What did despair feel like?
Rolf felt that he knew the answer.
The Brotherhood's barmaid—he still didn't know Yala's name—had crushed his windpipe with a vicious grip. The rending pain felt as though it had happened only five minutes ago.
And ever since then, it felt as if he had been enduring that agony every moment.
Blood was flooding backward from his throat into his lungs.
Excruciating pain spread from his throat to his brain.
Even his airway had been blocked.
He couldn't speak.
He couldn't breathe.
He couldn't move.
Like a heavily wounded stray dog, slowly dying, he had been casually discarded on Red Quarter.
Whether he died from pain, suffocation, or choking, his death was near.
Only the instinct to survive, forged by his childhood wandering through the Kormas League, compelled him to cling to life.
He, a Psion who commanded the wind, used his powers again and again, like squeezing a sponge, forcing air thick with dust, blood, and filth into his lungs through his torn throat, one mouthful after another.
Then he squeezed his exhaled breath out through another wound in his neck.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Every "breath" came with inhuman agony, like the torment of traveling back and forth between the Prison River and the world of the living.
Using a supernatural power to cling to life and prolong his own existence—he was probably the first person to do that, Rolf thought bitterly.
Rolf felt like a stray dog clinging to a sewer drain and fishing out garbage to survive.
The barmaid left.
The Green Skin left.
Several groups of thugs passed by his gravely wounded body.
A scout rolled him over and tested his nose and mouth.
A heaven-shaking explosion reached his ears.
Rolf ignored everything.
He merely used his powers on instinct, "breathing" one mouthful after another through the agony.
Until dawn.
Until Numino, retreating in a panic, carried his "corpse" away.
Numino, the coward universally acknowledged among the Twelve Supremes, a country hunter by origin—Rolf had always looked down on him. Mocking, humiliating, and bullying him within the gang had been one of Rolf the Wind Ghost's favorite pastimes.
The irony was that this coward he had despised was the one who had "collected his corpse" at the final moment.
Rolf was jolted awake by the terrible pain shooting through both legs.
He opened his eyes in the Vigilant Hall morgue, his hands bound tightly behind him.
Then he saw Nekla.
The head of the Blood Bottle Gang's eight cadres—though he didn't know that five had already been lost in Red Quarter—"Red Viper," Nekla.
But Nekla merely stared at him with a complicated expression before shaking his head with disgust and ferocity.
"You're one of the few members of the Blood Bottle Gang who survived." Red Viper's voice was distant and gloomy.
Rolf struggled, trying to make a sound. He endured the agony in his throat, but could only produce meaningless "huh-huh" noises.
Agonizing pain surged through his knees!
Below his knees, however, he felt nothing at all.
"Look at you, Rolf. The strongest of the Twelve Supremes, the only Transcendent Rank expert."
"That outstanding, proud, arrogant, promising—Rolf the Wind Ghost."
"The young man whom Lady Catherine proudly recommended to the Air Elementalist, a man with an unlimited future."
Red Viper gently patted his face again and again. His eyes still held disgust and complicated emotions as he spoke mockingly:
"And now you're lying here like a corpse. You can't speak, breathe, move, or eat."
"Why are you still alive?"
Red Viper's brows knitted together, and his expression turned ugly and frenzied.
"Why did you survive instead of Kex, Song, Spinn, or Dorno? Why did it have to be you? Why did a man of Catherine's survive instead of one of mine?"
Rolf's eyes widened. He struggled furiously and painfully, but the double agony and his crippled body held him back.
Red Viper restrained his anger, then burst into loud laughter. He was delighted, joyful, and utterly sick.
"The Blood Bottle Gang suffered heavy losses, and my own forces were badly damaged too," he said softly. "If everyone had survived, perhaps Catherine could have stepped over me and risen to power. Who knows?"
But Nekla's expression twisted viciously.
"But how can a Wind Ghost who can't speak, has no legs, and is gravely wounded and dying serve her?"
"So," Nekla said, reaching out and brutally gripping Rolf's knee, the wound forcibly cauterized to stop the bleeding by flames.
"You might as well have died in battle and vanished!"
"Ugh—" Rolf squeezed his eyes shut in agony and desperately struggled with his powerless, grievously wounded body—not to break free, but to lessen the unbearable pain in his knee even a little.
Even the wind-based Psion power he relied on to "breathe" was nearly interrupted!
"I've had a terrible day. I've run into obstacles everywhere while cleaning up the aftermath," Nekla sighed, continuing, "but solving you and eliminating a genius Catherine valued has made me feel quite happy."
Seeing the hatred, pain, and fury in Rolf's eyes, Nekla smiled apologetically and helplessly.
"There's nothing I can do. 'They' specified that they wanted a Transcendent Rank expert and stressed that your wrists had to be left intact for blood collection. Otherwise, what I really wanted to cut off was your hand, not your leg."
He patted Rolf's face one last time and whispered into his ear, "I hope you enjoy your time with the Vampires."
Nekla's footsteps faded into the distance. Two Blood Bottle Gang thugs came over. One picked up a three-inch-long copper needle with a tube, while the other grabbed Rolf's limp wrist.
In that instant, Rolf experienced despair in its fullest depth.
Tales stared blankly at Rolf.
He had the urge to ask what had happened to Yala afterward, and what the outcome of their battle had been. Had Yala escaped? Why had Rolf become like this? Wasn't he a member of the Blood Bottle Gang?
But Tales hesitated.
Because he saw Rolf as he was now.
He saw a legless man with unfocused eyes, able to express his emotions only through meaningless cries, despair, pain, regret, and sorrow mingling in his gaze.
He still remembered Rolf from the previous night.
Flippant, confident, proud, and exceptionally skilled.
He had moved freely through the endless gale, leaving behind his signature laughter.
But now?
"Hu-hu—ugh—" Rolf squeezed his eyes shut again and began to groan in pain.
The carefree, sharp-tongued, fearless Wind Ghost of the past was gone.
His lips were bluish-black and dry, making his severe dehydration obvious. But Tales couldn't find any water, nor could he be sure whether Rolf was still capable of swallowing in his condition.
Tales didn't even know how he was breathing.
The boy merely sat dazedly to one side, watching Rolf suffer, struggle, and cling miserably to life.
In the second year after Tales had crossed over, a female beggar had had both legs broken by Quade. The poor girl had wailed for an entire night before she died.
Tales had still been ignorant then, having recovered only a handful of memories. Horrified and terrified by the world's cruelty, he could only hide in a hole in the wall and tremble.
So, in his sleep, he had vaguely listened to that girl wail throughout the night.
It felt just like now.
Afterward, it wasn't as if he had never wondered why he hadn't had the courage to end that girl's suffering back then.
Tales looked at Rolf's inhuman appearance, and his heart grew heavy.
No matter how great a person's sins, no one deserves to suffer like this, he told himself.
In the end, Tales still sighed, crawled over to Rolf's side, and spoke softly:
"Rolf."
"Midira Rolf."
Although his consciousness had gradually grown hazy, Rolf's pupils instinctively focused at that moment.
Who is it?
Who could still remember me?
An abandoned cripple waiting to die?
Tales gently drew JC's dagger and slowly pressed it against Rolf's neck.
"I know you're in a great deal of pain right now, enduring torment and suffering beyond anything an ordinary person can imagine."
"And I can end your life and help free you from all of this."
Rolf's breathing through his throat and supernatural power suddenly grew disordered.
Torment.
Suffering.
Freedom?
"But I have to ask you seriously and cautiously, Midira Rolf. Do you want me to free you from your suffering now?"
"If you do, blink once."
"If you don't—"
"I'll ask only this once."
Tales waited heavily for Rolf's response.
In the dimness, Rolf stared fixedly at the blurred outline of the boy before him.
Freedom.
Rolf felt the agonizing pain stretching from his throat to his knees. Every "breath" tore open the wound in his throat, and every struggle tugged at the severed ends of his knees.
He was thirsty, hungry, cold, and in pain. Worst of all was the despair.
He remembered the feeling of the wind drifting around him. He remembered killing someone with his powers for the first time, entering the gang for the first time, receiving his first reward from his superiors, becoming a man for the first time atop that frail girl, and meeting the Air Elementalist for the first time, like a pilgrim before a sacred figure.
He remembered the fear in his enemies' eyes, the obedience in his companions' gazes, the approving expression of "her," and the pride and satisfaction curling the corners of his mouth when he heard people whispering about the "Twelve Supremes."
That had been his glory.
And he had lost all of it forever.
Hadn't he?
In the next instant, Rolf's gaze hardened. He desperately drove his sharply weakened supernatural power and "sucked" a breath into his half-crippled body.
Then Rolf the Wind Ghost trembled and used all his strength, enduring the pain of scraping against the clamps on either side as he strained to lift his head and look seriously at Tales.
He was preparing to blink.
One blink would be enough.
Just one!
Tales saw Rolf's upper and lower eyelids tremble, slowly drawing together.
Tales sighed inwardly and gradually tightened his grip on the dagger.
But Rolf's eyelids merely trembled and stopped at the center of his eyes.
They remained a hair's breadth from closing.
For a long time.
For a very long time.
Images, familiar and strange, flashed before the former Wind Ghost's eyes: barren fields, filthy dirt roads, stray dogs everywhere, and swarms of flies.
That was his childhood, clinging miserably to life in the countryside of the Kormas League.
That time, he had fought a pack of stray dogs over a piece of black bread almost devoured by flies.
Those stray dogs had been vicious, Rolf thought quietly in the Dungeon.
Their deafening roars, their savage bites that stopped at nothing, their frantic strength—and yet—Rolf unconsciously licked his upper teeth.
That bread had tasted terrible.
In Tales's eyes, Rolf's face twisted as it trembled.
His eyelids slowly relaxed, opened, and returned to their previous angle.
"Thud!"
Between the two clamps, the head Rolf had struggled to hold up suddenly fell backward as though deflated, his skull striking the ground.
In the end, he hadn't blinked.
Tales silently exhaled and slowly lowered the dagger in his hand.
But Rolf seemed unaware of the pain in the back of his head or the scrapes on his cheeks.
His twisted face began to tremble slightly along with his head.
"Ugh-ugh—ugh—"
This wasn't a groan.
Tales couldn't help freezing.
He saw Rolf shut his eyes in pain, his face trembling as transparent liquid continuously slid down from both eyes.
"Ugh-ugh—"
The sound was muffled and filled with grief.
He was crying.
The Wind Ghost, this once-powerful and glorious Psion, man, and Warrior.
He was actually shedding tears and weeping.
Whether it was for his own cowardice or his present suffering, no one could say.
Like an ordinary person, a normal person, even a somewhat weak-willed commoner.
As if he could bear no more.
Crying.
Tales could only stare blankly.
He watched the man, unable to speak or breathe normally, collapse to the ground and sob bitterly after giving up his chance at release.
Tales turned his head away in sorrow, but his grip on the dagger tightened and tightened.
Ensorra, Nide, Kellit.
The nameless beggar children who had died in the Sixth House surfaced before his eyes one by one.
He thought about his own situation. He thought about Gilbert and Yordel.
The boy furrowed his brows, then lowered his head to look at his hand. The freshly opened wound felt strangely familiar, just like the scorching heat that had seared his body moments ago.
At that moment, something seemed to settle in the depths of his heart.
Tales leaned close to Rolf's ear for the second time.
"I understand."
He spoke softly.
Rolf was still sobbing miserably.
"Then, are you willing to break free of these shackles?"
Rolf's sobbing paused. It did not stop, but gradually grew quieter.
The little girl wailing with a broken leg appeared before Tales' eyes, along with nearly every child who had died in the Ruined House over the past four years.
Screams and wails rang out again beyond the cell.
This damned world.
Tales did not know what exactly awaited them in the Dungeon, but his gaze at Rolf grew simpler and clearer.
Then Tales looked seriously at the Wind Ghost, who could no longer rise with the wind, and continued decisively:
"Break free of these shackles, then carry this broken body and keep struggling in this world. Keep scraping by."
"See just how cruel it can be."
"Are you willing?"
Rolf stopped crying.
His head could not move. He could only turn his gaze and stare blankly at the boy beside him.
He heard the boy say, one word at a time:
"This may not be freedom."
"The price may be enormous. You might even die immediately."
"And I'm only doing this for myself."
Tales lowered his head and spoke slowly:
"But I can try to give you a chance—to leave these shackles and struggle once more."
"Are you willing?"
Rolf stared fixedly into the boy's eyes.
Although tears still lingered in his eyes, he suddenly felt like laughing.
The pain in his throat and knees seemed to gradually grow numb.
Those wild dogs.
Those wild dogs that fought him for bread.
The fate of those wild dogs—Rolf struggled to "breathe" in a breath, and inexplicable delight welled up in his heart—their fate:
It was truly miserable.
Lying on the ground, Rolf shakily raised his eyes again and stared steadily at Tales.
The next moment, the Wind Ghost slowly, yet unmistakably,
blinked once.
Everyone blinked countless times in their lives.
It was utterly unremarkable.
But just now, Rolf might have blinked the most important time of his life.
Rolf slowly lowered his head.
Tales smiled, dispelling much of the gloom in his heart, and nodded lightly.
"Good. I understand."
"Originally, I thought His Highness had awakened ahead of time."
"But it seems that isn't the case."
On the third floor of Weed Manor, Chris frowned deeply in a dim room.
In front of him stood a brown-black stone coffin connected to countless blood-transfusion tubes, covered in intricate patterns and enormous in size—fully as tall as a person, three meters wide, and six meters long.
At that moment, vibrations constantly echoed from inside the Giant Coffin.
"I tried connecting to His Highness's consciousness, but the feedback is still nothing but chaos. There's only the instinct to hunger and kill—no matter how much we soothe or communicate with him, it's always the same!" Chris set down one of the blood vessels, his expression growing heavier and heavier.
"If this continues, His Highness will exhaust his remaining energy and blood ahead of time!"
Rolana's face was filled with shock. The red-haired Blood Race said nervously, "Something must have stimulated His Highness, but we clearly haven't done anything!"
A sharp glint flashed through Chris's eyes. They held none of their former deadness or dryness. The Old Man said decisively, "It wasn't us!"
"His Highness only began reacting like this five minutes ago. At that time—"
Chris's expression suddenly changed. Remembering something, he abruptly turned around and shouted at the grim-faced Istrone behind him:
"That fledgling!"
"We can smell the fragrance of his blood even through two floors, and His Highness's sense of smell is even keener—where is that fledgling?"
Istrone, visibly unsettled, looked at the agitated Chris and answered instinctively:
"He seemed to accidentally cut himself just now, then pulled out the blood tube from that half-crippled Transcendent Rank, and said some strange things. I didn't listen carefully, and then he—"
Chris, expressionless, did not listen to Istrone's explanation. The suspicious Giant Coffin continued to emit vibrations and muffled thuds. The Old Man bluntly interrupted Istrone:
"Bring that fledgling up—no, Isa, you stay here. Have Rolana go."
Watching the Giant Coffin vibrate more and more frequently, an unusual spark flashed through Chris's eyes.
"What His Highness craves is precisely his blood."
"This plan is very risky," Tales calmly explained to Rolf on the ground. He seemed to have returned to the Sixth House, doing everything in his power to protect those innocent, blameless beggar children who had been born to suffer in the Prison River.
"But sitting here waiting for a miracle and surrendering without resistance is clearly even more foolish."
Rolf merely watched the boy, whose gaze was clearly unlike that of an ordinary person, and laboriously "sucked" in a breath of air.
That serious expression of his—Rolf laughed inwardly. He's no worse than Big Sis.
The Wind Ghost did not realize that after experiencing the choice between life and death, he had already let go of much.
Tales continued explaining calmly, as if the person speaking was not himself:
"I don't know how much strength you have left, but I estimate it isn't much. And that Old Man's strength—"
"So neither a reckless adventure nor passive waiting suits our current situation. Our best—and only—opportunity is to wait until my reinforcements arrive. The instant they break through the door—"
"You won't live to see your reinforcements, you Short-Lived Species brat."
A cold female voice interrupted Tales.
Rolf's expression instantly tightened.
Tales froze for a moment, then turned around in disbelief toward the cell door.
Outside the bars, Lorraine Corleone wore a lively riding outfit. With the slender, graceful index finger of her right hand, she seductively traced her lips, while her left hand, transformed into a terrifying claw, violently tore open the lock on the cell door!
"Istrone told you, didn't he? We can hear everything you do."
"Little gentleman who toyed with Istrone," Lorraine chuckled, as if teasing him. Swaying her alluring, slender waist, she stepped gracefully and seductively into the cell through the open door. "What a pity. If you were a few years older, perhaps even I would be bewitched by you."
"But now, you're going to become His Highness's rich and fragrant recharging drink—perhaps lovely Lorraine might even get a taste?"
Watching Lorraine appear without warning, Tales understood that she could subdue him at any moment.
The boy let out a deep sigh, sincere yet regretful.
"Rolf," he said evenly, without the slightest hint of panic. "I need ten seconds."
Ten seconds?
Lorraine suddenly felt uneasy.
She remembered Istrone being deceived.
What trump card could he still have? That half-crippled Transcendent Rank trapped to death by the Nightwing Stone Shackles?
But Lorraine, whose mind was full of schemes, refused to take the risk. Her expression instantly grew sharp and decisive.
What a little brat, trying to be mysterious.
Her alluring figure flickered and appeared before Tales in an instant!
Once His Highness drains you into a dried-up corpse, you'll still—
But at that moment, a strange gale suddenly swept through the narrow cell!
"Whoosh!"
The firelight swayed wildly, flickering several times before dimming!
The gale blew Lorraine three steps backward. Startled, she hurriedly seized the bars beside her and planted herself firmly.
Is this—Psion power?
Impossible. This child can't be a Psion.
Then that means—
Lorraine struggled to look toward Tales' side. The Transcendent Rank expert locked firmly to the ground by the Nightwing Stone Shackles—
It's him!
Even in this state, he still has some strength left.
It's useless.
Lorraine relaxed with relief and thought happily, Locked up like that and heavily wounded, even if it's his Psion power, how long can it last?
As for that little fledgling playing tricks... Even if I have to endure Chris's reprimand, I'll taste him first.
I'll make sure you remember it, Lorraine thought viciously.
"Then let's begin."
Tales looked at Lorraine, obstructed by the fierce wind, and calmly reversed his dagger.
Ten.
Under Rolf's bewildered gaze, he gripped the blade's tip with his unharmed right hand.
Nine.
"Good luck to both of us," he said.
Eight.
My first magic-energy experiment.
Seven.
Begin.
Six.
Tales stared at the black stone shackles on Rolf's body.
Rolf's face flushed as he stared fixedly at Lorraine, the gale raging without pause.
Lorraine gripped the bars beside her with a cold expression. Her left hand began to change, transforming into a terrifying, crimson claw.
Five.
I'm going to break his shackles, Tales thought silently.
I'm going to save this man who has already lost everything.
Four.
If my prediction is correct—
In his mind, Tales recalled scene after scene from the brink of life and death:
Quade's hand closing around his throat.
Ashida's hand gently tightening.
And a swath of blood in that distant memory, along with the gentle chuuni whose name he could not recall.
Three.
Tales clenched his teeth, closed his eyes, and suddenly seized the metal lock with his right hand!
Scorching heat surged from the metal.
But he gritted his teeth and endured it.
Lorraine sensed something.
She turned in surprise and discovered that the bars beneath her hand were actually vibrating!
What's happening? the female Blood Race thought in panic.
That half-crippled fellow—could he have multiple Psion powers?
Two.
"Crack—"
The bars shattered into countless fragments along with Lorraine's hand!
Unable to keep her footing, Lorraine clutched the severed end of her arm and shrieked as the gale formed by Psion power instantly blew her out of the Dungeon.
One.
In his ear came Lorraine's sharp, frenzied roar.
Scorching heat surged over him.
Zero.
Light... Tales thought, his consciousness blurring.
So much light.
In the room on the third floor where the Giant Coffin was kept, Chris suddenly wore a strange expression.
"What is Rolana trying to do?" he asked coldly, looking toward the Giant Coffin that kept emitting dull thuds.
"Perhaps she wants to test them with her mouth first," Istrone replied cautiously. He sensed the tension emanating from this lord and continued, "She's always had a thing for the delicacies at hand—no! They're—"
Istrone's words were cut off by the astonished expressions that appeared on both their faces as the outside world interrupted them.
Boom!
From underground came an explosion-like roar!
A cloud of dust suddenly swept in through the direction of the door.
The expressions of the old and young Blood Race members changed in unison as they exchanged a glance.
Something had happened in the Dungeon.
The next moment, they appeared outside the manor!
The instant Istrone saw the scene before him, he opened his mouth wide in shock, completely losing his composure.
There, beneath the moonlight—
The tattooed Short-Lived Species of Transcendent Rank who had no legs.
The former Rolf the Wind Ghost, Midira Rolf.
Had already broken free of every restraint.
He was clutching the Short-Lived Species' little cub tightly, his face set with determination as the raging wind carried him—
Through the air.
Not far away, Gilbert's expression changed as he rode at full speed with thirty Terminus Swordsmen.
"The Bloodline Lamp," he murmured to the Female Official beside him amid the rushing wind.
Jinnie, jolting on horseback, stared gravely at the lamp in Gilbert's arms.
Its flame had turned red.
And tilted to one side.
"That direction—" Gilbert recalled something, his expression growing solemn.
"That's the Cavendish Family's Weed Manor!"
The Female Official roared and lashed her mount.
"Who cares whose property it is!"
"Even if the Walton Family of Exeter is ahead—"
"—we'll kill our way in!"
Gilbert nodded, resolve and fierceness appearing on his face.
"Everyone, follow me and turn!"
"Don't worry about conserving the horses' strength!"
"Speed up!"
"Prepare for battle!"
If you're enjoying this book, feel free to add it to your collection and leave a recommendation to support this new author and this niche fantasy novel beyond the usual monster-slaying and leveling-up stories.
If you have any comments or questions, feel free to offer your guidance in the review section or join the group for discussion.—by Wu Jian, looking very serious