Chapter Twenty-Seven: Linguistics of Foreign Races

The Forest Mausoleum was an immense underground tomb, resting place for the remains of warriors who, two centuries ago, fought against the End-Times King Dalandir and his formidable legion. Hardened granite had been sculpted into two colossal statues of sword-wielding warriors, standing face to face, their blades crossed high above, forming a grand and imposing gateway to the burial chamber. Beyond the doors lay an abyss of endless darkness, a color so deeply muted it seemed to warn any would-be intruder: once you cross this threshold, you enter the realm of perpetual night governed by the goddess of death, Taefrimilans.

Perhaps the darkness within was so profound that my eyes could not adjust. The instant I stepped through the gate, it felt as though I passed through a curtain capable of bending light itself; the scenery outside and the gloom inside twisted and warped, as if space here was torn apart by some immense force and then pieced back together.

Though I merely crossed a doorway, I felt as if I’d traversed a long tunnel and emerged in a place utterly unfamiliar, unrelated to where I’d been moments before.

We entered the mausoleum following the group called Lifelong Devotion to Dreams. As we passed through the gate, they were just ahead, two steps away, close enough that I could have grasped the hem of his cloak. Yet upon entering, only our five remained; the other adventuring party had vanished without a trace.

“Where are those five?” I asked in surprise.

“They’re in another instance,” said Longbow Sunshot.

“Another?” I was even more astonished. Can you imagine it? Two groups, almost simultaneously stepping through a single door, but because they moved a step faster than us, they ended up in an “other” place entirely.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what an ‘instance’ is?” said Changsanjiang, peering at me as though I were some rare creature.

I humbly and honestly shook my head.

“I can’t believe it, you actually came here without knowing this. Sometimes I wonder if you’re even from Earth.”

Earth? I couldn’t recall any such place on my map. By national boundaries, I was undoubtedly a Delanmayan, not what Changsanjiang called an “Earthling.” So...

I shook my head again, steadfast and unyielding.

Curiously, my perfectly reasonable response seemed to leave Changsanjiang utterly defeated. He raised his hands in an exaggerated gesture of surrender. “Alright, you’ve beaten me. That joke wasn’t funny at all.”

In the end, Longbow Sunshot explained: every adventuring party enters its own identical instance of the mausoleum, and the groups do not interact until they exit.

The dwarf cleric’s explanation was clear enough; I understood at once. The so-called “instance” was simply a high-level, large-scale spatial magic.

The mausoleum was not as dark as it appeared from outside. The walls were lined with magical lanterns burning ever-bright; though dim, they sufficed to illuminate the scene within. A massive mural faced the entrance, depicting the war from two hundred years ago. Time had peeled away much of the paint, and in places it seemed smeared with dried blood, leaving a layer of dark red that made the painting mottled and grim, exuding an unspeakable sense of dread. Flanking the mural were two side doors, leading deeper into the tomb.

In the hall between the mural and the main gate, two rows of stone coffins stood in neat formation. The coffins seemed to have been moved by someone; the moss and dust atop them had been smeared, the cobwebs torn and left dangling along the edges.

“Careful, these coffins are filled with vampires. They’ll crawl out as soon as we approach,” Changsanjiang warned, still haunted by past brushes with death. “Wait here, I’ll lure them out slowly. Jeff, get ready to tank; Klado, plant your totem first.” With that, he glanced at the minotaur shaman, signaling him to prepare.

The minotaur hesitated, glancing at the stone coffins and at Changsanjiang’s gesturing, as if wanting to say something, but nothing came. He nodded, his expression showing a trace of uncertainty.

Changsanjiang took the nod as consent—though what happened next proved this was a regrettable misunderstanding.

Just as Changsanjiang was about to stealth forward...

“Ah—!” Klado, the minotaur shaman, suddenly became frenzied as if injected with adrenaline. He snatched his two-handed battle axe from his back, let out a wild roar, and charged straight into the cluster of stone coffins, smashing one to pieces with a single swing. A vampire in black armor, pale-skinned, wielding a long sword, immediately rose from the shattered coffin to duel him. All around, more vampires emerged, encircling the reckless minotaur shaman.

Klado’s valor proved his pure minotaur blood, and also that he was a true hothead. His bold act was so dramatic that we could only gape at his folly, unable to even muster a thought of stopping him. I could hardly believe what was happening—it made no sense for the minotaur shaman to act so rashly. If not for everyone’s shocked expressions, I might have thought it a fevered hallucination.

Not until Klado’s health was halved did Changsanjiang manage to close his gaping jaw.

“What is this lunatic trying to do?” The half-orc rogue raised his warhammer and dagger, grumbling as he leapt into the fray.

“My god, today I finally met someone wilder than myself!” Even our typically reckless dwarf cleric, Longbow Sunshot, felt outdone by Klado’s wild fighting style. He exclaimed in awe, quickly casting a healing wave for the minotaur.

Despite their numbers and ferocity, the vampires posed little threat. These denizens of darkness possessed a sinister ability called “Blood Drain,” akin to the leeching of bats, converting their foes’ vitality to their own, but far more potent. If several vampires used this skill simultaneously on a single target, it could indeed be deadly. But beyond this, their melee attacks and defenses were unimpressive, belying their reputation as level thirty “berserkers.”

Additionally, these creatures seemed innately afraid of fire—even the lowest tier fire spell, “Fire Bolt,” inflicted considerable harm. One fiery spell after another burst from Black Aurora’s hands, lighting the path to these vampires’ doom.

Still, our orderly battle didn’t mean Klado, surrounded by vampires, was faring well. His wild charge had drawn most of the vampires to him—I guessed his robust, juicy physique was just the sort of meal vampires preferred. These pale, anemic fiends all targeted Klado for “Blood Drain.” Red beams of magic greedily lashed his body; at its peak, eight beams struck him at once, and his health bar shrank at a shocking rate. He survived only because we interrupted the vampires’ casting, and thanks to his own quick self-preservation.

It’s well known that shamans rely on their self-made totem poles. These carved wooden pillars hold extraordinary power in their hands, granting invaluable aid in battle.

Klado may not be rational, but he was a competent shaman. He swung his axe, sending a weak vampire flying, then stomped his hooves, unleashing “War Stomp,” shaking his foes. Seizing the moment, he slammed a totem into the ground. The mausoleum’s floor was solid stone, yet he planted the totem firmly with one hand. If he weren’t a shaman, he’d surely excel in construction, tamping foundations with ease.

His totem was called “Life Totem,” restoring health within its radius. Klado survived many close calls thanks to it. If possible, he’d probably fill the battlefield with these, but cooldowns forced him to cling to a single totem for survival.

It’s worth noting that the totem’s shape evidently drew from shamanistic fertility worship, standing tall and thick, symbolizing the endless continuity of life—a fitting emblem for health restoration.

Only minotaurs, famed for their massive builds, could make totems so grand and exaggerated. Amid battle, I even felt a touch of envy.

Yet even with the totem’s healing, Klado was in peril, constantly beset by vampires. However, his wild minotaur spirit only made him fiercer. Unable to contain his excitement, he raised his head—one horn broken—and shouted his battle cry:

“Hurry up and help me, I can’t hold out much longer...”

I surmised this cry was a minotaur tribal tradition, utterly unlike any common tongue I’d heard. It carried a distinctive flat tone and nasal resonance, letting me fully appreciate the shaman’s bold spirit.

Yet to Klado’s bellow, Changsanjiang and Longbow Sunshot reacted unexpectedly. They both paused, baffled, exchanging bewildered looks.

“Did you understand what he said?” asked Longbow Sunshot.

“I think so...” Changsanjiang hesitated. “…He’s speaking… some kind of dialect, maybe from Guangdong.”

“Obviously I know it’s a dialect. I want to know what he meant.”

Changsanjiang shrugged, clueless.

The two fell silent...

After a moment, they suddenly remembered Black Aurora and turned to the mage, casting spells behind them.

“Hey, do you know what he’s saying?”

Black Aurora tossed a powerful fire spear and shook his head, innocent. “Sorry, I don’t understand a word.”

His reply was short and direct; like Klado, he spoke in an elven tribal dialect. Though the languages differed in sound and grammar, to us, they shared one glaring similarity: we understood none of it.

“I’m doomed!” Changsanjiang looked faint.

“Pfft, Shanghai native!” Longbow Sunshot seemed tempted to test the mausoleum wall’s durability with his own head.

“What are you doing? Aren’t you going to save me? I’m running out of blood!” Klado cried out again. This time, I sensed that things weren’t as I’d imagined; his call was shrill and frantic, not the bravado of a battle cry, but the urgent plea for help.

“I think...” Kicking away a vampire lunging at me, I gasped, “...he wants us to rescue him quickly…”

“Hey, Jeffritz, do you understand his dialect?” Changsanjiang looked at me hopefully.

It was the first I’d heard minotaur tribal language called “Guangdong dialect,” and I certainly didn’t “understand” it.

“I don’t know this ‘dialect’...” I shook my head, denying Changsanjiang’s guess, then pointed to Klado. “…But… I can see… he’s in real trouble.”

Where I pointed, Klado’s health bar was nearly empty. I doubted the vampires needed their “Blood Drain” tricks anymore—even a mosquito could finish him off.

“Damn, you’re going to get me killed!” As I pointed, a vampire obligingly stabbed Klado in the rear. We heard a cry, and watched the mighty minotaur shaman collapse limply to the ground.

(Apologies, friends—I spent the day picking out furniture, rushed home and had to endure urgent bowel pressure just to update. Though late, I hope you appreciate my diligence!

Last week I was notified of a recommendation for the Three Rivers feature—I thought it was just a sidebar link, so didn’t take it seriously. Today I saw it was a homepage spotlight and, well... I was so excited I nearly rolled on the floor.

Promises must be kept: starting tomorrow, two chapters daily—one around 2 PM, another around 8 PM. Don’t complain about the pace; my backlog is thin, and this is the fastest I can manage.

As usual, ad time: Red Tiger’s “Marketing Across Worlds,” Book No. 1007837. Special advice: raise books like pigs—don’t slaughter until they’re fat...)