Chapter Twenty-Six: Back from the Brink

I truly hadn’t expected that, during the course of completing the Forest Mausoleum series of quests, there would be someone even more wretched than I was—and to my surprise, it was two people together.

By calculation, Longbow Shoots the Sun and Yangtze Delta arrived at Valen Fortress at nearly the same time as I did. Like me, they had finished nearly all the available quests, and finally decided to venture into the Forest Mausoleum together.

Indeed, two are stronger than one; they successfully broke through the outer defenses and entered the mausoleum itself. But their daring journey ended there. As soon as they crossed the threshold, a swarm of vampires descended upon them, and their souls were ripped from their bodies in an instant. Unwilling to give up, the two wandered as souls, finally locating their corpses and returning to life. Yet before they even had a chance to fully savor their first breath as living beings, death claimed them once more.

Here, I must pay tribute to their perseverance; such a harrowing cycle of death and revival happened not once, not twice, but five times in total. This alone proves their resolve and courage in the face of endless hardship surpasses my own. I even suspect they may have discovered some profound truth of existence, flitting between the flash of white light of resurrection and the shadowy oblivion of death, choosing this unusual path to experience the thrill of walking the razor’s edge between life and death.

Of their five deaths, the last is particularly noteworthy. This time, the half-orc ranger Yangtze Delta applied his hard-won experience: at the very moment of resurrection, he deftly used his “Stealth” skill and vanished amidst the vampires. He was on the verge of a successful escape when, out of nowhere, the dwarf priest Longbow Shoots the Sun cast a “Summons of the Supreme God” healing spell upon him. The radiant glow of the spell instantly betrayed his location. In the midst of the vampires’ frenzied tearing and biting, Yangtze Delta experienced firsthand what it meant to be truly summoned by the Supreme God.

Of course, his most “intimate” comrade, Longbow Shoots the Sun, was summoned alongside him—they are indeed inseparable, sharing life and death in the fullest sense.

“When the halo enveloped me and my health was surging, I felt so miserable I almost wished I could die!” Yangtze Delta said, shooting a venomous glare at Longbow Shoots the Sun. I fully understood his anger, though he wasn’t entirely correct—he was doomed regardless of his wishes.

“I only meant to heal myself, but… I targeted the wrong person,” the dwarf priest explained, regretfully.

Repeated resurrection and death left their equipment in tatters; further revival was pointless. At last, they wisely chose to respawn at the city’s “revival point” (its location is unknown to me; it’s said only the dead can see it, and there is a particularly charming lady Reaper stationed there. Rumor has it that some people deliberately commit suicide just to visit her). That explains why I later saw them wandering the city clad in beggars’ rags.

“Why don’t you go repair your equipment?” I asked, puzzled. “Unless, of course, you think your current look suits the decadent fashion trend.”

“Well…” Longbow Shoots the Sun finally straightened his joystick with righteous indignation, glaring fiercely at his half-orc companion. “...You’ll have to ask him!”

“Hey, Jeff, is your sword any good? How’s the damage? I saw a longsword at the weapon shop that might suit you—have you thought about switching?” Yangtze Delta suddenly became interested in my gear, draping an arm over my shoulder as he steered me toward the other side of the street.

His enthusiasm touched me. “No need to change. This sword works well enough for me,” I replied.

“Don’t change the subject! Jeff wants to know why we didn’t repair our gear!” Longbow Shoots the Sun shouted, yanking Yangtze Delta back.

“Um… it’s just a small problem, a small problem…” Yangtze Delta muttered, awkwardly rubbing his ample belly.

It turns out, before heading for the Forest Mausoleum, Yangtze Delta had just learned a new skill from the Ranger Trainer—“Pickpocket.” By using it, he could steal items from others, with higher skill levels increasing both the chances and value of what he could pilfer.

Eager to practice, he dragged Longbow Shoots the Sun along, returning each stolen item after every attempt, until finally, Yangtze Delta managed to steal the dwarf’s coin pouch…

Suddenly, city guards swarmed in, declaring him a thief and lawbreaker. They beat him soundly and confiscated all his money as a fine—including Longbow Shoots the Sun’s coin pouch.

So, standing before me were two penniless vagabonds. Aside from their boldness in facing death and their threadbare, patched garments, they were utterly destitute.

Across the street, a phrase was painted in white on the wall—a profound maxim for Yangtze Delta: “Do not reach out, or you will be caught! — Valen Fortress Security Patrol.”

“No one to help you?” I asked. “What about Melody of Strings and Fynn? Couldn’t they wire you some cash?”

“They took on another quest together, headed for Gemflower Plains. With Fynn around, do you think Melody of Strings has any money? Besides, even if he earns anything, it barely covers his arrows,” Yangtze Delta rolled his eyes.

“And if Fynn finds out we lost all our money…” Longbow Shoots the Sun shuddered, “...I’d rather run around naked like this.”

Thinking it over, I realized their concerns were quite reasonable.

“All right, I’ll pay for your repairs. Then we can head to the Forest Mausoleum together. I’m stuck on my quest here anyway.”

At my offer, the two brawlers, just moments ago at each other’s throats, instantly broke into joyous high-fives: “Hurray! I knew you wouldn’t abandon us. You’re the merciful, thousand-armed, thousand-eyed Goddess of Compassion herself…”

Goddess of Compassion? What’s that? It sounds like a woman’s name—could it be that I resemble her?

I regretted my generosity almost immediately. As soon as we left the blacksmith’s shop, a half-orc female warrior passed by, sporting a single ponytail, two massive tusks protruding from her mouth, a face covered in scars and acne, nostrils nearly pointing upward—grotesquely ugly. She spat a glob of green phlegm onto the ground with extra vigor. Above her head floated a bright green name: “I am the Goddess of Compassion!”

******—where on earth do I resemble that monstrosity?

I should have let those two ungrateful scoundrels beg their way to Fierce Mane City on the northern steppes!

…

Soon, the three of us set out once again for the Forest Mausoleum. Our previous failures had yielded enough experience to turn this once perilous journey into a pleasant excursion. The savage beasts that had previously troubled me now fell easily before our combined assault.

Yangtze Delta and Longbow Shoots the Sun, now desperate paupers, were slaughtering monsters with manic fervor, eager to scrape up every bit of loot to trade for cash at the shop. Yet only a third of the way in, they began to complain that their magic bags were too small, and started tossing out items by the handful. Their mournful expressions made it seem as though they were carving flesh from their hearts, not just cleaning out their backpacks.

Upon arriving at the mausoleum’s entrance, we discovered we weren’t the only ones seeking entry.

A group of adventurers stood outside the gate, expectantly watching the path. Scattered about were the corpses of vampire descendants, likely their proud handiwork.

Our arrival caused a stir; from afar, they called out enthusiastically, waving us over. One, named “Devoted Entirely to Dreams,” even rushed toward us.

“Hey, friends, are you planning to enter the Forest Mausoleum too?” He asked, face full of hopeful anticipation. He was a level thirty-two human warrior, wielding a “Hammer of Heavy Blows” in his right hand and an “Iron Shield of Protection” on his left. His gear boasted impressive attribute bonuses, giving him a commanding presence. Compared to him, my own attire could only be called shabby.

“Yes,” I replied, stopping and resting my “Saber-Toothed Ripper” in front of me—the only piece of equipment I could be proud of, hoping he’d notice.

“So… any openings in your party? Got more companions coming?” Unfortunately, he seemed uninterested in my sword.

“No, just the three of us,” Yangtze Delta answered.

“Great, great!” Devoted Entirely to Dreams breathed a sigh of relief, walking beside us. “Could you help by letting my two friends join your team? This is a five-person instance, and we’ve got two extra—can’t all go in together.”

For me, “instance” was a new concept. It seemed to denote a specific area magically restricted, only allowing a set number of adventurers per entry.

As Devoted Entirely to Dreams explained, the mausoleum was a five-person instance. If a party exceeded five, they couldn’t enter. The solution was simple—remove two members—but clearly, this group wasn’t willing to abandon their companions. He told us they’d been waiting here for a while, hoping to find a smaller party so everyone could finish the quest together.

Naturally, we had no reason to refuse these two unexpected reinforcements—and as it turned out, it would be hard to say who helped whom more.

Devoted Entirely to Dreams seemed to be the organizer. After we agreed, he eagerly returned to his group and quickly picked the two to join us: one was Black Aurora, an elven mage specializing in fire spells; the other was Krado, a minotaur shaman from the rarely seen tribes of Deranmeya.

As a spellcaster, the shaman’s source of magic was quite different from mages, priests, or warlocks. Mages draw power from sensing and manipulating all magical elements in the world, relying solely on their own abilities. Priests and warlocks obtain their powers through spiritual connections to powerful beings from other realms—priests from the gods they worship, warlocks from beings more akin to “demons.”

Shamans, however, believe true power arises from within, from the soul itself. They are perhaps the ones who truly understand “soul power,” gaining magic through ancestral worship. Their many totem poles symbolize various sources of life and soul energy, which they use in battle.

Unlike their frail and contemplative spellcasting peers, shamans are typically robust and strong. Even without their ritual magic, their own fighting prowess commands respect. Due to their unique beliefs, shamans are mostly found among the tribal minotaurs and half-orcs, though some human tribes in the northern wastelands have shamans, rarely seen by outsiders.

Our two new companions were both quiet and reserved, merely smiling and nodding in greeting.

“Thank you for looking after my friends. If you ever need anything, just ask—I’ll help however I can!” Devoted Entirely to Dreams said, his hearty enthusiasm making him instantly likable.

“Good luck, and have fun!” With that, he waved, pushed open the mausoleum’s gate, and slipped into the shadowy tomb.

(Friend’s wedding, heavy drinking, drunkenness, vomiting from both ends, rash all over, miserable—truly worthy of “alcohol intolerance.” Now, with a splitting headache, I struggle to post this update; dear readers, please forgive me.

And now, an ad: “Seemingly Kind Drow,” author Father Sings… um… that’s Lute Song, with a sparkling reputation, highly recommended. Book number: 1001474

And one embarrassing request: Many readers say they came here on recommendation from a certain “Gate” fellow, but I’ve never met this generous supporter. If anyone knows him, please leave a message in the comments—I’ll pay my respects in person.)