Chapter 103: The Fallen Fortress

The southwestern edge of the Shitivenia Lowlands transitions into a mountainous region where the air grows noticeably drier as the elevation increases. The muddy marshes become sparse, and the dense rainforests and tangled vines are gradually replaced by tall, broad-leafed trees. The rolling peaks connect like a massive rampart, separating the marshlands of the lowlands from the central mountains to the west, leaving only a rugged path between two summits as a passage between the two regions.

The Gravel Fortress stands halfway up one of these peaks, poised like a beast ready to strike, as if prepared to snap the path before it and block the advance of any formidable enemy. This was, in fact, the very purpose for which the fortress was built. Yet now, the iron hooves of the End-Time Empire have trampled through this natural mountain gateway, and the sturdy bastion has been reduced to an enemy stronghold. Under the setting sun, the fortress walls reveal a pale, sickly hue, and the entire structure resembles the corpse of a fallen soldier, exuding an indescribable, gloomy aura of despair.

The closer one gets to the fortress, the more pervasive this ominous atmosphere becomes, and the more frequent the sightings of horribly mutated animals. Whether they are forest beasts like green wolves and black bears, swamp reptiles like crocodiles and pythons, or even vermin like venomous bees and centipedes, they all manifest before us in truly chilling forms.

I even feel they can no longer be called "animals." Their pupils are nothing but gray, lifeless voids; even when they stand right before you, one gets the impression that they see nothing at all. Their limbs are ice-cold, their movements rigid. While fighting them, I felt not a single breath of air from their lungs. Most of these creatures bear massive wounds—wounds so severe that each should have been fatal. Many have begun to fester, exposing viscera and bone, emitting a nauseating, putrid stench. Yet, these mutated beasts seem entirely devoid of pain, becoming even more frantic in battle, making them nearly impossible to hold back.

Yes, I am fully convinced that these foul monsters are no longer "animals." They are merely a pack of walking corpses unaware of their own demise, driven by the hunger of the damned to hunt for fresh flesh. I highly doubt they were intentionally created by the End-Time Empire—they have no need to manufacture such monsters, let alone in such numbers. Rather, they likely became infected simply by living around the fortress and coming into contact with contaminated water and food, resulting in this half-dead state.

Yet, the more I think this, the more anxious I become. If mere animals exposed to the pollution can become this terrifying, just how far has their research progressed?

Are we too late?

Have they already succeeded?

Throughout the journey, I have been plagued by these worries, yet I dared not speak these dreadful thoughts aloud.

One must realize that this is a dangerous location where even adventurers above level fifty would find cause for concern. Among us, only Niu Baiwan and I have reached level fifty; the other three are still hovering around levels forty-eight or forty-nine. The disparity in strength forces us to face dangers beyond our expectations. During our advance, the weakly armored bard, Nocturne in B-Flat, sacrificed himself three times, while Dingding Xiaoge and Fairy Descending to Earth face-planted and died twice each. Even I met an unfortunate demise while surrounded by a pack of "Carrion-Eating Mad Wolves"—it was only thanks to Niu Baiwan’s mastery of the resurrection spell that my life could be salvaged.

Facing such immense danger, I once considered retreating. But every time I thought that once the evil devils of the End-Time Empire successfully perfected this terrifying toxin, the entire continent would be unable to escape its fate, and that we might be the only ones with a chance to save the world, I could not turn back. Even if my strength is insufficient to save the continent from disaster, and even if I am destined to be buried here, sinking into eternal silence with no chance of resurrection, I hope to fight with all my might and seek a death worth being proud of.

My companions, however, do not lack the courage for adventure, though their courage likely stems more from their unique form of life’s immunity to death than from any concern for the survival of the continent.

"Let’s just try our luck. If we die, we can just start over, but if we’re lucky… hehe, we should be able to get some good gear…" This was the extent of Nocturne in B-Flat’s realization regarding our adventure, and it actually won the unanimous agreement of everyone else.

Thinking that the life and death of the continent was pinned on a group of unprincipled bandits obsessed with looting gear filled my heart with a profound chill.

After a series of life-and-death struggles, we stepped over the heaped bones of mutated creatures and finally stood before the gate of the Gravel Fortress. Under the assault of the End-Time Empire’s army, the two mountain-beech doors, each over two people tall and as thick as a palm, hung precariously from the edges of the wall. Whenever the mountain wind blew, the metal hinges connecting the doors to the wall emitted a weak, creaking sound, making one fear that the gate might collapse at any moment.

Within the gatehouse, a turbid spatial vortex swirled incessantly, drawing in all light that attempted to pass through and churning it into a murky mass, making it impossible to observe the scene on the other side.

Clearly, this was the second "dungeon" magical space I had encountered since the Tomb in the Forest. For an adventurer, this magical light curtain that isolated space often signified powerful enemies, insidious traps, deadly danger, and rare treasures—and the temptation of the latter was always far greater than all the preceding threats combined.

As a warrior known for my tenacious defense, I should always be at the forefront when facing danger. I gave my comrades a look, signaling them to prepare. Niu Baiwan and Fairy Descending to Earth cast several attribute-enhancing spells on me, then I tightened my grip on my weapons, gritted my teeth, and plunged headlong into the light curtain.

I had expected to be greeted by a sudden slaughter. I had steeled myself, intending to strike hard at any enemies ambushing us the moment I breached the gate. To my surprise, the gate area was completely empty; there wasn't even a ghost in sight, let alone a swarm of zombies, skeletons, magical beasts, and demons. It seemed the enemy’s guard was remarkably lax, and no one had noticed us intruders breaking in.

A ruined fortress was revealed before us, completely exposed.

Everywhere lay the debris of collapsed buildings. Stone walls had crumbled under the assault of heavy weapons and powerful magic, shattered into ruins. Here, one could hardly find a single intact structure; broken walls and rubble were everywhere. Large scorched marks, like tragic wounds, covered the body of the fortress. Although it had fallen long ago, several fires still burned within. Plumes of thick smoke were cast into the sky by towering flames, like the lingering souls of the departed, torn and shredded by the mountain wind into a thin layer of black mist, coalescing into a shadow of death that shrouded the entire fortress in a gloom of destruction.

All of this silently told us of the brutal battle that had once erupted here.

The fortress was filled with level fifty-one humanoid monsters known as "Carrion-Eating Corpses." They were clearly victims of that terrifying toxin, having now completely lost their souls. Their broken bodies wandered aimlessly among the ruins of the bastion. The fresh flesh of the living held a fatal attraction for these monsters; as soon as we approached, they would swarm us, tearing at our bodies with their sharp fingers and teeth.

Although these mindless walking corpses could only fight clumsily with their bare hands, their venom-dripping nails and faintly cyan teeth were weapons not to be underestimated. The toxin attached to their bodies could be transmitted to opponents through wounds, and the damage caused by this poison was far more threatening than their physical attacks. If not treated after poisoning, the victim’s vitality would continuously deplete for a long time, costing nearly three hundred health points in total.

Fortunately, we were well-prepared. We had purchased an ample supply of antidotes at Miss Lear’s estate, and Niu Baiwan, as a Paladin, could also cast the holy spell "Purify Poison," which prevented the "Carrion-Eating Corpses'" most potent attack from unleashing its true power.

These "Carrion-Eating Corpses" were all wearing the armor of the Continental Alliance soldiers. Without a doubt, the evil imperial invaders had used their dark magic to turn all the Continental Alliance soldiers who had originally guarded the Gravel Fortress into zombies. These warriors, who had once fought bravely, had completely betrayed their own wishes, becoming accomplices to the enemies who had slain them.

No one likes to face such a situation: we were isolated and without aid, yet forced to go to war against an entire castle. Our opponents were once the bravest and most trusted comrades, yet reality allowed us no room for mercy.

Just as we all thought we were the only living people in the castle, a sudden sound of metal clashing came from the other side of a wall ahead, accompanied by chaotic shouts and pained cries. A young and brave voice shouted aloud:

"Fight to the end! The people of the High God will never yield to evil!"

I truly never expected that in this abandoned fortress crawling with the living dead, I would actually encounter partners from the Continental Alliance; this was indeed morale-boosting news. However, it sounded like their situation was dire, given that they were already resorting to the grim slogan of "fight to the end." If we did not hurry to their aid, I feared there would soon be a few more "Carrion-Eating Corpses" in this castle.

Passing through a collapsed section of the wall, we arrived at a small square. The square was divided into three levels by stone steps. On the top level, we saw the two sides engaged in battle:

Standing on the left was a peculiar monster called the "Three-Headed Corrupter Meriel." Its form was immense, a head taller than the most robust steed I had ever seen, and its body length exceeded five paces from head to tail. Its claws were as sharp as a wolf’s, yet thicker and more solid than a bear’s paw. The sharp, bone-like claw tips shimmered with a pale blue light, and its front right claw scratched frantically at the ground, carving deep furrows into the stone-paved floor.

But the most terrifying aspect of this monster was not its claws, but its heads—and you heard me correctly, I said "heads." At the front of its thick torso grew three distinct skulls. The center one looked like a wolf’s head, but it was incomplete; the left side of the wolf’s head seemed to have been struck by a blade, the ear sliced off at the base. That ghastly wound extended to its left cheek, and the left eye had already begun to rot. The head on the right appeared to be that of a mountain black bear, yet it was not as plump or thick as an ordinary bear’s head. The muscles on the bear head had begun to atrophy, and much of the fur on its face had fallen away, revealing withered, dull skin. The third head appeared to be that of a green horse, though it would be hard to find such a horrific head on the neck of any noble steed. Most of the mane on its neck had fallen out, leaving only a few remaining tufts hanging lifelessly. The horse’s pupils were empty, yet they were shrouded in a layer of swirling black mist; staring into its eyes, one felt as if they were being devoured by that terrifying blackness.

This monster was certainly not born this way. Visible scars were prominent around many of its major joints, and one could see the coarse stitches where it had been sewn together. From the gaps in the stitching, yellow-green pus dripped from time to time. Wherever the blood dripped, it turned the dark brown soil into a mass of black sludge, which took a long time to return to its original state.

Compared to the suffocating, horrific form of the Three-Headed Corrupter, its opponents looked completely vulnerable. Opposite it were a dozen Continental Alliance soldiers; judging by their overly simple armor, they were likely private troops belonging to some impoverished petty noble. To say they wore "armor" was perhaps too generous; in reality, it was little more than a few hard metal plates tied over ordinary coats, barely covering the vital parts of their bodies. A few of them held standard-issue spears, two archers stood behind them, and in the middle stood a middle-aged priest in white robes. All were covered in wounds, and several were already completely incapacitated.

On the ground, a few corpses in similar attire had already been shredded. While it is disrespectful to the dead to say so, honestly, having seen so many corpses wandering around and biting people lately, seeing a few "genuine" corpses that didn't move at all was actually quite a relief...

The leader of these soldiers was a brown-haired youth. He was the only one in the group wearing a full set of armor, though it was merely a "light metal armor" with extremely low defense. Even I, using only my fingers, could poke holes in this flashy, thirteen-level armor. He held only a very ordinary longsword, lacking any magical properties to inflict bonus damage, and its attack bonus was quite mediocre. Yet, despite such crude equipment, this brave young man continued to stubbornly resist the gargantuan beast Meriel. His left leg seemed to have been recently injured, blood seeping from the wound, making his movements sluggish. Anyone could see that this young noble could hardly hold on much longer.

Thank goodness we arrived before a tragedy occurred. If this young noble were to die, we would likely fail Miss Lear’s earnest request and have to abandon the mission she entrusted to us.

For this handsome and resilient young noble was none other than the brother Miss Lear missed so dearly, and the true owner of that small estate: Baron Bink.