Jemar heard the sounds of battle as he was about to drift off to sleep. Although sitting alone in a small, dark tent, he didn't need to see to understand what was happening: the Scourge was attacking. The fight against the Scourge was different from human-to-human warfare. In addition to the clamor of clashing swords and shouts, there were the peculiar grumbles of ghouls' throats, the clattering of skeletal warriors' bones, and the splattering of acid from abominations' mouths, among other strange and unique noises. These various eerie and unsettling sounds intertwined in the air, creating a chaotic and putrid tableau. Jemar was no stranger to this atmosphere—he could discern from the sounds the number of soldiers fighting around the tent and who their respective enemies were. His eye sockets felt a slight tingling sensation, and his entire body tensed up.
A ghoul burst into his tent. These seemingly slow-reacting Scourge soldiers often took two or three seconds to observe their enemies before relentlessly pursuing them. It lunged at Jemar, whose neck and hands were bound, and he rushed forward despite the upper part of his body being immobilized. When they were at extremely close range, Jemar kicked the loose, rotten knee joint of the ghoul, causing it to fall to the ground on its right shoulder. His second attack landed on its exposed cochlea, followed by several more blows until its head became a grotesque mixture of flesh, bone fragments, and yellow-green fluid.
Fortunately, it was a highly decomposed ghoul; otherwise, Jemar wasn't confident he could have taken it down, although he had no intention of becoming its meal. How could he die in this place! There was still one more day, and he believed he could...
As he pondered his next move, a powerful force struck the side of his cramped tent. The tent's pole snapped, and the iron chains wrapped around it came loose. Jemar fell to the ground, his back pressed against the ghoul's corpse. His neck was free now, and he crawled out from under the tent. What he saw confirmed his earlier auditory assessment—the surroundings had turned into a battlefield. Having experienced countless battles against the Scourge, though his hands were still in shackles, when he witnessed soldiers nearby severing rotting arms and sharp teeth dripping with mucus lunging for human necks, his primary feeling was excitement, not nervousness. Relying on his experience, he quickly assessed the situation—it would be a bitter struggle, but as long as the enemy had no reinforcements, their side would win—though perhaps at a catastrophic cost.
An abomination fell, destroying Jemar's tent. Its hooked right hand sank into the ground less than a yard away from Jemar's original position. Flint's short dagger was plunged into the abomination's neck, like drawing a drawbridge, beheading it. Flint wiped the yellow-green fluid off his face, turned around, and met Jemar's gaze.
In that moment of eye contact, Jemar understood that Flint, too, was accustomed to killing, be it the Scourge or humans. He had encountered many such people among the Crusaders—they abandoned fear and left a trail of bloodied footprints. However, Flint and the Crusaders were different in some ways. His will was free. He killed the abomination before him because it was an enemy, not to "purify" anything.
Flint glanced around, then turned back to Jemar, tightening his grip on his twin daggers as he approached.
Throughout their journey, Jemar had been instructed by Jorgen not to let Flint get close to his tent, and Jemar could sense Flint's intense hostility towards him at any given moment. He had heard snippets of Flint's story with a missing nurse during a fire, and while many soldiers in the Bloodscar Crusader would gladly kill him, Flint seemed to be the only one with the courage to act on it. With chaos all around, Jorgen was nowhere to be seen. No one would care about the fate of a Bloodscar Crusader in such a situation.
Flint closed in, his eyes showing the same chilling calmness and determination as when he killed the abomination. Jemar didn't attempt to flee; he knew that in his weakened state, he wouldn't stand a chance against someone who could single-handedly kill an abomination. He hoped to dodge the first strike and then reassess. If this were to be his end...
The short dagger was raised, dangerously close—Flint's eyes conveyed both a fearsome calmness and a fierce impulse—then a bright metallic clash interrupted the tense moment. A figure suddenly appeared before them, it was Elin, blocking Flint's dagger with his own sword.
"What's going on, an accident?" Elin said. "Flint, open your eyes and see clearly. This man in front of you doesn't have maggots crawling out of his nostrils, nor is he spitting decayed teeth to bite people. Understand who your real enemy is."
Flint looked at Jemar, then back at Elin. His gaze wasn't fanatical; it could even be described as calm, yet it still emanated a strong sense of danger.
"This man killed Amy," he said.
"No, he didn't," Elin replied.
"You don't understand. He will kill many people like Amy. Men and women. Thousands of them. Listen, Jemar, you will pay for your actions. Maybe not tonight, maybe not even tomorrow. But that moment will come soon. You and that disgusting Scarlet banner won't escape it."
He turned around and headed towards the densest concentration of enemies.
"Are you currently injured?" Elin asked Jemar.
"I'm fine," Jemar replied.
"Good. I can't free you from those shackles, but I can't keep watching you either. Take this, it's your sword. Holding onto this thing for too long makes me afraid I'll turn into a Scarlet brainless head myself."
Elin tossed the sword to Jemar and drew his own dagger. "Ah, much better. Take care of yourself because I'm looking forward to seeing how you'll embarrass yourself in front of the master tomorrow. The stray dog that's been missing for a month is coming home."
Jemar gripped the familiar longsword in his hand. It had once torn a piece of Arlaki's clothes. The scarlet emblem on the hilt brought back the familiar burning sensation in his palm. He looked around; the battle would continue for some time.
"Elin," he said.
Elin, who had already walked away a bit, turned back. "What?"
"Thank you."
Elin squinted his neck, making a grimace as if he had eaten spoiled food, pressed his throat with his left hand as if he was about to vomit something, then turned back and confronted a nearby Scourge soldier.
It wasn't a thanks for saving my life; it was a thanks for giving me the opportunity to face the enemy again. Despite his hands being shackled, Jemar felt that the sword had never been so easy to wield as it was tonight.
When Jorgen realized that the Death Knight's weapon was not just the blade in his left hand, it was already too late.
A chain with a sickle at its front flew out from the palm of the Death Knight's right hand and wrapped around Jorgen's left forearm. Jorgen wedged the flat of his dagger between the sickle and his left arm, preventing his arm from hitting the ground, but the sickle's curvature had already pierced into his muscles. Fresh blood spurted out like black vines from the crescent-shaped wound. The chain had a metallic texture, yet it seemed to be a part of the Death Knight's body as Jorgen saw numerous small circular holes on the chain, spewing purple-black mist as if it were alive. These mists caused excruciating pain in Jorgen's left arm, as if thousands of red-hot needles were simultaneously piercing his skin.
"Lord Darclair is right," the Death Knight's voice seemed to be formed by two overlapping tones, one high and one low. "Unclean human eyes have no right to gaze upon the great Academy. Their only purpose is to witness their own destruction."
Ten yards away to Jorgen's right, Renner had just gotten up. His right chest and left shoulder had both been hit, and the wounds around them turned into purplish-black colors. He wielded a pair of swords, but at this moment, both blades were flowing with his own blood. It was the first time Jorgen had witnessed Renner in combat, and the normally mild-mannered major fought fiercely and powerfully, but it was still difficult for him to contend with the Death Knight. His breathing was heavy, and blood flowed rapidly. If the Death Knight were to temporarily set aside Jorgen and attack Renner again, he would be defenseless.
Jorgen's situation was not much better. The intense pain made his vision blur, breathing difficult, and his left hand was in constant danger of being severed while his right hand couldn't move away. The sharp edge of the dagger had already cut into his skin.
When did this attack start? Jorgen didn't know. At the beginning of the battle with the Death Knight, he was too focused on the immediate enemy and didn't feel anything else. But now, both he and Renner were in a difficult position to counterattack, and their brain seemed to enter an unsettling stillness, only then did he hear the sounds of fighting not far away from the camp. Was it an unexpected attack? Not entirely. This was the Western Plaguelands. Just because they safely passed through this area last time didn't mean the same would happen this time. Jorgen didn't know who Darclair was, but it sounded like this Death Knight belonged to the Scholomance. As blood loss intensified, he suddenly wished that Elin, Flint, and Jemar, didn't have to face even more formidable enemies.
The Death Knight pulled his right hand back, causing Jorgen to lose balance and fall, sliding a distance on the ground as the chain retracted. Sharp stones jutted out from the ground, cutting Jorgen's left side when the uncontrolled sliding stopped. When he saw the skeletal horse's hoof stepping towards his face, he turned his body to avoid the blow. The hoof hit near his ear, and the intense sound temporarily deafened his right ear. The Death Knight pulled his right hand up, forcing Jorgen to stand up and press close to the right side of the horse's belly.
"Your eyes," it said, thrusting its sword towards Jorgen.
At that moment, the skeletal warhorse suddenly leaped violently. The Death Knight's body tilted to the side, and he fell off the horse. However, it wasn't Jorgen who lost his eyes but the skeletal warhorse. Renner had plunged both swords into the horse's eye sockets, where eerie green flames burned, and left them there. The horse neighed as its front legs knelt to the ground, attempting to stand again but ultimately failing as its hind legs trembled and also knelt.
The horse was not Jorgen's primary concern. He rushed forward, pressing his left forearm hard against the Death Knight's throat, and the sickle opened a dark gash on its neck. In that instant, Jorgen realized that cutting the Death Knight's throat would not kill it, so he stabbed his dagger into its mouth instead. The blade went from the bottom to the top, piercing into the Death Knight's brain.
It still didn't die, although "death" might not be an appropriate term. The chain in its right hand had lost control, but its left hand was still attempting to swing the sword at Jorgen. Jorgen grabbed the Death Knight's head and dragged it towards the edge of the cliff. The Death Knight's longsword slipped from its grip, and during this process, Jorgen felt the dagger penetrating even deeper. Some reddish-black substance oozed out from its eye sockets, ears, and mouth. When Jorgen's feet were almost at the edge of the cliff, this enemy shrouded in black mist finally stopped moving.
Jorgen pulled out the dagger, stood up, and shook off the bloodstains. His left arm was even worse than before due to the pressure from the chain on the Death Knight's throat; several places had torn skin, but fortunately, the injuries were only in the muscle layer. He looked at Renner, who was pulling both swords out of the warhorse's eye sockets.
"Let's go," Jorgen said, "We have to go back and help."
"Even if we go back, you can't continue fighting in your condition," Renner replied, his face pale and his voice trembling.
"You're bleeding more than I am. But judging by the sounds, it's probably almost over on their side too. Even if we don't need to fight anymore, we both have to go back and find a medic."
"You go first," Renner said, trying to appear calm despite his pale face and shaky voice. "I need to find something."
"What?"
"Wedding ring. I had put it away right after I took it off. It seems I dropped it somewhere during our fight," Renner said.
"Hurry up," Jorgen replied, facing the direction of the forest. The faint glow of the campfire pierced through the gaps in the trees. The sounds of battle were gradually subsiding. Jorgen didn't want to leave Renner behind, but he felt that finding the ring was something Renner should do with his own eyes.
Moments later, Jorgen suddenly heard a sharp sound. He turned around and saw Renner standing at the edge of the cliff. The sickle was lodged into his left side below the ribs and then ripped open. The splatter of blood was so evident in the dark night, and moonlight glided over the two exposed ribs. Renner looked down at his own bloody body, raised his right hand, as if attempting to touch the white tube-like object protruding from him, but then dropped it weakly. He looked at Jorgen one last time, and for the first time, Jorgen saw nothing in the man's eyes. Renner's body collapsed, falling backward off the cliff. Lake Daromere was usually calm, and now the surroundings were eerily quiet, allowing Jorgen to clearly hear the sound of Renner Marvin's body plunging into the water.
It shouldn't have happened like this. All you had to do was find your own wedding ring, that's all.
The Death Knight slowly stood up. It touched its face with its left palm, trying to confirm the existence of its physical body like a person waking from a stupor. It let out a howl; the sound was even more eerie and piercing because of the hollowness in its mouth. Madness flickered in its black eyes, incomprehensible to the living. Before Jorgen could approach with the dagger, the Death Knight's final act was to probe its fingers into the wound on its throat, attempting to peel off its own face.