Chapter 621: The Complex Professor

Deep within the palace of Roland City, thousands of candles illuminated the gilded court, their warm glow stretching the decaying shadows long and thin.

The aged king sat upon a chair padded with velvet, smiling serenely as he enjoyed his candlelit dinner.

The long table was laden with all manner of delicacies—from magically chilled fresh oysters to venison stewed for a full day with spices and red wine, each dish exquisitely crafted like a work of art.

Though his aged stomach could no longer digest such rich fare, he maintained royal dignity, cutting a tiny piece from each dish, chewing slowly to honor the chefs' labor, then signaling servants to remove it.

Whether he ate or not was one thing; the royal spectacle must never be lacking, or the kingdom would lose face.

Midway through the meal, Theoden deemed it sufficient, set down his silver knife and fork, and gently rang the golden bell beside him.

"Ding ling—"

The clear chime echoed through the empty dining hall.

Soon, a servant approached carrying a silver tray, his expression reverent and tense.

The delicate tray held but a single golden wine cup, no larger than a thumb, its rim narrow and shallow, holding just a single sip.

The clear, transparent liquid resembled liquid Shi Laimu, glowing faintly gold in the candlelight, as if liquefied starlight.

The servant held his breath, terrified of spilling even a drop, and carefully placed the cup before the king.

Then, as if fleeing a plague, he bowed his head and hurried away, not daring to linger a single second.

The heavy doors closed, leaving the vast dining hall alone with the king.

Theoden slowly wiped his lips with a pristine linen napkin, and in his clouded old eyes flickered a glint of greed.

He extended his twig-like fingers, pinched the delicate cup, tilted his head back, and drained the golden liquid in one swallow.

The cold, sacred fluid slid down his throat, instantly surging into a searing flood that rushed to his skull, swirling twice before plunging downward.

The next instant, the king's pupils dilated violently, turning into murky, lifeless gray.

The once opulent dining hall vanished from his vision—walls crumbled, ceiling collapsed, surroundings transformed into a black, bottomless well.

Countless twisted, translucent shadows surged from the darkness, circling the table, wailing and shrieking in agony.

"Please… stop hitting me!"

"Ahh—! My leg! My leg—!"

"Mom… Mom, save me… I don't want to die here…"

"Kill me… please, kill me…"

"The Lionheart Knights are on their way… brother, hold on a little longer… Hagemore will come for us!"

"It's over… brother, I'm finally free…"

The clamor was filled with despair, and even more so, with venomous hatred toward the living.

That bone-chilling hatred, like the icy gales howling through Ten Thousand Swords Mountain, sought to tear apart the old man seated at the table's end.

Yet Theoden sat still, like a cold statue. He watched this performance of suffering without pity, letting the karmic gales blow past him.

Rather than indifference, his serene expression seemed almost enjoyment, as if listening to a violin's melody.

Only the strings and bow were the internal organs of the Leyn people.

The grotesque souls gradually lost strength, and the king grew weary; he opened his mouth and took a gentle sip.

The screaming spirits, drawn by an invisible force, dissolved into countless tiny specks of light, converging like ripe wheat turned to wine.

He sipped lightly, drawing all the essence into his belly.

As the final wail faded like smoke, the darkness receded like a tide, and the vanished light returned to the lavish palace.

The candles still glowed warmly; the delicacies on the table remained as tempting as before.

The king's gray pupils regained clarity, and his face, lined with age spots and wrinkles, flushed with a satisfying glow.

Though the marks of time remained deep, he now looked radiant, as if ten years younger.

Yet his third eye, between the brows, was darker than ever.

The old man suddenly grinned mischievously, stuck out his tongue, and licked his dry lips, savoring the sweetness that reached his soul.

"This taste…"

"Is truly delightful."

…

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, in the Earldom of Spinol, the summer evening breeze brought a rare coolness to the northern border.

The outpost beside the timberland glowed with sparse lights; soldiers with rifles sat idly on the watchtower, scanning the distance, while faint howls of wolves drifted from afar.

"This one's probably Bronze-rank."

He muttered to himself, sketching with a pencil in his notebook, imagining the shape of the wolf roaming the forest.

It was one of his few ways to pass the time.

After retirement, he planned to become a painter and publish his odd sketches of monsters into a book.

Maybe he could make some money.

Meanwhile, inside the outpost beside the tower, it was lively.

The newly relieved guards had brought two bottles of private liquor; the moment the cork was pulled, the sharp aroma instantly awakened everyone's hunger.

"Keep it down—it's still duty hours."

Captain Clark scowled, but seeing his men's longing gazes, he softened.

In this godforsaken borderland, only beast howls and undead gnashing accompanied them; a drink to steady nerves was fine.

Most importantly, his own craving had been stirred.

"…But since everyone's worked hard, those being relieved may finish their drink before sleeping. Those on night watch—zero sips, understood?"

"Captain, you're wise!"

At the sight of their stern captain, the men cheered, clapping shoulders as they gathered around the table, calling out to divide the liquor.

One bottle was quickly half-empty; a young soldier, quick-witted, walked over and grinned as he slipped the bottle into Clark's hand.

"Captain, I confiscated half a bottle from these drunks—please inspect!"

"You little rascal."

Clark laughed and kicked the lad's thigh, yet his hand firmly accepted the bottle.

Just as he was about to break his own rule, his gaze fell on the young man hunched in the corner.

The youth, who had escaped from the ratmen's nest, stared fixedly at the bottle, his Adam's apple bobbing like a desert traveler spotting an oasis.

Clark's heart stirred. He picked up the bottle and sat beside him on the wooden bench, deliberately taking a sip right in front of him.

Then he held the bottle before Haelgael's face and swayed it gently.

"Want some?"

Haelgael jolted awake, nodding frantically, his bony fingers gripping his trousers, his face etched with desperate longing.

Clark unhooked a tin cup from his belt, poured him a small measure. Haelgael snatched it up and gulped it down in one swallow.

The fiery liquid burned down his throat, making him cough, yet his grimy face lit up with long-absent ecstasy.

"By Saint Xiang Sheng… is this grain-distilled?"

Haelgael squinted, mumbling, "I've only had it once—when I was a child. I stole a sip from my father's cup while he wasn't looking…"

That sip opened a floodgate of memory, briefly erasing his present terror, returning him to a past that was poor but stable.

Later, things grew worse day by day—until last winter's fire, which turned everything to ash and blew his ashes to this distant land.

Haelgael stared longingly at Clark's bottle, meekly extending his cup.

"Master… could I have just one more sip?"

Clark shook the bottle; the liquid sloshed inside. He didn't pour yet, but fixed his gaze on Haelgael's eyes.

"No drink without a story. If you want another sip, tell me—what did you see in that cave?"

Haelgael's hand trembled violently, his face twisted in agony.

It was a fear rooted in his marrow; even now, recalling those images made him shudder.

He struggled within, and finally, under the lure of alcohol, forced himself to speak.

"It's not a pleasant memory… Those rats whipped us, locked us in water cages with only our heads exposed, roasted our soles, jabbed rusted needles under our nails… and they let rats bite us. Not field mice—rats as big as wolfhounds, with blood-red eyes."

The laughter in the outpost faded; soldiers leaned in, faces eager, watching this exchange.

Clark frowned.

"Just torturing you?"

Haelgael nodded stiffly.

"Yes. Only torture."

"What purpose could that serve?"

"I don't know… truly, I don't know…"

Haelgael clutched his head, his body convulsing as if terrified beyond reason, his very soul trembling.

"But a boy locked with me speculated—they were collecting something. He said the rats didn't want to kill us; they needed the essence we released in extreme fear and despair. But he died… and after that, I truly knew nothing."

Watching Haelgael on the brink of collapse, Clark fell silent, poured him half a cup more, and patted his back to soothe his nerves.

"Drink. It'll help… Also, tell me—what did the ones taken away have in common?"

He didn't wish to reopen his wounds, but these clues might reveal whether the royal surveyors who vanished were still alive.

Haelgael gulped down the cup, his eyes growing vacant, then flickering with an unnatural clarity under the alcohol's influence.

"All like me…"

"Like you?"

"Yes. Those who went mad were taken. Those who weren't mad enough were sent back to keep suffering."

Haelgael suddenly let out a cackle—worse than a sob, like a corpse crawling from its grave.

"Those who fail will be brought back and beaten again. The worst are those who pretend to be mad—when they're returned… the ratfolk lock them in a cage with wolves."

A young soldier swallowed hard.

"By Saint Sis…"

An old soldier nearby took a swig of liquor and spoke in silence.

"This sounds like a slaughterhouse."

Killing people like livestock.

He simply couldn't believe such things were happening on land blessed by Holy Light.

Clark fell silent for a moment, then shoved the remaining half-bottle of liquor into Haelgael's hands.

Haelgael didn't bother with a cup—he grabbed the bottle, tilted his head back, and drank it down in loud, gulping swallows.

Soon, he was completely drunk, collapsed on the ground, and began acting like a drunken fool—crying one moment, laughing the next, sometimes kneeling before the shadows on the wall and begging for mercy.

Everyone exchanged uneasy glances, their spines chilled.

Clark felt the same, staring silently at Haelgael as he rolled on the ground.

The young soldier walked over to Clark's side, glanced at the writhing man, then looked up at his captain.

"Captain, this…"

"Take him outside, let him breathe some fresh air and sober up," suggested an old soldier.

"Forget it. Let him stay drunk—awake, he'd only suffer more," another sighed.

They couldn't imagine what Roland City was like, but the suffering before their eyes made their hearts heavy—because that man, like them, was a servant of Holy Light.

His pain wasn't far away—it was right beneath their eyes.

Just then, a sharp sound suddenly came from the trees outside the outpost.

"Crack."

It was the sound of a tree trunk being toppled—distant, yet piercingly loud in the silent night.

Everyone in the outpost, except Haelgael still thrashing on the ground, instantly went on alert. An old soldier frowned.

"What was that?"

"Could it be a bear?"

"Doesn't sound like one…"

"I'll go check."

Clark picked up his rifle leaning against the table, gestured to two bold old soldiers, and the three of them quietly opened the door and stepped into the night.

The open ground outside the outpost was silent; the forest nearby was silent too. The earlier sound felt like an illusion—only the rustle of leaves remained in the evening breeze.

Clark called up toward the wooden watchtower.

"Tom! Any movement up there?"

No reply.

Clark's heart sank—a bad premonition surged.

He gripped his rifle, signaled the two old soldiers to guard below, then quietly climbed the ladder up to the tower.

As he reached the platform, he saw Tom slumped over the railing, motionless, snoring softly.

"This damn kid dares to sleep on duty?"

Clark exhaled in relief, then grew angry. He stepped forward and shook Tom's shoulder hard.

Tom's body swayed limply with the shake, his face turning further to the side—he slept soundly, as if the sky itself couldn't wake him.

Clark was about to slap him awake when a whisper, barely audible, brushed his ear: "Shhh—"

It was a girl's voice—languid, yet chillingly cold.

"I was just sleeping so nicely… don't wake me."

Clark's hair stood on end. He tried to turn and raise his rifle—but his joints felt rusted, sluggish.

This… magic?!

Before he could even identify it, his head had barely turned halfway when an irresistible drowsiness crashed over him like a tide.

His vision blurred; the world spun.

★￠O

In the final second before his consciousness plunged into darkness, his peripheral vision caught a small figure sitting atop the tower's railing.

She had a delicate, porcelain-doll profile, yawning listlessly. Beneath the silver moonlight, her slightly curved little horns glowed with demonic radiance.

A little demon…?

How could there be… a little demon here?

"Thud—"

With fragmented memories and confusion, Clark collapsed heavily beside his sleeping comrade, sinking into endless dreams.

At the same moment, the two men below the tower and several other sentries inside the outpost also fell.

Ordinary humans had no chance against a supernatural attacker.

"Haah—"

Sitting on the tower's railing, Yuxi let out a long, bored yawn, shifting her crossed legs, her tiny feet dangling and swaying beside the rail.

She'd been told this was a direct order from the Demon Lord himself. Before departure, she'd mustered 120% enthusiasm—but upon arrival, she was just assigned to guard a group of humans.

A demon guarding humans…

It sounded novel, but offered no mischief at all. Far more fun than jumping around in a vat full of grapes.

Just imagining all the people of Lei Ming City drinking the bathwater from Dreamland made her so excited she could down two huge bowls of mushrooms.

Thinking of this, Yuxi's eyes darted, unconsciously landing on the human soldier's water flask at his waist. Her mind turned mischievous again.

Why not—

Add a little something to it.

Her grin stretched from ear to ear—just as Yuxi was about to act, a voice from afar saved those two unlucky souls.

If their water were swapped for iced black tea, it would haunt them for life.

"Stop playing, Yuxi! Xixi the Queen is fighting ahead—we need to hurry and help!" Misi fluttered her wings, hovering before her, urgently calling out.

Yuxi pouted, muttering reluctantly.

"Fine, fine… they're just a bunch of trash. Xixi the Queen could crush them all with one finger—why do we even need to help?"

Misi sighed helplessly.

"True, but we should still be careful, Yuxi—you always mess up because you're careless. Remember the Earth Dragon incident?"

Seeing Misi's worried face, Yuxi froze, memories of her near-fatal brush with the cooking pot flashing through her mind.

"... They're all Palace Lizards now. Why are you still bringing that up?"

"Because it was terrifying! Misi thought you'd never come back! What if Xixi the Queen ends up on the table too? The revered Demon Lord might take it out on you…"

At the thought of the Demon Lord's terrifying methods, Yuxi's casual expression shattered. Sweat poured down her like rain.

"I—I didn't say I wouldn't go! Let's go, Misi!"

Without another second's delay, Yuxi flared her wings violently, shooting into the sky like a streak of black light—afraid to be even a second late.

Misi followed closely behind, flying north toward the forest.

Along with them, the shadows surrounding the outpost rose into the sky—swarms of tiny demons forming a dark cloud that blotted out the moonlight.

They were like bloodthirsty bat swarms, silent and swift, gliding over the treetops, casting shadows of death upon the earth.

Meanwhile, in the nearby forest, pale moonlight bathed a bloody battlefield.

Perched lightly atop a slender tree trunk, Xixi gazed lazily down, her slender legs elegantly crossed.

Her shoulder-length crimson hair fluttered slightly in the night wind; beneath her neatly cut bangs glowed a pair of eerie red eyes, radiating a chilling, soul-freezing aura.

Beneath the pale moonlight, dozens of Pestfang Assassin corpses lay scattered—each ratman's death grotesque beyond description.

These were the strongest warriors of the Putrid Clan, each selected through brutal trials and poisoned refinement, at least Bronze rank, with their leader even reaching Silver tier.

On assassination missions, even targeting Gold-tier experts, they were confident they could strike once and vanish.

Yet now, faced with Xixi's oceanic mental magic, the Putrid Clan's elite killers were utterly crushed, unable to fight back!

The last surviving Pestfang Assassin knelt half-bowed, blood trickling from nose and mouth, yet still stared fixedly at the terrifying figure on the branch.

He gasped for breath, baring his sharp teeth, his voice shrill with terror.

"You… are a demon from Hell?! Why is Hell interfering with ratfolk affairs?! We've never crossed paths with you!"

"Hell? Ratfolk? I don't understand what you're saying."

Xixi idly poked her little finger into her ear, then tilted her head slightly, smiling with a sweet, cruel expression.

"I only know that a group of arrogant little rats dared defy my Lord."

"Lord? Which Lord?" The rat assassin's pupils shrank. His small brain scrambled desperately, trying to identify her origin.

But ratfolk knowledge of humans was roughly equal to human knowledge of ratfolk.

No matter how hard he strained his mind, he couldn't fathom who had targeted them—or why.

"It doesn't matter."

Xixi smiled faintly, the crimson killing intent in her eyes nearly overflowing.

"If you think I'm from Hell, ask when you get there. If you even get the chance… but before that, tell me who sent you. Otherwise, I guarantee you'll learn what 'worse than death' means."

Fear twisted the Pestfang Assassin's face—he was utterly hopeless before this demon's power.

Since death was inevitable…

Fueled by desperation, he suddenly raised his front paw, revealing a finely crafted short crossbow hidden beneath his wrist armor.

"Die—!"

Crash!

A short, sharp hiss—a bolt of emerald-green poison-tipped crossbow arrow tore through the air, aimed straight at Cici perched on the treetop.

Just as the bolt was about to pierce her tiny skull, it passed cleanly through her, embedding itself in the tree trunk behind her.

The arrowhead, having missed, trembled like a cicada's wing; the tree it struck hissed as it corroded.

"?!"

The rat-man assassin's eyes bulged out; he screamed, "Devil's trick!" and hurled his short crossbow aside, turning to flee.

He unleashed his fastest speed ever, scrambling on all fours like a true rat, darting wildly through the forest, wind howling past his ears.

Just get out of this forest!

Just reach the hiding cave deep in the mountains!

Even if it were a demon—

Even a Sword Saint couldn't catch him!

Fang·Kuilik had absolute confidence!

Yet, no matter how long he ran, when he finally collapsed from exhaustion, he realized in horror that he had returned to the exact same spot.

His familiar short crossbow lay on the ground; not far away stood the tree he had shot, the bolt still embedded in its trunk.

Had he gotten lost?!

In panic, he tripped over a tree root jutting from the earth, crashing hard to the ground and rolling several times before stopping.

He wiped branches and rotting leaves from his eyes, cursed, and opened them—only to find himself back at the same spot again.

He swallowed hard; a chilling dread crawled up his spine, his four paws icy cold, as if submerged in an ice cellar.

Everything before him felt unreal, like a nightmare.

Yet the phantom pain in his knees and the bursting sensation in his chest were painfully real—he had clearly run for a long time through the forest.

For a moment, he couldn't tell if he was awake at all.

Or whether he had simply fallen from one nightmare into another.

"Stop struggling."

A mocking voice came from above.

Cici stretched her arms, yawned, and shifted her crossed legs as if she had never moved an inch.

"In my nightmare, your spirit is like a slime—I can crush you in less than a second. Do you really think you can escape? Better just confess—"

Before she finished speaking, her eyes sharpened; her twin wings snapped open violently, launching her into the air.

Sssss—!

Almost the instant she left, a pale green beam sliced soundlessly through the space where she had been sitting.

The massive tree, wide enough for two men to embrace, was cleaved as cleanly as tofu, leaving a smooth, silent cut.

The tree's crash followed, startling sleeping birds into flight, their wings beating the air.

A soft laugh came from the shadows, followed by a cold, rasping voice.

"You're quick to dodge."

Cici, hovering midair, narrowed her eyes. From the darkness, a figure in a gray robe slowly materialized.

On his hand glinted a simple, ancient golden diamond ring; in his grip, a staff topped with a gray-white bone jade.

If Ye Zhiqiu were here, he would have shouted—

"What the hell?!"

"Can this NPC even steal player gear?!"

"Human… wizard?!"

Cici's voice carried a note of caution; though her expression remained relaxed, she had clearly unleashed her full power.

"Who are you?"

A low, threatening growl rumbled from her throat; the pressure of a Diamond-tier powerhouse descended upon the forest, her dense spiritual force spreading like an endless net.

Yet the wizard hidden in the clouds merely smiled faintly at the fluttering little demon, as if the raw power meant nothing to him.

He admitted the power was strong.

But power was not the same as lethality.

"Demon, you've misunderstood your position."

He flipped his long staff, his gaze cold and indifferent as he stared upward; the tip of the staff once again gathered dangerous light.

"I am the interrogator. You are the one who must answer."

Cici's crimson eyes blazed with unprecedented killing intent; she was about to scream "Arrogant!"—when a calm voice suddenly appeared around them.

Even the rat-man on the ground, his eyes glazed, was swept into it, trembling uncontrollably.

"Who are you trying to interrogate?"

The wizard hidden in the shadows froze, his raised staff halting midair; doubt slowly surfaced in his eyes.

That voice…

So familiar!

At the sound, Cici's heart surged with joy; she turned eagerly toward the direction the voice came from.

"Devil—"

"Shh."

Luo Yan pressed a finger to his lips, gesturing silence from within the night; with casual ease, he silenced the fluttering of birds and the chorus of insects in the forest.

His travel cloak fluttered soundlessly in the evening breeze; his face wore a mask that blurred all facial features, and the voice drifting from behind it became the only sound in the night.

"Focus."

Cici snapped back to awareness—she had forgotten she was in combat, lulled by the arrival of the Demon Lord.

But—

It didn't matter anymore.

The outcome had already been decided.

The moment the voice faded, two figures—one large, one small—vanished from the night sky.

Simultaneously, hundreds of emerald-green beams surged like coiling serpents, instantly engulfing the airspace above the forest canopy!

The emerald staff tip radiated searing death energy.

Seeing the figures vanish into the night, the gray-robed wizard's face twisted in shock; his left hand shot to his cloak's collar, fingers gripping a button and yanking hard.

"Ssshh—"

The instant he tore open the hidden magical scroll, a blade of iron-black cold light slashed through his robe.

Boots landed; wind swept through fallen leaves.

Sarah, masked, spat, "Tch," her cold eyes scanning the endless forest before she sheathed her flipped dagger.

"He got away."

"He didn't flee."

Luo Yan, who had appeared on the ground without notice, stepped over leaves soaked in rat-man blood, stopping near Sarah.

His index finger lifted slightly; the wind blew aside the rotting leaves, revealing a golden diamond ring and a bone staff rising from beside his feet.

Seeing the "divine gear" he had cheaply sold to players—and the lingering magic still clinging to it—Luo Yan's lips curled into a wry smile.

"The original body was never here."

Soul-based magic, holy energy, enchantment, a touch of summoning arts… and some things not found in any library.

Mastery of four magical schools—this "Professor" was far more complicated than he seemed.