A Man Like A Mountain

The frightening Brain Eater was currently a corpse. Traces of a fierce battle inundated the stronghold, and a large number of Daxdus corpses were still littered around. Nobody had the time to clean up their dead bodies; even the Norlanders’ bodies weren’t disposed of very well.

More than half of the buildings within the fort had already been smashed, and there was an enormous pit near the edge where the mere shockwaves of an attack had destroyed all buildings within a kilometre. A strange, nauseating smell lingered in the air, but many powerhouses of Norland were silently treating their own injuries or getting some rest nearby. They were all tired to death, possessing no energy to celebrate this historic victory.

The most eye-catching of the lot were two sub-legendary experts clad in black armour, the crests of which were deliberately filed away. Closer observation revealed that the armour was in the style of the Sacred Alliance, and despite the two sitting by themselves and not bothering with the rest nobody was unhappy with them. All the saints nearby knew just how many Daxdians they had torn apart.

A wave of dense, black dots could be seen moving across the horizon, the remnants of the counterattack that had been disrupted. Many corpses were piled near the fort’s gates, the most prominent of which was an enormous enclave centaur captain which had been placed atop the walls. There were even a few dead dracotaur bodies around.

The Norlanders had been surrounded on all sides by the Daxdians for this battle, but they had still emerged victorious. The Fort of Dawn had truly returned to the Sacred Alliance!

One could see a large silhouette slowly walking towards the stronghold. This obese person only had on a pair of leather pants, his greasy belly flopping around as he walked. His footsteps were firm and strong, but also completely silent for someone of his size. He didn’t possess any legendary armour either; the only special thing on his person was the three-metre-long and one-metre-wide rusted chopped he carried on his shoulder. There were even two nicks on the blade that were each the size of a fist, but this mountain-like man still possessed an air of looking down upon the world.

He did not need any grandeur; his presence alone was enough.

The right hand holding onto that extraordinarily large, worn-out cleaver, the man held three heads in his left. They all belonged to different races, but their hair, beards, and meaty tentacles were randomly knotted around each other.

When the Daxdians had retreated, this man had pursued alone and was now returning with these three heads. However, anyone familiar with him would know that this wasn’t the extent of damage he had caused; these three heads were just the only ones he deemed worthy of bringing back. The only people that caught his eye were well-known legends.

As he neared the stronghold, the two sub-legendary experts immediately leapt down from the city walls and landed on either side. Giving him a reverent bow, they knelt in greeting, “Your Majesty!”

The other Norlanders hopped down from the city as well, kneeling on both sides of the road, “Your Majesty!”

All powerhouses had their own pride, especially those who had survived the battlefields of despair. Even so, all of these experts willingly bowed their haughty heads and bent their unyielding bones to kneel before this man. That was because he was the one who had cleansed the Sacred Alliance of decades of humiliation, forcing his way into the Fort of Dawn single-handedly and killing the infamous Brain Eater. He had also resisted the crazed counterattacks of the Daxdians for many days. Although his rusty blade looked like a kitchen knife, the hundreds of Daxdus powerhouses that had died at his hands hadn’t even managed to scrape some rust off it.

True experts would grow fearful the moment they set eyes on this funnily-shaped cleaver. This weapon had its own legend, and anyone who dared to underestimate its power would vanish under its blade. Of all the weapons in Norland said to be able to kill dragons, the Dragon Butcher was one of the few that had showcased this prowess. It was this blade that the founding emperor of the Sacred Alliance had used to cleave off the head of the abyssal dragon Daramore. The holes in the blade were damage from the dragon’s tough bones, the rust a mark of corrosion from its magical blood.

And yet, perhaps this cleaver was more suited to the hands of the fatty walking into the Fort of Dawn right now. This man was the current emperor of the Sacred Alliance, Bloodthirsty Philip.

The Emperor threw the heads in front of the gathered powerhouses, laughing loudly, “Cook em’ up, I want to celebrate our victory with wine!”

……

The first thing that greeted Richard when he opened his eyes was a ceiling covered with mottled traces of mould. The view was rather familiar to him, but before he could manage to recall a hoarse voice knocked him out of his daze, “You stinky brat, don’t doze off if you’re already awake! You better hurry up and cooperate with me, I’m exhausted to death because of you!”

The voice was equally familiar, but in his addled state Richard just couldn’t remember where he had heard it before. Furthermore, his body was currently quite strange as well. He could feel all of his organs, but most refused to obey his commands.

*Whoosh!* A very light breeze flowed into the area, but it immediately caused him to shiver. His chest and abdomen had felt very cold, almost as though the wind had pierced into his body!

It was only then that he felt a pair of hands touch his innards.

“Wha—” he was shocked awake, eyes widening as he mustered all his strength to raise his head. He found himself lying down with his chest cut open, a pair of stick-thin hands cupping what looked like his liver and paring it with a slightly rusted scalpel. Normally he would scream in sheer horror at such a sight, but this time he just trier to feel out his body and realised that the rest of his body below the neck truly wasn’t under his control.

Shifting his gaze to examine the surroundings, he immediately recognised an aged face with a wretched expression on it. Heaving a sigh of relief, he placed his head back on the steel table; Saint Lawrence’s medical expertise was perhaps even greater than his runecrafting abilities.

Seeing him so calm, Lawrence was clearly disappointed, “You rascal, acting pretty cool and all. You’re supposed to be scared!”

Richard chuckled, “Oh… I just woke up, so I was a little slow to react. I’m… I’m only starting to b-be afraid r-right now!”

Hearing Richard’s fake stutter, Lawrence was stunned for a moment. He then looked at him suspiciously, “You little rascal, how old are you exactly? Such a smooth talker. Is that really what someone of your age is supposed to be saying?”

“What should someone of my age be saying?” Richard questioned calmly.

Lawrence tucked the liver back into its place, “Don’t you kids all like to show you’re fearless enough to break into the hells or the abyss? With a bit of wine, you lot even think you can chop up legendary beings!”

Richard laughed once more, “Sure, but you saved Beye numerous times and now my life as well. Shouldn’t I at least make you a little happier for it?”

Lawrence was startled, a complicated expression crawling up his face, “You are right, but not many can think like you at such an age.”

“Well, not many have been through as much as I have, of course I matured earlier than the rest.” Richard was charming as ever, but Lawrence could see the pain behind his smile. Beye had told him many stories about the circumstance of the Archeron Family and Gaton’s bastard son.

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