Chapter 129 Blood Sacrifice

Deep within the Misty Forest.

The sound of chirping insects mixed with the "rustle" of the breeze sweeping through the trees, echoing faintly in the air.

The dense canopy blocked the scorching sun overhead. The dim light scattered only a few sparse, dappled patches across the soft ground covered in fallen leaves.

Silence.

Aside from the noticeably thicker mist clinging to the branches, the area seemed no different from the outer fringes.

If anything, it was even quieter, looking like an ordinary, everyday stretch of woods.

But if you lingered a little longer, or ventured a bit deeper...

The massive shadows that occasionally darted through the dark brush, the huge dark scales embedded in the tree trunks, the cold stares from unseen blind spots, and the pale, half-buried bones jutting from the roadside meadows would tell you exactly why. This was why Adventurers, who usually valued money over their own lives, would rather exhaust themselves traveling daily between filthy, barren Goblin Lairs than walk two more days in this direction to earn a hundred or a thousand times the gold.

"Crunch."

A heavy, solid iron boot stepped down lightly but firmly.

It mercilessly crushed a tender sprout that had just managed to squeeze through the gaps in the fallen leaves after soaking up the soil's nutrients.

It left a deep footprint in the damp, pitch-black earth.

A man clad in full heavy armor, wielding a reddish-brown longsword, walked silently at the very front of the group.

His face was hidden beneath a streamlined iron helm, impossible to see clearly.

Only a pair of stern, resolute eyes peered through the visor's slits, reflecting the dark, profound path ahead.

Behind him followed two figures—one brawny, one slender.

The first had greenish skin and bulging muscles beneath a totemic breastplate, as solid as a boulder.

He was a tall, robust half-orc.

Two paces to his right, noticeably leaner, was a refined-looking Mage draped in an indigo ramie robe.

A tall, blond Elf brought up the rear. As he walked, his right hand rested on the hilt of the rapier at his waist, his race's distinctive eyes darting left and right to watch for potential threats.

This squad of high-level Class Holders, who had once crossed paths with Xia Nan at the Adventurers' Association, had now thoroughly penetrated the Misty Forest, marching steadily toward its core.

They were exceedingly professional.

Even at the depth they had currently reached, where it was highly unlikely any monster in the vicinity could pose a threat to them, the entire squad still displayed a level of caution and meticulousness far beyond that of ordinary Adventurers.

The fully armored, silent, and steadfast human Warrior walked alone at the very front, keeping a slight distance from the others behind him.

The male Elf bringing up the rear moved with light steps. He didn't appear to be doing anything extra, but as he moved, a faint breeze and swirling leaves subtly wrapped around his body.

Even the half-orc Barbarian named Volga—a man typically driven by his emotions and seen as a brute by the rest of the world—had tempered his impatience after venting his rage on goblins a couple of days ago, marching silently in the formation.

In the very center of the group, implicitly protected by the rest, the refined man held a wooden staff that emitted a soft, faint white light.

Radiating from him, an almost invisible layer of transparent light enveloped the entire team. Its rough outline only revealed itself when it moved and caught the sunlight filtering down from the canopy above.

Hum—

The corner of the light barrier suddenly blurred and distorted.

The refined man's gaze shot over instantly, but a second later, his brow relaxed.

"Rustle—"

The tall grass shook violently.

A wild hare, covered in grass seeds and broken leaves, suddenly bounded out.

Its two pitch-black, button-like eyes examined the towering figures before it.

Enveloped in the faint light, this alert little creature that lived in the dangerous dense forest seemed to have lost its ability to sense danger.

It froze abruptly, only violently coming to its senses a moment later, but by then, it was already too late.

Just as it turned around, a massive, greenish hand clamped down on its neck like iron tongs, lifting it effortlessly.

"Hey, long-ears. Rabbit, tasty. How to cook?"

His thick arm did not budge in the slightest despite the wild hare kicking its legs in a struggle. The half-orc, Volga, dangled the poor little beast and asked the blond Elf behind him.

"You're asking me?"

A hint of exasperation appeared on the Elf's face, though he seemed used to the other man's blunt nature.

He loosely gripped his right hand and turned his forearm a couple of times in the air, mimicking the motion of roasting meat over a fire. "Tasty," he replied perfunctorily. "Roasted is tasty."

In the middle of the formation, Cornell lightly tapped his staff on the ground. The light barrier, which had rippled faintly from the hare's intrusion, restored itself.

He still wore that same mild, understated smile on his face.

He withdrew his gaze.

[Waverly's Warding Light Zone]

It was a modified version of the 1st-Circle "Alarm", a high-quality lesser spell originating from Chromatic Ring City.

It still required concentration, but it consumed significantly less mental energy. Capable of being sustained for long periods, it also boasted excellent flexibility and scalability.

When adventuring, one only needed to cast the spell using their staff as a mana nexus, and the "Warding Light Zone" would function continuously without interference, moving along with the caster.

Before casting, the user could even determine which creatures would not trigger the alert, while adding special visual cues for dangerous monsters that required extra attention.

All in all, it was incredibly useful.

Even today, Cornell considered himself lucky for that afternoon two years ago. Instead of going to the tavern with his teammates to celebrate a successfully completed quest, he had chosen to wander the city and browse a bookstore alone.

Otherwise, he likely would never have encountered such an ingeniously designed, structurally exquisite, and practical spell in his entire life.

Speaking of which, after returning to the academy, he had even searched the library for information on "Waverly", the spell's creator.

Unfortunately, despite flipping through all the relevant tomes, he had not found any useful information.

It was to be expected.

The Aifala Continent had a long and ancient history. Even those mighty deities sitting high above the firmament in their divine kingdoms, beings who had long transcended the concept of a "lifespan", had instances of falling from grace.

How could countless "ordinary people" like them easily leave their names in history?

Let alone an ordinary spell like "Alarm", even looking further up at the 6th-Circle "Blazing Sunbeam" or the 9th-Circle "Meteor Swarm", how many could actually remember the names of their creators?

If one stretched the timeline back to the ancient eras, the number of mortal "Legends" who had stood at the very pinnacle of the secular world would not be much fewer than the stars in the sky.

Under these circumstances, combining the vast expanse of time with the countless brilliant figures of the past, this was especially true for "Mages"—a group possessing the most outstanding creative abilities in this world.

For almost every kind of spell, even simple cantrips like "Mage Hand" and "Dancing Lights", there were massive amounts of variants and derivatives.

It was just that the vast majority of them, after being created by their bored inventors, ended up buried under stacks of parchment, hidden in cobweb-laced corners, and eventually faded into the river of time.

Only a small fraction of modified spells—those possessing real practical value and a bit of good luck—managed to be passed down.

Strictly speaking, the magic traps Cornell had set up around their camp over the last two days also belonged to the modified category.

Their warning range was broader, they had a certain ability to distinguish friend from foe (provided they were inscribed with the proper spell mark), and even the cost was significantly cheaper.

Setting up the entire array only cost a few dozen gold coins, and it could be reused.

It was simple, reliable, and economical.

It had driven away a few passing gnolls a couple of days ago without suffering any damage.

If the half-orc Volga had not wrecked several of them while rushing back for dinner that one night, they probably could have lasted until the end of the mission.

'Forget it, I'll just deduct it from his food allowance later,' he thought.

Cornell gently shook his head, glancing at the half-orc beside him. Volga was dangling the wild hare, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth as he seemingly debated whether to eat the legs or the head first.

He made up his mind to pin the trap losses on the brute.

"Is this so-called 'Hunting Day' really just a time when there are more goblins?"

The tall, blond male Elf frowned, controlling the invisible breeze around his body to blow away a spiderweb hanging from a branch ahead.

"They make such a big fuss out of it every year. I hear even the bounties on Goblins have been increased by nearly half."

"With thousands or tens of thousands of them added up, the subsidized gold would almost be enough to hire those large-scale adventuring groups led by Transcendent Tier experts, wouldn't it?"

"Why is the Association still so stingy, sending out petty Adventurers who haven't even obtained a Class Level to risk their lives?"

"Wouldn't it be better to just solve it once and for all?"

The half-orc could not even necessarily understand all those words, so naturally he could not answer. The fully armed human Warrior had always been reticent and rarely spoke to anyone.

In the entire team, Cornell was probably the only one who would answer him at a time like this.

Strangely, however, facing the Elf's complaints and doubts, the Mage did not look particularly surprised.

He clearly knew some of the inside story regarding "Hunting Day" and the "Association".

But he also seemed to be harboring some misgivings.

He opened his mouth but said nothing.

After a long while, he tapped his wooden staff on the ground again and replied.

"It's quite complicated."

"We'll talk about it after the mission is over."

Meanwhile.

Deep within the Misty Forest, inside a certain Goblin Lair.

It was quiet.

Exceptionally quiet.

Unlike the goblin dungeons in Adventurers' memories—places overflowing with feces, mud, bones, and tattered junk—this cave was unusually clean and tidy.

There were no hordes of green-skinned Goblins crowding and clamoring inside, nor was there the slightest stench of rotting prey corpses.

Torches placed at regular intervals along the stone walls illuminated the entire cave brightly.

The densely distributed corridors and tunnels, along with an inner area as expansive as a public square, seemed to fuse the characteristics of both a "Hobgoblin" and a "Bugbear" lair.

It looked exactly like a massive... anthill!

The cave was empty, save for two figures standing silently in the very center.

One had fingers as withered as a corpse and covered in disgusting wrinkles poking out from loose sleeves. Its hunched figure resembled a worm hiding in the shadows.

It was wrapped entirely in a pitch-black robe. Only its frame—which was far larger than an ordinary goblin's—and the furry face that occasionally peeked out from beneath the hood revealed its identity as a Bugbear.

"Just a little more..." (in goblin)

There was no telling how long it had lived; it was as if even its voice had been corroded by time. The aged, decrepit tone drifted eerily from beneath the black robe.

It took two slow steps forward. On the altar in front of it—chiseled from some unknown pale stone—was engraved a bizarre, incredibly complex runic array that would make a normal person dizzy just by looking at it.

The runic array itself had no color; it was merely carved into the stone's surface.

But as the black-robed Bugbear drew closer, a smear of flowing, blood-like crimson materialized out of thin air, seeping inward along the array's lines.

It looked as though this crimson would fill the entire runic array in the next second.

Hovering faintly above the array was the illusion of a perfectly smooth, oval-shaped phantom reflecting a metallic luster.

But just as the bloody light was about to pour into the core of the array and solidify the oval phantom...

It came to an abrupt halt, as if it had run out of strength.

Just a little more.

"Ding."

A black nail tapped lightly against the stone surface. The crisp sound echoed through the cave like a cold wind.

Behind it, a figure far more muscular than a typical Bugbear knelt on one knee, not daring to lift its head. "The number of Adventurers this year is much lower than before, and they..." Its thick, muffled voice carried a trace of terror and panic.

Its voice trailed off, eventually becoming almost completely inaudible.

Evidently, it knew full well that these were nothing more than excuses for failing its task.

The air sank into dead silence once more.

The black-robed Goblin did not turn around.

Its cloudy eyes, shrouded by the shadow of the hood, stared at the blood-soaked altar in front of it, gazing at the nearly solidified oval phantom that was still lacking that final bit.

"The Breeding Tide is nearing its end. The Lord's gift brooks no blasphemy."

"Death and life—"

"Pleasure, or punishment."

The moment the word "punishment" left its mouth, the incredibly burly Bugbear kneeling behind it flinched, its body trembling violently.

It had clearly tasted it before.

"I will go out. Beyond the forest," it promised in a hasty, desperate tone. "Just like that time before. If there are not enough Adventurers... we will use the blood of their own kind to make up for the sacrifice's shortfall."

There was no reply.

The black-robed, hunched Goblin just kept its back turned, staring quietly at the altar in front of it.

And the Bugbear kept its head lowered, not daring to look up.

"Failure... you know the consequences," the aged voice echoed eerily among the stone walls.

Only then did the Bugbear visibly heave a sigh of relief.

It slowly stood up, turned around, and walked toward the lair's exit.

The heavy, muffled footsteps acted like some kind of war horn.

From the deep, dark tunnels on either side of the stone walls, green-skinned Goblins suddenly swarmed out. They remained completely silent, but their postures were feverish and crazed.

They clustered behind it.

It was only then, as the Bugbear turned to leave, that its broad back—wrapped in thick layers of fat and fur—was clearly revealed in the air under the light of the torches on the stone walls.

It revealed the Pale Bone Club, whose hollowed surface emitted a faint, piercing wail like a crying infant as it moved, as well as the highly conspicuous tuft of brownish-red mane running down its spine.