Chapter 698: The Party Dire Situation.

Thoren quickened his pace.

The sound of battle grew louder with every step, and he no longer bothered to move quietly. The undead Storm Tyrant followed close behind him, its heavy footsteps echoing off the stone.

He cut through the narrow ridges one after another, taking whichever fork bent toward the noise.

Some trenches were barely wide enough for his shoulders. Others ended in walls of jagged rock, and he turned back and tried the next path without slowing.

Metal rang against metal.

A shout rose, then a scream, then a wild, grinding howl that made his skin crawl.

The sound was close now.

He rounded a final ridge and found a gentle slope rising in front of him, a small hill of broken stone scattered with loose gravel. Thoren crouched and climbed it quickly, his hand brushing the ground for balance.

The undead Storm Tyrant stopped at the foot of the slope at his silent command and stood motionless in the dark.

At the top, he lay low behind a jagged rock and looked out.

The land fell away into a wide, flat, rocky plain, bare of ridges and trenches.

Eight humans were fighting for their lives.

Thoren’s eyes narrowed.

Five boys and three girls, with dirt on their faces and blood on their clothes. They had formed a rough circle, their backs close together, their weapons raised.

A boy with a broad sword stood at the front, his arms shaking with every swing. Beside him, a girl with a spear kept thrusting at whatever came near.

Behind them, two others held a staff and a bow, their faces pale and tight.

Around them stood three Fallen.

Thoren’s chest tightened.

They were the same as the one he had killed. Gaunt, four meters tall, wrapped in rusted chains, with ship anchors fused to their backs.

Their empty sockets burned with a green glow, and their chains lashed across the plain like whips, cracking against weapon and shield alike.

Thoren stared at the scene, and surprise flickered across his face.

He had not expected humans, and he had not expected so many Fallen at once.

’Is it possible there is a lair of the Fallen nearby...’

He furrowed his brows and let his gaze drift past the battle into the dark beyond. The plain stretched out in every direction, empty and silent.

He thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. He pushed the thought aside and focused on the battle before him.

He lay behind the jagged rock and watched the fight unfold.

The young woman with the long spear was a Lancer.

She stood at the front of the circle, her feet planted, thrusting her spear at one of the Fallen again and again.

Her arms trembled and sweat ran down her face, but she did not give an inch.

Each time a chain whipped toward her, she turned it aside with the shaft and drove the tip into the Fallen’s chest. She was holding her ground against it, and no one else was able to help her.

Beside her stood the second young woman, a Wind Mage. Pale green light flickered around her staff as she shot blades of air on one of the Fallen.

Unfortunately, her attack was too weak to make any changes.

She was injured.

A dark stain spread down her sleeve, and she swayed on her feet between each spell cast.

The third young woman stood in the center of the circle. She was a healer, and the only one in the party.

Thoren watched her cast healing spells from one injured person to the next, closing wounds, stopping their bleeding, giving them a chance to continue the battle.

Even without fighting the Fallen head on, her face was gray with exhaustion. From what Thoren saw, she was the only reason the party was still standing.

At the front, a Berserker with a huge axe charged forward again and again. Blood ran from half a dozen wounds across his arms and chest, and he did not seem to care.

He roared and hacked at the nearest Fallen’s leg, bright and reckless. A chain struck him in the ribs, sending tumbling backward with blood splattering from his mouth.

As for the Warrior among them, he was in worse shape. A deep gash ran across his chest, and his breath came in short, wet gasps.

He raised his sword with both hands, but his guard was low, and every step he took left a trail of dark red on the stone.

The Swordsman was not doing well either. A cut on his thigh made him limp, and his strikes lacked strength.

His blade bounced off rusted skin instead of biting into it.

Only the Hunter and the Tank were faring better.

The Hunter stood at the back, loosing arrows into the Fallen’s chests and joints with careful calm.

Even though he was not an acher, his marksmanship was only a bit short of real acher which surprised Thoren.

The Tank however held the gap beside the healer, his big shield raised, absorbing blow after blow with a grim, steady patience.

Together with the hunter, they were the reason the party had not been overrun by the Fallen.

But from Thoren’s view, the party would not last as he could already foresee cracks in their defense.

One of the Fallen raised its anchor high, and the green light in its sockets flared. It swung the heavy iron down toward the healer.

"Look out!" someone screamed.

The Tank threw himself in front of her and raised his shield.

Clang!

The anchor struck with a sound like a falling bell. The shield buckled, and the Tank was lifted off his feet and hurled across the plain.

He crashed onto the ground and rolled, and his shield spun away.

The healer screamed. Fear and shock flashed across every face in the circle.

With the Tank down, cracks immediately opened in their defense.

The two Fallen who had been held back surged forward at once, their chains lashing out like snakes.

One chain wrapped around the Swordsman’s waist and wrenched him off the ground.

"Ahh!"

It flung him across the plain.

He slammed into the dirt and blood sprayed from his mouth.

"Noooo..."

The Wind Mage’s voice cracked as she turned toward him. The swordsman’s body lay twisted and still with his sword fallen from his hand.

Tears welled in her eyes, and her fingers began to shake.

She raised her staff, and the wind around her roared.

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

A barrage of wind blades shot out of her staff, a dozen, tearing across the plain and slamming into the Fallen’s chest.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Sparks and flakes of rust burst from its skin.

Unfortunately, the Fallen only took a step back. Then it lowered its head and charged straight at her.

Her face went pale, and her hands fell to her sides. The Fallen pale light shone on her tears.

’Are we going to die here...’