representative and approached George.
George and the bearded dwarf argued until they were dry-mouthed, unable to convince the stubborn dwarf, much like he couldn’t make a stone grow two legs and walk.
The dwarves decided to draw lots.
The dwarf butcher shouted in the dwarven language: “Twenty-one lots, let’s see who’s unlucky; anyone who draws a bad lot must obediently flee.”
“How do we draw? Where are the lots?”
The dwarves stared at each other, at a loss.
George ignored the dwarves. He crouched down, grabbed a handful of snow, and stuffed it into his mouth to quench his thirst.
The representatives of the survivors approached and asked, “Paladin, hello.”
George replied, “Speak if you have something.”
“If we stay and fight the trolls with stones, do you think we can win against them?”
George suspected something was wrong with their heads. As far as he knew, Jima’s dream palace had a huge stash of weapons, some from beastmen’s loot and some hoarded by Jima for speculation.
Among them were quite a few of George’s trophies, stored in Jima’s place for safekeeping (safekeeping and then gone).
He recalled mentioning to the survivors that Jima had many surplus weapons.
He shook his head and said, “Impossible, unless you have weapons.”
“I understand.” The representative got the answer he wanted, and hurriedly returned, shaking his head to the others: “The paladin, experienced and victorious, says we cannot win against the trolls.”
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, realizing it wasn’t their cowardice that wanted to flee into the cold wilderness.
Someone whispered, “Without a home, without lakes, and no fish, can we survive in the cold wasteland?”
Another asked, “Where can we escape to?”
“The trolls will always follow us; the adults can’t protect us forever.”
In the distance lay barren land with wind and snow.
The representative said, “It’s still better than becoming troll dung. Didn’t you hear? The paladin said we cannot win against them.”
Everyone fell silent, quietly returning to pack their belongings.
A long-bearded dwarf raised a short, stout finger, pointing at the humans, asking, “What are they going to do?”
The dwarf butcher scoffed, “Flee. Don’t understand humans? They clearly have such short lives yet cherish their lives, fearing death. By the way, have we borrowed lots?”
“Not yet.”
“I can smell the trolls’ stench; let me do it.” The dwarf butcher called out to George in Kirslen: “Do you have tools for drawing lots?”
“I do,” Jima said, running over with a broad smile, holding a bamboo tube full of lots, saying, “There’s only one red lot inside; whoever draws it has to be the guide.”
The dwarf butcher shook his crest-like hair and corrected, “It’s flee.”
Jima mischievously squatted down, extending her hand: “Go ahead and draw.”
The dwarf butcher muttered, “I feel like this demon might have done something underhanded.”
With that, he was the first to reach out and draw lots. The lot beneath was white, and he smiled: “Ha, very fair.”
The dwarves gathered around, one after another reaching in to draw lots. Jima showed her bright white teeth, saying, “I’m like Snow White—no, Snow White isn’t as beautiful as I am.”
The dwarf engineer was one of the last to draw lots. He pulled out his lot and saw the end was white.
With a blink, the end of the lot turned red, and the dwarf engineer held up the red lot, blinking in suspicion: “Wasn’t it white just now?”
“Ha, you drew the red lot.”
“What bad luck.”
The dwarves laughed, clapping the “unlucky one” on the shoulder.
For a moment, the dwarf engineer felt sure he must be seeing things, so he resigned to his fate, allowing his companions to take away his wine jug, crossbow, and armor, leaving only a hornless helm and a matchlock gun that no one wanted to use.
Jima had played a little trick. She recalled the flammable and explosive “mousetrap” lying in the dream palace, perhaps the dwarf engineer could help her solve some technical problems if he survived.
At the very least, she hoped it wouldn’t explode in her hands casually.
