Shaman Sorcerer

It was difficult to hide anything within the chaotic formation of several hundred people, and Richard immediately spotted an old, hunched-over Kobold Shaman lurking among the bandits.

It was hard to say whether he was a good leader or simply too foolish.

Even as the bandits descended into utter chaos, his Werewolf guards remained fiercely loyal, clearly distinguishable from the common bandits around them and drawing immediate attention.

The old Kobold Shaman's face was smeared with bright, mottled paints, and several skulls of small wild animals like rats and rabbits hung from his neck. In his hand, he cluthed a curved brown wooden staff.

Every single feature on him immediately linked him to the concept of a Wilderness Shaman.

He held one hand flat, constantly scattering colorful spices with the other, all while gesticulating wildly and muttering incantations. When Richard saw him, the ritual was just nearing its end.

The falling spice powders began to burn intensely in mid-air, turning into ash, while glittering sparks, like swallows returning to their nests, gradually converged above his palm.

Under the constraint of some force, the invisible fire gained a distinct outline, forming a perfectly round fireball. Pale green flames constantly rose and swirled, yet remained contained around the fireball.

"Magic…" Richard's brows furrowed as he watched the glowing, heat-emitting orb.

The old Kobold Shaman revealed a sinister smile. With a gentle flick of his claw-like hand, the fireball instantly transformed from static to dynamic, tracing a straight path through the air directly towards the knight on the back of the giant beast.

Without a second thought, Richard swung his lance, hitting the fireball mid-air as if batting a baseball.

With a resounding boom, it was like shattering a container full of magma. Golden-red, scorching molten material exploded outwards, scattering everywhere.

The lance in Richard's hand immediately shattered into several pieces, and some of the splashes were so hot they seared the very plates of his armor red. The Iron-eating Armadillo, thick-skinned as it was, let out a painful cry for the first time. The extremely high-temperature molten fire had burned through its scales, scorching the tender flesh beneath.

The Barbarians were lucky; their position was slightly behind Richard, so they were almost completely unaffected.

The most miserable were the wasteland bandits directly beneath the explosion. How could they possibly escape a rain of fire falling from above?

Their greasy, dirty fur began to burn, large chunks of flesh peeled raw from their bones, and desperate, shrill screams, like the wails of demons from the abyss, spread out accompanied by the pungent smell of burning fat.

This turn of events clearly far exceeded the old Kobold Shaman's expectations. He stared dumbfounded at the carnage of dead and wounded, frantically tugging at the few remaining hairs on his head. He couldn't comprehend why his most prized magic had become a joke in front of his opponent.

He forcefully pushed away the bandit supporting him, angrily slammed his wooden staff to the ground, and pulled out a thin black piece of leather from his waist, tearing it apart with force.

Even with Richard's dulled perception of magic, he sensed a clear elemental fluctuation. A red band of light, like a veil, drifted from the two halves of the torn leather.

The bandits' morale had already plummeted after taking a fireball, but as they were enveloped by this red light, their muscles began to swell, fangs protruded from the corners of their mouths, and scarlet blood vessels slowly permeated the whites of their eyes.

"Bloodlust Art!" Richard exclaimed in surprise.

It was an absolute low-probability event for a shaman capable of wielding elemental power to awaken within aboriginal tribes.

Due to a lack of proper lineage and relying solely on innate talent, their witchcraft was often far inferior to the diverse magic of humans. If there was one thing shamans were stronger at than mages, it was undoubtedly this group-buffing Bloodlust Art.

Though not a high-level spell, its effects were quite practical. When cast on allied warriors, it could unleash their physical potential and awaken the bestial nature hidden deep within their consciousness. If intelligent beings are defined by humanity layered over animality, then this spell's effect was undoubtedly to strip away that layer of humanity.

Even the most harmless rabbit-folk, when imbued with Bloodlust Art, would use their incisors to bite through a wild wolf's intestines, though they would likely die of exhaustion once the effect wore off.

Because its effects were so gory and evil, this spell had a terrible reputation in human society, but the wilderness aboriginals didn't care about such things; as long as it worked well, that was enough.

The bandits slowly approached, clutching their weapons, the last glimmer of reason flickering and struggling in their eyes.

Bloodlust Art injected them with illusory courage; the bloodthirsty beast within them was gnashing its teeth and salivating, but this courage was still insufficient to counter the fear Richard inspired.

Their comrades, whose internal organs were splattered and who had died in grotesque ways, were using their lives to remind them what a terrifying butcher this knight truly was.

The Barbarian warriors accompanying him were also formidable opponents, skilled and precise with their spears, and astonishingly strong. They were clearly the elite of the elite, the ace of aces.

The bandits even felt aggrieved—originally, only incompetent noble scoundrels would come to this godforsaken place to expand, so why weren't these capable individuals going to more prosperous lands instead!

Sitting on the back of a giant beast three blades high at the shoulder, attacking enemies on the ground required a long-handled weapon, and his lance was already destroyed.

Richard discarded the remaining half of the lance handle and simply jumped off Windchaser's back, drawing the longsword from his waist. Some foolish bandits, seeing this terrifying butcher dismount, thought they had found an opportunity and charged forward, brandishing their weapons.

The sharp blade was as swift as lightning. Most of them only saw an extremely bright flash of light before their consciousness slowly sank into nothingness.

Richard roared and charged straight towards the Kobold Shaman.

The agitated bandits could no longer hold back, howling and swarming forward like hyenas sighting fresh meat.

Upward chops, sideways swings, downward thrusts—the sheer cutting power generated by his titanic strength and the sword forged from astral steel was unimaginable. The sensation of the blade slicing through flesh was clean and crisp. The huddled bandits were as fragile as straw under a scythe; limbs flew, and blood splattered.

It wasn't that there were no skilled martial artists who tried to block, but the only result was being split in half, person and weapon alike. And the bandits' attacks against his triple layer of heavy armor merely sparked, having no effect whatsoever.

He soon found he could no longer step on solid ground, as shattered bodies and severed limbs covered every inch of it. The efficiency of this slaughter was akin to mowing grass.

Every step Richard and the Barbarians took sent swathes of bandits falling. Their fighting spirit wasn't weak, but in the face of such a disparity in strength, their fervent determination only made them die faster.

The Kobold Shaman turned and tried to flee without a word, but the bandits, imbued with Bloodlust Art, had no reason left to heed the pleas of a little old man. They squeezed him tightly in the middle, leaving him unable to move.