novelraw Chapter 25 : [Foulsoil Roarer]
Chapter 25 : [Foulsoil Roarer]
Chapter 25: [Foulsoil Roarer]
The blood-red twilight of dusk shrouded the Kanna Plains.
Three fully loaded grain caravans were traveling along the desolate road.
The Demon King Varak’s dungeon was located northwest of Thornfall Outpost, along a route that passed through a wasteland strewn with scattered rocks.
Enormous white stones stood upright, large enough to conceal seven or eight figures.
They were scattered like a labyrinth across the yellow-brown dust and floating sand.
“Hey, Norman.” A lazy female voice echoed from the front of the caravan. “Norman? Uncle Norman!”
The man ignored her incessant shouting.
“Norman~ Uncle Norman… Norman Passat!” The young girl in a deep teal mage robe shouted in a slightly Floren-accented voice.
The refined man in a blue robe acted as if he were deaf, quietly driving the carriage forward.
“Captain Passat,” the girl called weakly.
“What is it?” replied Norman Passat, the “Wind Sword.”
“Hauling grain is so boring! Why did I have to come along?” The girl groaned, kicking her legs over a pile of grain sacks in the wagon. “I wanted to stay in the dungeon camp! The materials there are important for my research, you know?”
“Because you’re a genius mage, with tremendous mental strength and massive mana reserves. You can use Appraisal Magic thousands of times a day without getting tired,” Norman replied. “We can’t do without you.”
“So, this outstanding graduate of Lunos Academy in the Floren Capital, a certified Level-Eighth Genius Mage with the Silver Star Emblem, is just being used as a walking appraisal device, huh?” The girl flopped onto the grain bags in frustration. “Do you even hear yourself? I haven’t done anything all day except scan hundreds of sacks of grain! You know how to use Appraisal Magic too—why don’t you do it?”
“This is important, Julian,” Norman murmured. “Appraisal Magic is crucial. People always underestimate its value—information is power. If I could, I’d use Appraisal Magic non-stop in battle.”
“There he goes again,” the little mage pouted. “So boring.”
She stretched her hand toward the canopy of the wagon. Her hands were covered by fur-lined leather gloves with copper studs and jointed iron plates.
Embedded in each palm was a large, intricate rune stone disc, covered with grooves and stone dials.
The fingertips of the gauntlets were claw-shaped steel, capable of rotating the dial’s fine engravings—made for the precise manipulation required in advanced spell formations.
“Don’t complain about boredom. If I’m not mistaken, the grain convoy will soon run into something interesting,” Norman replied calmly.
“Why’s that, boss?” asked a male potionist sitting in the same wagon.
“This morning, the mold in the camp’s grain store came from contamination carried in by this convoy’s newly delivered grain,” Norman explained. “The center of the mold spread had claw marks from a beast, which the transporters patched up. It was the Demon King Varak’s subordinates—they intercepted the carts midway and planted the mold. And he still has energy to spare for tricks like this.”
“It’s coming soon, almost time,” he said, watching the sun sink below the horizon. “I chose sunset for transport to draw Varak’s underlings out. Once we kill them, it’ll weaken the Demon King’s forces.”
Clang! Clang! Clang!
As the sunlight vanished completely, loud metallic knocks rang from the rocky wasteland ahead!
Tap, tap!
In step with synchronized marching, a line of skeletal shield-bearers emerged from a cloud of dust on the horizon.
Spears thrust out between their shields, pointing straight at the convoy as they encircled it!
“Do you hear that? How interesting. Their commander is beating the drum,” Norman smiled, raising his hand to grip the hilt of his sword. “Ignore the grunts—kill the commander!”
“What about the grain wagons?” the potionist cried. “Everyone in the forward camp is still waiting for this shipment!”
“These surface-level undead soldiers are far weaker than the creatures in the dungeon. At most, they’ll destroy or steal four or five sacks—or infect seven or eight with mold.” Norman Passat drew his steel longsword. “The demonic essence on the surface is thin. The mold takes time to spread. Now that we know their trick, even if some bags get infected, we can just rescan them with Appraisal Magic and discard the contaminated ones before the spread begins.”
“The real threat is the commander itself. A high-ranking demon might use destructive means to ruin all the grain.”
“So—kill the commander at once! Once it falls, the soldiers will scatter!”
He charged forward.
The runestone on his sword hilt flashed blue, unleashing a chilling wind.
A streak of azure energy burst from the blade, cleaving through a row of skeletal shield-bearers!
“Sound’s coming from this way! Dorian, with me! Zowen, fire a flare and prepare long-range output. Julian, ready Appraisal Magic—report the commander’s race, status, and position!”
“Mannis, stay here with Zowen to guard the wagons. More undead or beasts might appear. If you spot any demon-like entities, shoot a howling arrow to signal us! Don’t worry—we’ll take care of the commander fast!”
The ranger and assassin acknowledged.
The assassin sprinted behind Norman, while the ranger set up a massive bow with thick arrows.
The potionist swiftly mixed a temporary flare potion with unstable fire oil.
The little mage laughed, clenching her gauntleted fist.
Two blue feathers slid from her wrist’s catalyst pouch as her fingers spun the rune disc.
The support frame hidden beneath her robe unfolded like the ribs of an umbrella, and a gust of teal energy lifted her skyward—gliding swiftly toward the sound of the clangs!
Whoosh!
A glass vial was hurled high into the air, bursting open in a blinding white flash that illuminated the field like daylight—revealing the figure below, striking a sword against a rusty helm!
“Appraisal result… Undead! A high-level undead! Five combat techniques!” the little mage shouted excitedly, raising her rune stone. “Step Focus, Blade-Deflection Stance, Charged Impact, Precision Combo, Razor Formation! It’s an undead swordsman—how fun!”
“Just a high-level undead swordsman?” Norman sounded disappointed and puzzled. “Not a demon… The white stone wasteland is too dense and winding. Julian, report direction.”
“Southwest, thirty degrees, about two hundred meters!” the mage called from above, glancing at the compass on her collar as she gazed over the maze of white stones.
Norman glanced at the compass pendant around his neck, quickly circled the boulders, leapt forward, and pointed his blade toward the figure ahead.
It was a bizarre skeletal swordsman wearing a rusted copper bell-shaped helm, hammering the helm with his iron sword, producing the loud clang clang clang sound—absurd and eerie.
【Signal link established...】
【Psionic implant functioning normally.】
【High-precision control connected. Auxiliary scanner ready.】
【Nether-Copper Resonator paused.】
Upon seeing Norman, the bell-helmed swordsman ceased its bizarre action, raised its rusted iron sword in front of itself, and assumed a standard Blade-Deflection Stance.
The assassin eagerly gripped his twin short blades, ready to charge.
The skeletal swordsman stood silently, motionless.
“Stop!” Norman shouted. “At your feet!”
The assassin halted warily, spun backward, and threw a crude bone dagger toward the soil just before his toes!
With a shrill scream, the brownish earth churned violently.
The flat ground collapsed into a pit as a massive, fat, slug-like monster, covered in dust and sticky yellow-green mucus, crawled out—its head pierced by the assassin’s dagger.
“Wraaah!” It squirmed its plump, bloated body, the upper half of its head splitting open to reveal a huge maw lined with backward-facing teeth, letting out a frog-like roar!
From its gullet erupted seven or eight globs of dark-green slime, spewing outward like exploding charcoal embers!
The assassin leapt from the white boulders, flipping twice in midair to dodge the splattering acid.
Some globs struck the ground and began bubbling violently.
Others clung like snot to the white stones, sliding down slowly and leaving behind sticky, glistening green trails—like those of snails.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Three more patches of soil burst open around the bell-helmed swordsman, and three identical massive slugs emerged.
“Foulsoil Roarers,” the assassin grunted in disgust. “Nasty creatures to deal with—poison slugs.”
“Step back, Dorian. Don’t move recklessly—let me handle this.” Norman advanced cautiously. “Something’s not right…”
“What’s wrong, boss?” the assassin asked, spinning his blade as he tried to pinpoint the nerve cluster in the slug’s head. “They’re gross, but not that hard. We’ve got antidotes.”
It was difficult to strike their nerve center, since a Foulsoil Roarer’s head was wrapped in a thick, opaque gelatinous layer—tough and elastic like bone.
The only way was to pierce the mouth while it roared or vomited.
These Foulsoil Roarers were particularly strange.
Their heads were stuck with withered Blood Thorn branches and leaves, obscuring vision, and even their mouths were deliberately packed with dead leaves—blocking the angle for a quick kill.
The bell-helmed undead swordsman stood surrounded by the slugs, as though they were its royal guard.
Any attempt to approach triggered another round of acid vomit.
The green sludge exploded on impact, leaving behind toxic residue. Without wide-area combat skills, it was difficult to get close.
But powerful techniques consumed enormous stamina and mental strength—both precious resources for adventurers specializing in solo combat.
“No… this isn’t right. High-level undead can control lesser undead,” Norman said, lifting his sword cautiously. “But how could undead cooperate with beasts? That’s impossible—they’re supposed to attack all living things. Don’t act rashly.”
“Besides, undead generally lack intelligence. They can’t form formations or coordinate tactics. Maybe this one is a special undead with sentience?” He narrowed his eyes, circling the slugs carefully, studying the rusted bell-helmed swordsman.
Clang!—a sudden metallic crack!
Beyond the circle of Foulsoil Roarers, the tip of the undead swordsman’s rusted iron sword broke off and fell with a clatter. Norman stepped back with interest, the tip of his steel blade quivering like a bee’s stinger.
【Psionic Implant – Auxiliary Scanner Activated.】
【Biological Posture Detected: Feinting Stance.】
【A humanoid combat stance suited for medium single-handed weapons such as swords or short staves. A conservative offensive posture used for mid-range probing and baiting counterattacks, draining the opponent’s stamina and focus, waiting for an opening. Single-handed use.】
【Database updated.】
【Recorded into “Artificial Biology – Biological Posture Material” archive.】
【Body available for use.】
【Implant – Construct Engraving Slots full. Unable to use temporarily.】
“Appraisal Magic?” Norman froze for a moment, instinctively stepping back twice in discomfort. “...What is that thing? An undead using Appraisal Magic?”
With a sharp whoosh, the sound of rushing wind followed.
The little mage descended from the sky, landing steadily in front of Norman. Her right fingertips flicked lightly, spinning the rune stone dial.
Accompanied by a rapid crackling of impacts, deep teal wind blades burst like raindrops from her palm toward that strange undead swordsman!
“Move it, you cowardly old man! This special undead’s loot belongs to me!” she shouted excitedly, laughing amid the barrage of explosions.
The next instant, the soil beneath the undead swordsman’s feet suddenly burst open!
A massive black beetle leapt up, its sturdy carapace shielding the undead from the rain of teal wind blades!
The undead swordsman grabbed the black beetle with his left hand, using its shell as a shield to block the attacks!
【Psionic Implant – Auxiliary Scanner Activated.】
【Detected Psionic Circuit: Gaseous Drive (Precision Operation 2)】
【Recorded into Basic Psionics – Circuit Template Library.】
【Insufficient materials. Unable to use temporarily.】
“Ugh… using Appraisal Magic on a living person!”
The little mage shuddered, chilled by the invasive feeling of being watched. “Pervert!”
She flipped her wrist, flicking her left gauntlet.
The beast’s eyeball used for casting Appraisal Magic was ejected like a shell casing.
The joints of her gauntlet opened automatically, ejecting two beast glands as catalysts, dropping neatly into the catalyst slots.
The rune stone disc on her palm rotated, forming a brand-new circuit pattern.
She swiftly raised her left hand and swung her fist in a backhand motion!
A massive, blazing fireball launched forward, borrowing force from her punch!
With a series of booming explosions, the fireball struck the undead’s black beetle shield, adhering to it like living molten tar, instantly roasting the shell into charred crispness!
【Psionic Implant – Auxiliary Scanner Activated.】
【Detected Psionic Circuit: Ion Plasma Cluster (Precision Operation 7)】
【Recorded into Basic Psionics – Circuit Template Library.】
【Insufficient materials. Unable to use temporarily.】
Amid the acrid smell of burning chitin, the beetle’s living shell shield cracked apart!
Losing its shield, the undead swordsman threw the remains aside and dashed through the flames and smoke. Raising its half-broken sword, it performed a reverse swing technique—【Precision Combo】!
The little mage lifted her right-hand gauntlet.
The air before her rippled with deep teal waves, forming a semi-transparent wind shield!
Clang clang clang clang clang!
The shield perfectly blocked the flurry of thrusts.
The wind barrier floated automatically in midair—requiring no stamina to maintain!
As the wind shield dissipated, the little mage stepped back half a pace, hiding behind Norman.
“It—it used Appraisal Magic on me again! You lecherous undead!” she shrieked, clutching Norman Passat’s arm.
“This is too strange…” Norman hesitated for a moment.
Everything was outside expectations.
At first, he thought it was one of the Demon King’s demon hunters—or a demonized human follower—controlling undead to ambush the convoy and spread mold.
He had planned to strike with Storm Sword Techniques and finish the fight swiftly with a three-man combo.
But it turned out to be just an odd high-level undead swordsman—constantly using Appraisal Magic to spy around, and even coordinating with beasts.
The bizarre situation made Norman hesitant to attack.
A Storm Sword Technique, a high-tier martial magic skill, could indeed crush the strange undead and the Foulsoil Roarers at once—but it consumed immense stamina and spiritual energy, usable at most three times a day...
This undead swordsman might just be bait—to trick them into wasting their powerful skills. He couldn’t fall for it.
The Foulsoil Roarers, while slow and earthbound, had troublesome poisonous mucus. Getting any on them would be a headache… wait.
They and the undead swordsman were meant to stall for time!
Norman suddenly realized.
“We’ve been tricked! That’s not the undead commander—it’s bait!” he shouted. “Forget it! Get back and protect the grain wagons! Mannis and Zowen might already be in danger!”
The little mage reacted first.
She clenched her gauntleted fist, her robe’s umbrella-frame supports snapping open with a whoosh, gliding away on a surge of teal air.
The assassin came to his senses, drew his twin blades, and sprinted toward the wagons.
Seeing Norman turn to leave, the undead swordsman seemed agitated—it suddenly broke free from the Foulsoil Roarers’ guard ring, raised its half-broken sword, and with a Step Focus dash, blocked Norman’s path again, resuming its Blade-Deflection Stance!
“Don’t try to stall me!” Norman swung his sword in two quick martial strikes!
With a metallic clang, his first strike’s Feinting Stance shattered the undead’s Blade-Deflection Stance.
Without the slugs obstructing close combat, he flowed seamlessly into Charging Slash with the mastery of a Level-Seven Swordmage!
The undead’s body toppled slowly. As it hit the ground, it broke apart with a crash into a scatter of bones.
The skull wearing the rusted copper bell-shaped helm was flung high into the air.
At that moment, a Dragon-Gryphon’s shadow swept across the darkened sky, illuminated by the flare’s glow—it reached out its claws and snatched away the copper-helmed skull.
Norman froze.
Remembering the earlier clanging sound—the undead had been striking its own helm with its sword—that copper helm must have been the control device for the undead! He’d missed it in his haste!
No time to worry about it now.
Mannis and Zowen might already have fallen to the demonic commander’s hand—why hadn’t they signaled? He activated Step Focus, anxiety surging, and sprinted toward the grain convoy.
Norman Passat returned to the wagons.
The little mage and the dual-blade assassin had already arrived ahead of him—only to find the ranger and potionist perfectly fine, standing beside the wagon and staring in confusion at the returning trio.
Heavy white stones were scattered around the wagon; the canopy had been caved in at several spots.
“Uh… boss?” the ranger scratched his head. “What happened? Did you kill the demon commander?”
“You two… didn’t encounter an attack?” Norman asked hesitantly, that unsettling feeling of “something completely unexpected” creeping back into his heart. “That undead commander was just bait. If they lured the three of us away, it must’ve been to ambush the convoy…”
“Oh, after you went to intercept the commander, about seven or eight Dragon-Gryphons circled above, dropping white stones the size of human heads.” The potionist gestured. “But Mannis and I drove them off easily—a few potion flares and some arrows did the job.”
“They came on fast, raining rocks like a storm. We didn’t see it coming—the canopy got smashed a few times,” the ranger added. “But it’s fine. The grain’s tough anyway.”
“Smashed through the canopy…” Norman muttered, opening the torn wagon cover to inspect the cargo.
Inside were dented, deformed grain sacks, and a few heavy white stones.
Norman thoughtfully examined the sacks, then picked up one that hadn’t been struck.
“Idiots! What the Dragon-Gryphons dropped weren’t stones—they were grain bags laced with mold!” he sneered. “Julian, Appraisal Magic.”
“Changing catalysts is such a pain, you know?” the little mage grumbled as she switched the catalyst combination on her left-hand rune stone.
Three beast eyes focused on the grain sack in Norman Passat’s hand.
“Mold detected,” she said with a grin. “Nice one, old man.”
“As expected.” Norman tossed the bag aside—then a faint crack of shattering glass sounded.
Crk.
The noise came from the grain sack that had just hit the ground.
“Get down!” Norman shouted in alarm.
The next moment, the mold-infected grain sack exploded violently!
The foul, reeking slime of Foulsoil Roarers and dark-green mucus sprayed everywhere, coating every wagon.
The toxic goo seeped into nearly every grain sack.
The lower layers might have survived, but at least three-quarters of the grain were ruined.
Around the blast site, within a seven or eight-meter radius, everything looked as if a sick man had sneezed buckets of yellow-green mucus all over.
The five of them stood silently, eyes closed, within the snot-bombed circle—like tragic statues sculpted from nasal discharge.
“Bottled magic: Corruption Bombardment. Created using Foulsoil Roarer venom glands.” A huge glob of green slime slid down Norman’s face. He calmly drew a bottle of antidote from his belt and drank it like wine. “Homemade… unregulated stock. The filler’s much stronger than normal bottled spells on the market.”
“Ugh… disgusting…” the little mage wailed, sobbing and shouting “gross” between hiccups as she fumbled for her own antidote.
“Urgh…” The assassin shook the sticky slime from his arm, wiped his face, and followed suit with a bottle of antidote.
“Sorry, boss…” The ranger and potionist, antidote bottles between their teeth, hung their heads in guilt.
“My fault. I didn’t notice in time,” Norman shook his head.
The little mage sniffled, sidestepped to avoid the glob of slime flung off his head, then suddenly burst out laughing through her tears.
“What is it?” Norman asked.
“You were facing the explosion—your front’s all covered in slime, but your back’s completely clean… it looks hilarious…” she said, half crying, half laughing.
Norman sighed, removing a lump of green mucus from his head and tossing it aside.
“Our mission’s failed… The poisonous sludge has tainted most of the grain. Even if we deliver the rest to the dungeon’s front-line camp, it won’t last more than a few days,” he said through clenched teeth. “Tell them—it’s time to retreat. Otherwise, Varak’s counterattack will kill us all.”