Field sprayed out the half-chewed apple and roared with laughter.
To think someone dared lay hands on an ugly female monster — utterly absurd.
Just like modern folk: so long as it's female, someone will fancy it.
Wiping the tears the wild laughter had squeezed from his eyes, Field grew curious.
Did corruption create reproductive isolation between people?
"Poor Steelfork — in the end he died of a rotting groin; his 'twig and berries' turned into a disgusting clump of tumors, and he went in terrible pain. Corruption is the devil's curse to begin with; Steelfork likely won't reach heaven. Apart from the Chosen, I doubt any creature can resist the curse."
Field shut the book; the relentless sensory-style wording left him with no wish to read further for now.
"Lucas counts as an adventurer or explorer at best. As a scholar, he lacks rigor. Not every living thing fails to resist corruption — plants, at least, can."
Field thought of the green plant gathered in Rum Village; it was neither flesh-lump nor tentacle.
"Aaah!"
A scream came from outside the window. Field's hand jerked, nearly upsetting the teacup raised to his lips; the steaming tea splashed down, scalding him — and a soaked shirt was hard to dry in the Nightfall Territory.
Field glanced at the little map. No skull markers.
"Looks like another fool who needs a thrashing — can't keep it in his pants." Field rubbed his temples. The slaves were all mixed together; with violence and coercion, such incidents were bound to happen now and then. Not even the whip could change a man's nature.
Slaves had no right to mate — though most slaves couldn't even eat their fill, and had no heart for carrying on a bloodline.
"My lord!"
A patter of running footsteps came down the corridor, and the manservant Crock rapped urgently at the door.
"Come in. What is it?" Field stepped to the window and glanced out; it was still pitch-black outside, the torches downstairs lit, but he could make out only a few panicked faces around the flames.
It seemed the matter was graver.
Crock prostrated himself, trembling. "My lord, the territory's run into big trouble!"
Field felt a stab of alarm but stayed composed. "Don't panic. Tell me what trouble."
"Bandits! Armed bandits attacked our territory!" Young as he was, Crock couldn't master his terror; the hands bracing him against the floor shook as if with Parkinson's. "A few slaves went to the fields to relieve themselves and were suddenly attacked by bandits charging out of the gray mist. They killed two with spears and dragged off a female slave!"
Field stepped forward at once, asking in surprise, "They didn't press the attack — they chose to withdraw?"
"Yes — they left immediately."
"Fucking hell!" Field cursed in fury.
Knowing to retreat meant they had a certain intelligence. In this godforsaken, poison-soaked dump, he could still run into bandits — was there anything more absurd?
Perhaps his "dear" stepmother and siblings.
It was possible — and if they got hold of the intelligence about a Chosen, that would be dangerous.
Field checked the little map again. Nothing amiss.
That reminded him of Connor's cavalry: the exclamation points had only shown once they'd closed within a certain range.
It seemed the little map's warning radius was limited; only for Chosen and corrupted creatures could it report at greater distance.
"Tell the others to take shelter on the Grand Winery's ground floor. I'm going after them." Field took his longsword down from the rack and strode downstairs.
Ashina was already examining the bodies below. Seeing Field come down, she apologized at once, aggrieved. "I disturbed your rest. Letting the enemy into the territory was my failure."
"It's not your failure. The territory doesn't even have a wall yet; an enemy slipping in isn't impossible."
Ashina had fought a brutal day; missing the enemy out of exhaustion was only natural.
Field crouched, reached out, and pulled aside the rank, ragged hemp on a body — then cocked his head, puzzled. "The wound to the abdomen — the angle of the thrust goes upward. Are these bandits dwarves?"
"It is strange." Ashina rubbed her smooth chin and jiggled her leg in rhythm, the fair flesh of her thigh quivering faintly; the small motion helped her concentrate. "Maybe they aren't human. Could be those wretched dwarves."
Field's gnawing worry eased a little; the matter might not be so bad — not at a fatal level, at least.
"Ashina, can your wolf catch the enemy's scent?"
Using a dragonkin giant wolf as a tracking dog did sound rather absurd.
Ashina smacked her forehead. "Why didn't I think of that?"
"Take me with you. I want to see what kind of mongrel dares attack my territory." Field gritted his teeth; he was nothing like the original's gentle soul. "I'll smash their dog-heads to pieces."
Ashina knew Field's temperament well by now, and smiled. "Of course! I'll be your sword!"
The giant wolf sniffed the bodies a few times, then fixed its ghostly-blue vertical pupils on the northeast of the Nightfall Territory.
"The enemy fled that way."
Good — not south. The enemy really might not be human.
"Clank, clatter~"
A dozen-odd slave-guards came running out half-dressed, many still pulling on armor, bleary-eyed. Field's mouth twitched; he wanted to curse but held it in. Don't expect this era's soldiers to march and halt on command like the armies of Huaguo. Without doubt the guards had been sleeping sweetly — so sweetly that most were still in dreamland even as Field prepared to set out.
"You hold the territory. Don't let the enemy circle back for a second strike."
Field didn't intend to bring them either; pursuit was all about speed, and by the time the troops assembled, the enemy might be long gone.
"Still — discipline training needs to go on the schedule."
A slack army had no fighting power; it couldn't even guard its own home.
Ashina pulled Field up onto the giant wolf. With Field's little map along, the chance of being ambushed dropped sharply.
Steadier even than horseback — Field's first feeling on mounting the giant wolf was how comfortable it was.
Riding wasn't hard; a horse's back was broad, and once you steadied yourself and got used to it, you'd marvel that riding was easier than cycling. A bicycle, after all, had no brains, while many master riders could even sleep in the saddle. Ashina's dragonkin wolf was steadier still — the jagged scales on its back wouldn't prick a rider; they'd retract and close on their own, seamless as a piece of modern craftsmanship.
"Let's go!"
Steering the giant wolf, the two charged fast into the gray mist.
The surroundings blurred at speed, wind howling past their ears; the wolf-cavalry's pace was astonishing — a veritable subway train.
In just four minutes, Ashina found the enemy in the dense, corrupted woods.