Chapter 1401: A Tuft of Rat Fur
The master said that the so-called Great Horned Legion was nothing but a rabble, unworthy of having wolf warriors deal with them personally.
Having us "good ratfolk" eliminate those "bad ratfolk" was rather evenly matched—making use of waste.
It was also the perfect way for us to prove our loyalty to the master and the ancestral spirits.
The master said that as long as I proved my ability and loyalty, I would no longer have to be a tomb robber. I could cast off the name "Corpse Eating Dog," become a true warrior, and earn the right to join the Era of Glory.
And so, I was given a battered Bone Blade and a shield made from a giant tortoise shell, then muddleheadedly sent onto the battlefield alongside the other tomb robbers.
For me, killing "bad ratfolk" carried no psychological burden.
After all, "ratfolk" was merely a collective term. Different bloodlines flowed through our veins, and we came in all manner of strange, varied shapes. It was truly hard to feel that we were on the same side.
Even if they really were my own people, I believed that death was a blessing to both "good ratfolk" and "bad ratfolk." Living was the endless suffering.
I sharpened my Bone Blade again and again.
I made sure its edge was sharp enough to slit the throats of the "bad ratfolk" across from me in a single stroke, so these strangers who were nevertheless my kin could find release as quickly and painlessly as possible.
And I hoped to meet an opponent as particular as myself, one who would give my throat a clean, decisive slash and let me die sooner rather than later.
Unfortunately, the master had not been wrong.
This ratfolk rebel army