Chapter 0016: An Omen of Change

It was the same routine as always, the same familiar path, as Grimm once again set out on his patrol. Yet today was undeniably different.

The moment he stepped onto the gravel path, Grimm sensed something was amiss. Today... the monsters seemed unusually agitated, their behavior strikingly out of the ordinary.

His first stop: the Murder Forest.

He hadn’t even reached the edge before today’s scene startled him. The gaunt, withered murder trees were crowded with carrion crows—so many that their black bodies blotted out the branches. Each one fixed him with blood-red eyes, cocking their heads in silent regard. Strangely, not a single caw broke the air; the usual cacophony was entirely absent.

Frankly, being stared at by hundreds of carrion crows would chill even the bravest apprentice. But what unsettled Grimm even more was their silence. On a normal day, a dozen of these birds would fill the area for miles with their harsh, raucous calls.

But today...

Judging by their posture, they looked like guests awaiting a banquet.

Grimm’s knowledge told him carrion crows only grew this patient and quiet when waiting for food. It was said that in wild deserts, these creatures could follow a dying traveler for days and nights, anticipating the moment he finally fell.

In the midst of this "welcome procession" of crows, Grimm walked the gravel path, surrounded by other malicious beings lurking in the shadows.

"Chip, can you scan for changes in the environment? I want to know what’s happening here." Unable to endure the oppressive atmosphere, Grimm finally issued a command to his chip.

"Beep. Initiating real-time scan... Establishing dynamic monitoring of the environment... Beep beep beep... Unidentified scent detected... Southeast direction... Distance: 500 meters..."

An unknown scent?

Prompted, Grimm drew a deep breath, searching for clues. Amid the musty, damp air, he finally detected a faint trace of blood. No wonder the monsters seemed so agitated! If he could pick up the scent, how much more easily would these creatures, with senses a hundred times keener, be riled?

By the calendar, today wasn’t the monthly "Open Day." Could an outsider have slipped in unnoticed?

Puzzled, Grimm quickly drained a bottle of Ailan Water, pulled up his hood, and hurried toward the southeast.

Ailan Water—a special potion brewed from the Ailan herb—could seal the pores and mask one’s scent, though its effects lasted only a short while.

...

The Whispering Garden.

Once a desolate and tranquil ruin, the abandoned garden now resembled a scene of utter horror.

Even before he drew close, the shrieks of infant fiends and the piercing wails of wraiths, mingled with the curses of human mercenaries, carried to Grimm’s ears. Yet what drew him most was the overwhelming stench of blood. Concealed by trees and weeds, Grimm crept toward the battlefield, soon finding a vantage point from which he could observe everything at close range.

Two groups were locked in combat.

The attackers were, of course, the terrifying infant fiends and wraiths that haunted this place. The defenders were a mercenary squad seventeen strong.

It was a disciplined, capable company, each member lithe and powerful, well-equipped with sturdy hardwood shields, arm bucklers, and round shields. Nearly all carried bows as well, making them more than a match for ordinary monsters.

Unfortunately, today they were surrounded by the Whispering Garden’s most dreadful denizens—the infant fiends.

These abominations had no legs; they crawled swiftly across the ground on razor-sharp claws, trailing long, umbilical cord-like appendages. Though their bodies resembled human infants, their faces were grotesque: layers of shriveled, dead skin piled atop each other, features squashed together into a mask of hideousness.

In the tall, knee-high weeds, the little monsters darted to and fro, their shrill curses and screams echoing without cease. Each wail set the mercenaries to panicked, terrified cries.

Don’t be fooled by their size. Each fiend possessed the strength of a grown man—at least five points of power. Their claws were truly fearsome; every time they leapt and struck a shield, they left deep gouges in the wood.

But their deadliest weapon was their cursed wail.

As Grimm arrived, the infant fiends were trying to break through the mercenaries’ shield wall. One after another, they crawled at alarming speed, then hurled themselves airborne, seeking to break into the defensive circle. Each time, the mercenaries repelled them with their bucklers. One unfortunate fiend was even pinned to the ground by a volley of arrows.

Yet, impaled through chest and belly, the fiend remained savage, clawing furiously at the earth and partially lifting its body to unleash a piercing wail at the nearest mercenary.

The sound was sharp enough to make others wince, but for the shield-bearer in its path, the effect was devastating. He dropped his shield, clapped both hands over his ears, and screamed in terror, "Help me... I can’t see anything...!"

As he yelled, twin streams of blood ran from his tightly shut eyes—a horrific sight.

At the same time, two more infant fiends burst from the grass, their grotesque, meaty faces twisted with glee, opening their shriveled, broken mouths to scream at the blinded mercenary.

Blindness, madness, and confusion!

Even a trained apprentice would struggle to resist the infant fiends’ curse, let alone these common mercenaries. Before his comrades could knock him out, the afflicted man had already gone berserk, crashing through the shield wall and staggering off blindly.

"No... Bazaar, come back!"

A middle-aged man, evidently the captain, shouted desperately, but it was too late.

From above, one could see the grass around the mercenary squad quiver, lines pressed down as the fiends darted inexorably toward the fleeing man.

"Bazaar!" a burly fellow threw aside his shield and hefted his axe, ready to rush to the rescue, but the captain seized his arm and held him back.

"Don’t go, Tuck! It’s too late..." The captain gripped the big man’s arm, his gaze sorrowfully following Bazaar’s retreating figure, his face etched with grief and helplessness.

No further warning was needed. In moments, Bazaar was overtaken and brought down by the infant fiends. His agonized cries lasted only a few heartbeats before being abruptly cut off, leaving only the sickening sounds of flesh being torn and devoured.

Though the tall grass hid the grisly feast from sight, the shaking weeds and dreadful noises were enough to paint an even more terrifying picture in the minds of the mercenaries. Inevitably, the resolve and will to fight to the death began to falter.

Suddenly, a fireball the size of a human head shot from the center of the mercenary formation, trailing black smoke, and exploded among the feasting infant fiends.

With a deafening roar, elemental flames surged and engulfed everything within ten meters, a wave of fire swallowing the monsters.

In a single blow, nearly twenty fiends perished. Fourteen caught in the center were instantly reduced to ash; those on the fringes were burned and wounded. The infant fiends’ shrieks of pain pierced the sky.

Fire magic?!

Hidden in the shadows, Grimm was momentarily stunned. His gaze darted through the mercenary ranks, quickly settling on three figures clad like himself.

Black hooded cloaks concealed their forms entirely, not an inch of flesh exposed. Judging by the build, there were likely two men and one woman.

Three apprentice sorcerers abroad?

Unable to see their faces and thus judge their strength, Grimm dared not act rashly. He covertly produced a magical amulet and reported the situation to the Wizard’s Tower.

Meanwhile, the infant fiends, stung by their losses, summoned their spectral allies.

The wraiths that dwelled with the monsters were hardly lowly skeletons or zombies, but powerful beings of malice and vengeful will. They retained a vaguely human shape, but lacked corporeal bodies, shifting between substance and shadow, making them immune to most physical attacks and defenses.

They appeared as swirling phantoms: their heads distinctly human, their arms ending in wicked ghostly claws, while their lower halves faded into mist, as if their legs had melted into the void.

As these beings swept from the woods, their bone-chilling wails filled the air, and the temperature plummeted.

With dozens of wraiths nearly blotting out the sky, the mercenaries’ defensive circle shattered instantly.

The incorporeal wraiths brazenly surged into the throng, ignoring swords, shields, and spears. Their icy claws tore bloody furrows in human flesh, while some passed straight into the mercenaries’ bodies, possessing them and turning them against their comrades.

With the breach thus made, infant fiends poured into the melee, shattering morale with their accursed wails and dragging victims into the tall grass to be devoured.

The scene grew ever more chaotic and bloody.