Chapter 565 - 502: Blood Crystal, Uninvited Guests

Chapter 565: Chapter 502: Blood Crystal, Uninvited Guests

"What in the hell..."

He wiped his forehead and whispered, his heart still pounding with fear.

"Those Green Skin bastards have been getting more and more brazen lately. To think they’d dare show up in a group on the outskirts of the Black Forest like this... It was unthinkable before. And you saw them—each one was built like a small mountain, and they had some damn good coordination!"

Recalling the perilous encirclement, especially the Hand Axe that had nearly split him in two, Holland still felt a chill on the back of his neck.

Roland, supporting him, picked up on the topic and asked in a natural tone.

"Are the Demons around here... all this tough? Even an experienced Adventurer like you, Mr. Holland, has such a hard time dealing with them?"

His gaze fell on the simple, faintly glowing Holy Emblem around Holland’s neck.

That precise beam of pure Holy Light that had descended during the fight to strengthen him... though the Holy Power it contained felt a little...

’Weak? Or sluggish?’

But besides a Priest who served the Gods, he couldn’t think of anyone else who could so directly channel and wield a force with such clear characteristics of Order and sanctity.

Hearing the question, a faint, embarrassed blush flashed across Holland’s face, as if Roland had poked a sore spot he wasn’t proud of.

He cleared his throat, looking a little awkward. Instead of answering directly, he unhooked a small flask from his belt, twisted open the cap, and took several long gulps of cheap ale. GLUG. GLUG. GLUG.

The strong stench of alcohol instantly mingled with the lingering smell of blood on his clothes.

He smacked his lips, wiped his mouth, and finally spoke, his tone complicated.

"Ahem... these Green Skin whelps have some seriously freaky bodies. They’re as hard as iron ingots quenched in a Dwarf forge. If you run into them as a Knight, a Barbarian, a Martial Monk, or one of those ’Fighting Spirit’ masters who specializes in honing their bodies, it’d be a tough fight. Even if you won a head-on clash of brute force, it would take a hell of an effort, and you’d be guaranteed to get banged up."

He paused, his fingers unconsciously stroking the rough surface of the flask.

"But for... well, for Casters like us, they’re not actually that hard to deal with. Whether it’s Holy Light or some other kind of Magic, it tends to be especially effective against things corrupted by chaos and brute force."

"You can purify their filth, burn their souls, or just bypass their tough hides entirely. But..."

His words caught abruptly, as if an invisible hand were choking him. For a moment, his eyes looked distant.

After a moment, he shook his head hard, screwed the cap back on the flask, and hooked it onto his belt with a deliberately rough motion.

"Tsk. Let’s not talk about it. It’s pointless."

He changed the subject abruptly. Turning back to Roland, he tried to make his tone more cheerful.

"Anyway, you, Rudolph—this whole trip was a waste. You didn’t find a damn thing. Looks like you can’t count on a ’Relic’ to remember who you are after all."

"So what are you planning to do next? Selling this stuff will be enough to pay back what you owe me, but you’ve got to find something to do, right? Otherwise..."

He shifted gears, casually slinging an arm over Roland’s shoulder. That cynical, devil-may-care grin returned to his face, but a trace of shadow still lingered deep in his eyes.

"How about you team up with me? You’re strong, so you can be the boss. We’ll split the loot sixty-forty. Fair enough?"

Holland then launched into a long-winded description of his "grand blueprint," from naming the team and designing a logo to cleverly taking on high-paying quests, even fantasizing about buying property in a bustling city someday.

Roland tried to speak several times but was drowned out by the man’s increasingly excited rambling. In the end, he gave up and focused his attention on observing their surroundings and the hurried Adventurers passing by, occasionally making a brief sound of agreement to show he was listening.

The two of them continued on like this all the way back to the edge of Lin Ye Town.

The familiar, slightly dilapidated outlines of buildings came into view. The midday cooking smoke and the bustling sounds of people helped to dispel much of the grim feeling from the wilderness.

However, as they rounded the last corner and saw the Oak Barrel and Horn tavern in the distance, they noticed an unusual scene.

The tavern’s heavy wooden door, which was usually wide open to welcome guests, was uncharacteristically shut tight.

Even more eye-catching was the small, open area in front of the entrance, where no fewer than seven or eight figures were gathered, some standing, some squatting.

They were all dressed in practical leather or Chain Armor, their weapons either openly displayed or subtly kept within easy reach. They all exuded the undisguised aura of Transcendents.

Though their strengths varied, their combined presence created an invisible, oppressive atmosphere.

They weren’t making a commotion, merely standing guard silently at the door. Their sharp eyes scanned the occasional passing townsfolk and scattered travelers, and they would sometimes exchange brief glances or hand signals, their movements revealing a trained coordination and a faint, hostile energy.

A few local farmers and merchants who had been planning to go into the tavern for a drink saw the scene from a distance and wisely steered clear, their faces showing obvious apprehension.

Even the owners and clerks of nearby shops kept stealing nervous, curious glances from behind their door curtains or through their windows before quickly pulling back.

A muffled clamor, louder than usual, could be heard from inside the tavern, as if a large crowd had gathered, but most of the sound was blocked by the closed door.

Holland’s incessant chatter came to an abrupt halt the moment he saw the group of people at the door.

The excitement and fantasy on his face faded quickly, like embers doused with cold water, replaced by a look blending wariness, annoyance, and a subtle, underlying tension.

The arm he had draped over Roland’s shoulder dropped to his side, and his pace faltered for an imperceptible moment.

"Tsk..."

A very low click of the tongue, as if forced through clenched teeth, came from Holland’s throat.

He didn’t immediately continue forward, nor did he turn to leave. He just stood there, narrowing his eyes.

His gaze swept back and forth between the group of Transcendents blocking the entrance and the closed tavern door, his fingers unconsciously tapping the handle of the Nail Head Hammer hanging at his waist.

The air in that small area seemed to freeze.

Only the faint cries of vendors from the distant market served to highlight the abnormal silence and tension of the spot.