Azure Scepter

Page 25

[Item Description 2: The priest must restrain her bloodlust while fulfilling her holy duties. In her long struggle, she gradually shifts from absolute resistance to anger towards the undead, and then to self-persuasion. Finally, in hysterical despair, the priest accepts her fate, transforming into a merciless, bloodthirsty undead. She slaughters the pursuing inquisitors and vanishes forever into the night—after the horrific massacre, the former cathedral of Beaver Town is abandoned.]

[Item Description 3: This appears to be some kind of unique key]

"What vampire corruption..." Trier thought to himself as he continued to look at the second half of the panel.

[Equipment Requirements: Intelligent Lifeform]

[Equipment Effect: The wearer of this robe receives a -4 penalty to Constitution and a +4 bonus to Charisma. Furthermore, this powerful robe grants the wearer the ability to cast Vampire's Touch three times per day, as well as Ghoul's Touch three times per day. The caster's level is the same as the wearer's level.]

[Equipment Effect: Inflicts a terrible curse on the wearer. The wearer will be unable to remove the robes. When attempting to remove the armor, an extremely difficult spellcaster level assessment is required. Failure to do so inflicts massive negative energy damage. If the wearer dies, the robes will summon 1D3 San'Ana demons as a sacrifice to the wearer's remains. Simultaneously, the wearer will slowly and irreversibly transform into a bloodline of an unknown entity.]

[I'm getting colder and colder, I'm sorry, I... I just need a little warm blood—no, this can't be!]

P.S.: QWQ Sorry for the long wait, thank you everyone for your patience. I currently owe 9 chapters, which I expect to pay off in installments by May 6th.

I might have to postpone it again tomorrow; an important project is due on Wednesday...

Chapter 46 Full Responsibility

Cool, cobalt-blue magical lights drifted like fireflies in the dark room, only to be extinguished by the orange-red flames. Under the flickering torchlight, the sheer robes were almost transparent, revealing glimpses of Fythia's fair hands, and even the faint blue veins on her elven hands could be vaguely seen.

Trier stood in the shadows, quietly observing the other two.

Fythia frowned, her face grave despite holding the robe, as if she were holding a bomb with a fuse about to burn out; while Noi stared at the robe with curiosity, her scarlet eyes shifting slightly as if confirming the opinions of the others.

After a moment of silence, Noi carefully extended two fingers and gently brushed them across his robe.

“This robe is truly beautiful.” She closed her eyes and continued in a poetic tone, “It feels like moonlight. Futia, do you know what laurel is?”

Fythia lowered her gaze: "I'm not interested in flowers—you want this robe?"

Neu smiled and nodded slightly.

"Be careful, there's a curse inside. I don't know what kind of curse it is." The elf released her hand and handed the robe to the nun without hesitation.

“Power is always accompanied by curses,” the nun replied with a smile. “And I am prepared.”

The moment she touched the robe, Noi clenched her fist tightly, but then seemed to realize that this was inappropriate, so she immediately let go. She hooked her fingers around the edge of the "cooling" robe, and the shapeless robe hung down gently like silver quicksand, the fine gauze rubbing against each other and making a soft rustling sound.

“This is a cursed item; once you put it on, it’s very difficult to take it off.” Suddenly, Trier said in a deep voice, “If you try to take it off, you will most likely die; and if you keep wearing it, you will slowly turn into a vampire, so I suggest you think carefully.”

Noi's fluid movements froze instantly.

She was silent for a moment, then forced a smile and said in a dry, grainy tone, "Then we've wasted all our effort?"

“Not so—if someone wearing a robe forcibly removes it, it will summon several Sana demons.” Trier stepped out of the shadows. “From that perspective, we can find a few cultist prisoners, force them to wear robes, and when the battle turns against us, we can remove their robes and project their corpses onto the undead.”

The Sana demons are a powerful type of otherworldly demons, often referred to as "Deathbringers".

In some superstitious legends, they are messengers of death. These tall monsters, dressed in tattered black robes and with horns on their heads, row dilapidated boats across the River Styx, ferrying the souls of the dead to the other side.

Such a legend is of course nonsense; the Sana demon is merely an ordinary demon that looks terrifying.

They do indeed row boats on the rivers of the post-apocalyptic wasteland, but the streams beneath their boats are not the River Styx, but merely ordinary rivers of hell; moreover, they cannot ferry the immortal essence of intelligent beings, and their passengers are simply the local natives and some travelers.

Even so, the Sana'na demons are monsters not to be underestimated—summoning a horde of Sana'na demons from among the undead is enough to affect the balance of power between the two sides in the final battle.

“I might not be ready yet,” Noe said softly. “In fact, I hope I never will have the chance to wear it.”

Futia cleared her throat and then said, "Power is always accompanied by a curse, and I..."

"Please...please stop!" Noi quickly interrupted, her face flushed red despite her usual composure. She had her head down for a moment, then lowered it even further, her hands fidgeting, sometimes twisting her robes, sometimes adjusting the hem of her garment.

Just as Noy was at a loss, Trier's voice suddenly came from behind him: "I'll take this robe."

The nun turned around and quickly stuffed the robe into Trier's hands.

"Thank you!" she said softly.

Bathed in magical light, Trir's face was clearly visible, and he still wore a gentle smile.

The next moment, the cold magical light vanished instantly, and Trier's dust- and blood-stained iron gauntlets, like cold iron clamps, instantly extinguished the magical light.

Noy knew this was a special magical technique used to conceal magical auras and prevent exposure. However, the magical power surging from this peculiar robe was extremely strong, and such magical fluctuations could not possibly be completely concealed.

But now, this almost impossible task has been accomplished by the other party so casually...

She blinked, half in shock and half in confusion.

“This is the revelation of radiance.” The paladin said, taking a rope from his backpack and putting it on his robe. “We have wasted too much time. It’s time to go up.”

The description of the "cooling" item mentioned that it was some kind of unique key. Trier initially thought the lock it pointed to was inside the secret room, but after a thorough search, he couldn't find the secret room beneath it, so he had to give up.

“The place that can be opened by the gradual cooling should not be here.” The paladin thought, “There are several places in the Kingdom of Orco in the game where the key has not been found—the gradual cooling should be the key to one of the places. Considering the vampire mentioned in the item description, the corresponding location is likely to be the knight statue on the foot of Mount Saint-Sel, north of Beaver Town.”

"After eliminating the cultists in Beaver Town, you can try stopping by on your way to Eraf."

"Don't think too much about it, let's focus on the present."

He took a deep breath to clear his mind, and then left the building with the others.

When the group returned to the hotel courtyard, the chaos had completely subsided. Under Harlan's command, a dozen soldiers methodically separated the crowd.

Trier noticed that about twenty townspeople had also received standard armor, and they seemed to be acting as intermediaries between the soldiers and the armed townspeople. Each of these heavily armored militiamen seemed to be responsible for contacting and leading 5-6 armed townspeople.

“The religious fanatic is doing a really good job; he’s very organized,” Futia said in a very low voice. “It’s only been twenty minutes.”

Trier nodded, walked through the gradually orderly crowd, past the messenger who was shouting at the top of his lungs, and stood in front of Harlan.

The knight turned his remaining eyeball and aimed it at the paladin.

“How much time do we have left?” Harlan asked.

“We’re safe at least until tomorrow morning—we’ve eliminated the Silent Whisperers’ spies, so they’re unlikely to make a move this afternoon; and the undead infected by the Blood Plague don’t have dark vision, so they’re unlikely to attack at night either.” Trier looked directly at him. “So, we’re safe for now.”

Harlan breathed a sigh of relief.

"May the radiance protect us! What should we do next?"

Just as Trier was about to speak, the garrison captain standing next to Harlan suddenly coughed violently.

"Ahem... Sir, please forgive my bluntness, but making plans is your duty and right, and you should not delegate this responsibility to others."

“The Radiance teaches us that talent is a precious nugget of gold, while status is a rusty copper bar. In this situation, we should listen to the opinions of those with talent.” Harlan sighed. “I have made too many wrong decisions. If I had realized that the Blood Plague was a magical plague when it first appeared, we would not be trapped here at all. If I had not listened to Hord’s lies yesterday, our situation would be much better now.”

"I lack the dignity befitting a nobleman, yet I cannot truly relinquish my pride; I sought decisiveness, but instead recklessly squandered my power; I wanted to protect everyone, but..."

“Now is not the time for self-pity, and besides, it wasn’t your fault,” the elderly garrison captain interrupted. “At least your military organization has been excellent.”

“Indeed,” Trier reassured her, “and you are a very virtuous person.”

Harlan gave a bitter smile, his remaining eye trembling: "Perhaps, but I have a responsibility for everyone's lives—Trier, can I trust you?"

The paladin remained silent, but he vaguely knew what the other person wanted to say.

The cold rain pounded on the chainmail, the pattering sound somehow drowning out the messenger's shouts, and the damp droplets seemed to carry the scent of blood.

"In the name of Radiance, in the capacity of the local lord, and in the honor of being the son of Earl Harlan—I entrust you, Trier, with full authority over all matters concerning Beaver Town from this moment forward. So please tell me, what should we do next?"

Trier looked around and suddenly realized that everyone present was looking at him.

This scene seemed familiar. Last night, when he announced in the hotel that he could delay the onset of the blood plague, the reactions of those around him were exactly the same as now. But now, he felt a heavy weight in his heart for no apparent reason.

"This is what it feels like to be trusted," he thought.

After a moment of silence, the paladin said in a low voice, "It will be done in two steps. First, we need to cure the blood plague on some people, which will probably take the whole afternoon; around six o'clock in the evening, we will hold a military meeting to make specific tactical arrangements—but in any case, we will have a final battle with the Silent Whisperers cultists before noon tomorrow."

Chapter 47 Dwarfs

A slimy, bloody smell filled the air, a murky and disgusting odor that reminded the dwarf blacksmith of his homeland, Shining Peak.

He remembered that whenever the "diamond crucible" began melting diamonds, the goblins used as sacrifices would let out chilling screams. They were thrown into the pot, their slender bodies disappearing instantly, followed by a suffocating heat rising up. Amid the priest's praises, the goblins would be separated from their flesh and bones, while their fat, mixed with blood, would float to the surface of the crucible.

Through the layer of geese oil that exudes a sweet scent, sparkling diamonds emerge like seashells on a beach.

The old dwarf couldn't help but ponder the connection between the Blood Plague Infected and the Sacrifice Goblins. Both emitted this strange odor; could this mean there was some kind of link between them?

"Perhaps they all became goblins, all became sacrifices," he muttered to himself.

The militiamen, clad in blood-stained chainmail, immediately shouted, "Shut up! Keep quiet! Old Balin, are you trying to escape again?"

The dwarf recognized the militiaman who had reprimanded him; the man was the town's moneylender.

The moneylender was stingy and greedy, as greedy as a caveman in a mine—the dwarf vaguely remembered that once, when a national touring circus came to perform in town, all the other men were attracted to the beautiful, curvaceous animal trainers, but the moneylender's eyes were glued to the silver chain around the bear's neck...

“I didn’t run away,” the dwarf retorted. “I launched an attack, and I killed three walkers! Three!”

“You should save this story for Martha, cough cough cough…” The moneylender suddenly coughed violently, and wriggling, transparent maggots rolled and fell to the ground, making the sweet smell in the air even stronger.

The blacksmith felt a little dizzy and inexplicably flustered.

He subconsciously looked around and immediately realized that everyone around him had a frighteningly pale face, and they were staring at him like ghosts.

In a way, the dwarves understood the emotions in their eyes: Why weren't you infected with the blood plague?

At that moment, it was as if an invisible, thick wall separated him from the others. The dwarf suddenly realized that he was completely alone. The Beaver Town, which he had spent eight years integrating into, had thrown him out in an instant.

Just like when I was exiled by Shining Peak in the past.

The cold rain seemed to carry a hint of unspeakable bitterness, and the dwarf couldn't help but sigh.

"Grandpa Balin, don't be sad." Suddenly, a fair hand grasped the dwarf's fingers.

The blacksmith looked down and saw it was the tax collector's youngest son, Soms.

The boy's face was equally pale, and his neck was wrapped in several blood-stained bandages, but he had a smile on his face: "Anyway, the undead are going to eat us soon, so let's cheer up."

"Haha...you're really funny." The dwarf chuckled twice. "Your sense of humor is just like Martha's."

“Aunt Martha hasn’t come back; she must have been eaten by the undead,” Soms said bluntly.

The blacksmith knew the boy was saying that on purpose; the boy was very precocious and the most learned and intelligent person in town besides Reverend Byron.

The boy's words pierced the dwarf's heart like a cold, sharp sword—the old dwarf really didn't know why the boy would say such a thing!

He was not angry at the sarcasm; on the contrary, he felt a sadness like the cold mist rising from the surface of a lake.

He couldn't tell whether it was because his wife had passed away or because he was being ostracized by others.

No one laughed at Soms's joke at that moment; instead, everyone fell silent.

In a daze, the blacksmith felt the invisible barrier between him and his neighbor melt away by this seemingly malicious irony—

They were all victims of the Blood Plague; the Silent Words had taken too much from them.

“Soms, shut up! Show some respect to old Balin, or I’ll slap you!” the moneylender yelled, raising his shield in his left hand as if to strike Soms.

Soms made a face at the blacksmith and the moneylender, then quickly hid behind his mother.

Suddenly, a soldier with a serious expression and hurried steps walked over quickly. His left hand was on the hilt of his sword at his waist, and his sharp eyes kept scanning the surroundings.

The blacksmith curiously observed the hurried soldier, and their eyes met.

Upon seeing the soldiers arrive, the moneylender immediately put on the humble smile typical of businessmen, his face wrinkled and gaunt: "Sir, what are your instructions?"

"Is Old Bahrain here?" The soldier's words were concise and succinct, filled with a cold, businesslike tone.

The blacksmith cautiously looked around and noticed that his neighbors were all looking at him, and at the same time, they unconsciously stood in front of him—his human neighbors seemed to want to protect him.

"Uh, did he make some mistake?" The moneylender's eyes darted around, as if he were thinking of an excuse for the blacksmith.

“It’s a good thing.” The soldier’s words remained brief. “Sir Harlan is looking for him because it’s related to curing the blood plague.”

The moneylender stared in disbelief, pointing at the dwarf: "Sir Harlan is looking for him? For a dwarf?"

The soldier nodded indifferently and said politely to the dwarf, "Old Balin, please hurry, Sir, your time is precious."

At that moment, the dwarf suddenly noticed that the soldier's complexion was not sickly pale, but rather a rather healthy rosy glow.

Paladins actually have a way to cure the blood plague?

"Torrag's hammer!" the dwarf murmured in shock.

When the blacksmith was brought before Sir Harlan, he found the respected young heir standing at the table, while Trier, who had been expelled from the inn the day before, was sitting in the only chair behind the table.

"The power structure has changed." The well-informed dwarf keenly noticed this.

At this moment, the paladin was grinding diamonds with a strange instrument that resembled a whetstone. Fine diamond dust was scattered evenly into the bag beneath the instrument. The old dwarf noticed that the paladin's hand holding the instrument was very steady, and he seemed quite skilled at it.

After about half a second, Trier stopped grinding and handed the bag of diamond dust to Sister Noy beside him. Then he looked up and gave the dwarf a gentle smile.

"This is the blacksmith of Beaver Town, an excellent bard, and a diamond maker. The three diamonds we are using now were a gift from him."

Upon hearing the paladin's words, Sir Harlan's expression turned solemn. He placed his left hand over his chest and bowed sincerely to the dwarf: "Thank you for your generosity. The radiance will bless your kindness."

"Uh, I am also honored and grateful for your exemplary conduct, I..." The dwarf tried hard to recall the etiquette of human nobles in the poem, and after thinking for a long time, he finally managed to utter a convoluted and awkward response that was not even grammatically correct.