Chapter 101: A Father's Promise

I thought I understood what war was.

I ought to be counted among the earliest warriors on this continent to take up arms against foreign invaders. Long before the invasion force of the Apocalyptic Empire first set foot on the lands of Falvi, I had already seized my weapon without hesitation and joined the fierce “Union Campaign” that erupted at the Stormcloud Fortress. In that colossal battle involving hundreds of thousands, I risked life and limb, my cloak soaked in blood. There, I witnessed the most valiant deaths and the most senseless sacrifices. Blood congealed, life’s laments echoed, iron and fire erupted in madness born of despair; humanity carved a desolate path that cut straight through life and death.

Yes, I should know what war is. Indeed, I am a part of war itself—we all are! War is like a colossal ladle held tightly in the hands of the gods, ceaselessly stirring the vast mortal realm, carving out a gargantuan whirlpool that draws all life into its depths, sparing none.

But truly, do I understand what war really is?

On the battlefield, I have witnessed cruelty, sacrificed comrades, felt despair, wrought death. Yet, the deepest scar left in my heart from that campaign is something else entirely.

—Magnificence.

Yes, what I experienced was a magnificent war, an era of grandeur. We were magnificent warriors, destined to achieve magnificent deeds, to create a magnificent history. Everything swept into this era’s vortex was so magnificent that cruelty itself became magnificent, sacrifice magnificent, despair magnificent—even death was magnificent.

It’s true, I am a timid and lazy man who prefers a peaceful and tranquil life. But life is full of contradictions. When all your wishes are fulfilled and you find yourself truly at peace, dissatisfaction creeps in, and you yearn for a different kind of existence.

Thus, sometimes, deep within me, an inexplicable gratitude arises—I ought to be thankful for this war. For it bestowed upon my mundane life something that might be called “great.” Without it, I might have spent my entire existence aimlessly standing guard before a bustling city gate, a mediocre sentinel until the world’s end. Even if I escaped that fate, I would at best be a wandering, aimless adventurer, leaving behind nothing truly worth remembering.

I do not know how you feel.

Did you, too, once feel exhilarated and eager at the dawn of this great era? Did you immerse yourself in the pursuit of victory and glory, thrilled by the grand achievements you carved with your own hands? Did you long to prove your worth in this war, to become a legend sung for all eternity?

If your answer is “yes,” then I must tell you, you are mistaken.

This is not the whole truth of war.

Or rather, it is not all of war’s truth.

Because, perhaps in some unseen corners, things are happening that you do not know about. Some people you do not know have paid an unimaginable price for this war.

A price not everyone can bear...

...

In this battle to exterminate the Decayborn, I believe the wisest choice I made was to use the “Shield Bash” skill at the last moment to stun the frail Chief Hondos.

From every angle, it was a brilliant decision: not only did I successfully buy time for us to slay the Beastbone Berserker, Big Fok, but I also vented the bitter grievances caused by the chief’s constant dragging us down, airing our private grudges.

The most remarkable part was that, despite receiving a harsh beating, Hondos had to be grateful to me—for I truly saved his life.

The Beastbone Berserker was halted by a lullaby in B minor and a fairy’s descent, face down on the ground. He had descended into complete madness, ignoring all attacks aimed at him, allowing them to strike heavily and drain his scant life force. He opened his bony jaw wide, snapping it repeatedly with a dreadful “crack, crack.” There was no muscle on his face, so no expression could be discerned, but I had the eerie impression that he was not roaring in rage but moaning in pain.

He flailed his spear wildly, without any clear pattern. It seemed less an attempt to kill his enemies than a subconscious act to vent some deep, soulful agony.

He was a skeletal monster—no nerves, no blood vessels, no muscles, no brain. I could not feel where his pain originated from, nor could I discern his current consciousness.

But I knew why he suffered so.

From beginning to end, the Beastbone Berserker’s exposed eye sockets contained only the image of Chief Hondos. The chief’s presence seemed to deeply disturb his emotions, causing the flame of his soul burning within his skull to flicker abnormally. The crude, ancient spear wielded like a hurricane in his hands struck ruthlessly, generating powerful area attacks and inflicting massive damage on all opponents before him. Yet his focus was not on the enemies. He seemed only intent on quickly dispelling or dealing with these two hindrances before closing in on Hondos.

Looking back, I do not even think he was consciously attacking the chief. Perhaps he was merely influenced by the faint remnants of consciousness deep within his soul, unconsciously wanting to approach, connect with, communicate.

But the Decayborn’s shattered soul knew only one form of communication: slaughter.

So, beyond inflicting harm, he could do nothing else to the chief.

In any case, his struggle was nearing its end. Though the lives of the scholarly bard and the elven druidess were rapidly dwindling, their vitality was ample enough to avoid mortal danger. Each of their counterattacks inflicted damage on Big Fok. Alongside Ding Ding Xiao Ge and his Ice Sorceress’s constant dark arrow volleys from afar, the Beastbone Berserker’s path was doomed.

My arrival was the final straw. Two sword strikes, mere gentle taps, extinguished the last hundred or so hit points of the Beastbone Berserker’s remaining life. The once-dying giant skeleton immediately ceased all movement, opening his mouth wide and uttering painful “crack, crack” sounds, as if wishing to wrench his own spine from his jaws. The soul fire that had blazed fiercely suddenly calmed, dimming to a lifeless dark red before flickering out, shrinking to the size of a soybean.

The extinguishing of the soul fire meant the necromantic magic binding him was losing its effect. As the flame died, his thick, sturdy bones lost their smooth sheen. The bone surfaces grew gray and brittle, cracking in many places. Powdery gray flakes fell away.

At last, this soon-to-be-extinct Decayborn could no longer maintain balance with his fractured limbs. He fell backward to the ground. With a resounding crash, all bones from the waist down shattered; ribs and left arm bones were broken.

Yet he struggled desperately to raise his skull, still glowing faintly with the soul’s flame, striving to crawl toward Chief Hondos.

The effect of Shield Bash had worn off. The chief regained his senses at that moment.

Surprisingly, Chief Hondos no longer displayed his former fierce and volatile demeanor. He did not roar furiously to charge forward, nor did he vent his hatred for the savage Decayborn with his iron fists.

Instead, he staggered forward gently, bent down tenderly, and cradled Big Fok’s shattered bones in his arms:

“It’s over, Fok. It’s all over now. I’ve come to take you…”

“…Daddy’s come to take you…”

The chief’s voice was hoarse and low, soft enough to vanish with a breeze. Yet as it reached my ear, it thundered like an explosion, almost shattering my eardrum.

Daddy?!

This savage Decayborn, leader of all the Decayborn in the valley—the very Beastbone Berserker who nearly cost him his life—was, in fact… his son?

The chief’s hands trembled as they gently held Big Fok’s skull. A sorrowful lightning silently flickered in the air, illuminating his face. Though I knew he was old, I only now realized how aged he had become. His face was wrinkled and slack, rain or tears streaking his cheeks. The orc’s once sturdy and upright hair had grayed and withered.

I did not know if this had long been his appearance or if he had just grown so aged…

“…Fok, my little Fok. When disaster struck, you led the tribe’s youth, sheltering the women and children’s escape. You knew what was coming—we all did—but you did not flinch. You were a good lad, the bravest of green skins…”

Chief Hondos murmured. I could not tell if he spoke to his son’s remains, to himself, or to us:

“…I left the tribe’s banner to you, the eagle to give you courage, the mountains to give you strength. You held them back and saved the tribe. I promised that if you survived, you would light this bonfire, and I would return with reinforcements to save you…”

I realized what had happened here. The orc-shaped Decayborn in the valley, Big Fok’s scarred armor, the lone burning bonfire—everything before me unfolded like a silent narrator telling the tragic tale of a brave band of young orcs who fought desperately to protect their tribe but ultimately failed. The evil archlich Mckenscar had even desecrated their bones, transforming them into mindless Decayborn to guard the path to the Shattered Stone Fortress, forced to fight against their own kin and friends.

This is a story of courage!

A story of sorrow…

The protagonist of this tale possessed the finest virtues any sentient being could have: steadfastness, bravery, kindness, and self-sacrifice. Had the story unfolded like a clichéd legend, victory and a fulfilling life would surely have awaited him.

But life is not legend. When faced with unimaginably powerful foes, the warrior’s tale often ends in tragedy.

“…These rotten beasts, what have they done to you…” My heart trembled with the chief’s voice, a profound sorrow tearing through my chest like a rusted saw, “…your body was once so strong, your voice so resonant. Yet… yet now… how could you come to this…”

“...But no matter what you have become, you are still my little Fok. I see the firelight here; I know you are still here. Waiting for me.”

“Now, it’s all over, my good son. Daddy’s here to take you away. You kept your promise. Protected our tribe. Now, it’s time for me to fulfill mine…”

Big Fok’s right arm weakly lifted, still gripping the spear bearing the totem banner. He pointed the sharp tip at the chief, inching it forward. I did not know what this meant—perhaps that this orc, altered by the archlich Mckenscar, had lost all reason and still wished to kill the living man before him.

But I preferred to believe he wished to convey something.

Perhaps he wanted only to return the banner symbolizing his father’s authority and love into his hands.

Chief Hondos stopped his movement. Sitting cross-legged on the ground, he rested Big Fok’s head against his lap, then began to sing a mournful, alien ballad. Though I could not understand the guttural orcish dialect, I grasped the sorrowful tone. Amid this mournful chant, I felt my soul gently soothed, calm and warm.

While singing, the chief extended his right hand. A soft blue magical glow gathered around his fingers, faint but palpable. Slowly, he reached into Big Fok’s skull and gently clasped the final fleeting spark within.

It was the flame of life—the soul fire. For the Decayborn, no matter what their soul had become, no matter how much of their former self they remembered, no matter how bloodthirsty and brutal the archlich’s magic had turned them, as long as that flame burned, their life was not truly ended.

In this sense, Big Fok—the once young orc warrior—still lived. Perhaps he no longer recognized his father, had lost the courage and honor of his kind, and perhaps his true consciousness and soul suffered endless torment within the cruel magic. Yet that tiny flame still carried the last glimmer of his life.

He still lived.

With a pinch of two fingers, the red flame was snuffed out. The stout skull lost its magical radiance, becoming a dark void—completely lifeless.

Chief Hondos himself extinguished that flame.

He extinguished his son’s life fire.

At the instant the flame died, the chief’s gaze darkened sharply, losing all light.

A part of his own life departed with the extinguished flame.

This was the most tragic thing I have ever witnessed: a father killing his son with his own hands, fulfilling his promise—

To save him, to carry him away!

From life’s beginning to soul’s end. Here, today, in this humid, stifling marsh, I witnessed the deepest and most painful paternal love and came to know the greatest of fathers.

Today, here, amid these sweltering wetlands, I discovered a truth about war I had long overlooked: the other half of the truth. Heroic deeds, noble sacrifices—these are not the whole story of war. Behind those brilliant, shining feats of heroes, we often neglect those who did not endure till the end.

They used fingers shriveled to knotted bones, dipped in their own blood, to write their names into the shadows of history. These names do not represent glory but a profound sorrow so immense that even this vast, solid earth struggles to bear it—an eternal grief etched indelibly in human hearts…

The chief sat silently, like a statue, like a corpse, motionless and soundless.

Rain poured continuously, thunder roared, lightning flashed, as if the entire heavens and earth wept and mourned a father’s sacrifice.

My eyes grew wet and stung; tears streamed down my cheeks into my mouth—a bitter, indescribable sorrow.

That was not rain, no…

Moved by this poignant farewell between father and son, my fellow skywalkers were affected too. Their eyes reddened; the elven druidess bit her lip, tears glistening in her eyes.

“Hurry up. We should claim the quest rewards,” said Bull Million, sniffling but quickly regaining composure, breaking the solemn mood. He swaggered to the chief and claimed a cloak of modest stats, sixteen gold coins, and over seven thousand experience points. The paladin, nearly level fifty, leveled up just like that.

I didn’t want to disturb the father in his profound grief, so I gave Bull Million a sharp glare.

I understood that for such a parting of life and death, my friends would never share the depth of feeling I bore.

For skywalkers, the best thing about this world is that no matter what mishaps or misfortunes befall them, they can start anew, begin again. They have the chance to correct mistakes, make the right choices, and steer events toward their desires.

For them, countless sorrows can become joy, failure can turn to triumph, death to survival, eternal parting to reunion. There is no truly troubling or sorrowful thing in their world.

As they say, this world is just a “game” for them—a place to seek pleasure unbound.

But for natives like me, it is not so.

To us, this is a world of fate. What happens here cannot be reversed or changed. We have only one chance; lose it, and there is no return.

Just like Chief Hondos and his son—no matter how many times this quest repeats, no matter how many come to help the chief fulfill his wish, his son will forever remain a Decayborn, lying in his arms, waiting for his father to redeem his soul with death.

There is no turning back. Living in this cruel world, we cannot retreat; we can only blindly and painfully march forward, subject to the whims and designs of the gods.

I do not know how this path that lies before me will end…