Interrogation

At nightfall, High Mountain Keep lit a roaring bonfire, its orange-red glow shining through the starless night.

Mental tension or excitement made one's stamina drain rapidly, so fighting was actually more exhausting than any hard labor. Even the hulking barbarians built like mountains of flesh and the centaurs were all listless after the battle, and most had gone back to their rooms to rest.

Only a handful of the most energetic beasts were still forcing themselves to stay awake and watch the excitement. Richard was one of them.

A log stood beside the bonfire, with a length of hemp rope hanging from it and the Kobold Shaman suspended upside down.

War itself had never been the goal. The goal was what war could bring. Since they had defeated the bandits, taking over their tribe's population, livestock, and property was only natural. That was the eternal law of survival in the wilderness.

Doing so required information, and the source of that information naturally fell to the most revered figure among the bandits: the Kobold Shaman.

That afternoon, Richard had planted one hand on his hip and struck a commanding pose as he issued the highest directive—overcome every obstacle and pry open the Kobold Shaman's mouth, contributing bricks and tiles to the great cause of High Mountain Keep.

As the saying went, when the superior moved his mouth, the subordinate ran his legs off.

Hert had used a whip, while Gunther had been even more vicious and brought out the leg spreader.

The two of them were afraid of killing the Kobold Shaman, so they had not dared to use their full strength. Even so, working from afternoon until night had left both of them sweating profusely.

Shamans were not as frail as human mages. Their system of cultivation included strengthening the body. Thus, the old kobold was still stubbornly enduring. Though the torture had brought him such pain that he could no longer even howl, he still refused to speak.

He was especially afraid of death. Since he feared being executed after talking, people like him could sometimes endure tortures that ordinary people could not.

Growing impatient with waiting, Richard stepped in personally. He grabbed the kobold by the collar and merely slapped him once on each cheek. The stubborn Kobold Shaman immediately submitted.

When he opened his mouth, not a single one of his sharp teeth remained. They all fell out one by one, mixed with bloody saliva.

"Name?"

"Nehru."

"What the hell is this?" Richard shook the Skin Scroll used when releasing the Bloodlust Art.

"A Skin Scroll. It's equivalent to your human magic scrolls." Both of Nehru's cheeks visibly swelled until each was as thick as a palm.

A kobold's teeth could regrow, but the courage knocked out of him could not.

"Monster hide?"

"No." Nehru obediently began spilling everything he knew. "We kobolds have a very thin Red Dragon Bloodline. More than a decade ago, there was a deformed child with an unusually high concentration of dragon blood, but he died a few days after birth. I peeled off his skin for the base, burned his bones into ash for pigment, and made this Skin Scroll."

"This guy sure knows how to flatter himself." Gunther muttered to the people around him, and Hert nodded vigorously.

Kobolds had always liked to claim that they possessed a thin dragon bloodline. It was hard to say whether it was true or not. But even if it was, so what? It could not change their cowardly and useless state in the slightest. Kobolds were still kobolds.

"What a coincidence. A few days ago, I met a Dragon-blooded Goblin." Richard idly speculated that perhaps a dragon really had once been active in this region—and had possessed exceptionally unique tastes when it came to sowing its seed.

"I know him. We fought in the winter before, and both sides suffered some losses."

"You're honest. Honesty is a valuable quality." Richard drew his longsword. Before the kobold could react, a flash of sword light severed the ropes binding his hands and feet.

The blade that skimmed his skin shocked Nehru into breaking out in a cold sweat. He instinctively wanted to open his mouth and curse, but at the last moment before the words escaped, he realized that his situation was dire and forcibly swallowed them back.

"How many people are currently left behind in your tribe? How strong are they?"

"None."

"Tell the truth!" Hert raised his hand and lashed him with a whip, striking the kobold's nose, the spot most sensitive to pain. Nehru let out a howl and collapsed to the ground.

"Really, there are none! Your warriors defeated all the strongest fighters. The ones left behind are even less of a match for you."

"Be more specific." Richard spread out a sheet of straw paper and held a half-burned stick as a charcoal pencil.

By common sense, the troops left behind were naturally weaker than the main force sent out to fight. But his experience in the arena of the Southern Province had taught him many things. For example, caution was always a virtue.

As Nehru spoke, Richard took notes. This information could only serve as a reference. When the time came, they would still have to scout. That was how marching and warfare worked: the slightest carelessness could cause them to capsize in a ditch, and once they did, there would be no hope of recovery.

"By the way." The night had grown deeper, and Richard was getting somewhat drowsy. He planned to ask one last question before returning to sleep.

"Are Shaman Wizards common in the wilderness?"

"Not particularly. Only a few races—us kobolds, trolls, and Minotaurs—produce them in relatively large numbers. Shamans from other races are rarely seen." Nehru paused, then continued, "Oh, right. Ogres have also produced quite a few shamans, but their brains are too stupid, like wooden clubs."

He felt somewhat aggrieved. A dignified shaman had actually been captured by a warrior who knew nothing about shamanic magic. His pride as a wielder of the elements was acting up, but reality forced him to bow his head.

Richard suppressed a yawn halfway through and leaned forward to stare at Nehru. "Then what spells can you use?"

"We kobolds have a Red Dragon Bloodline, so we generally master fire elements. Minotaurs seem to mostly use earth elements. I haven't dealt with trolls, so I don't know much about them. But as for the specific spells, it depends on the individual. Even if it's—"

"What about the Ogres!" Richard impatiently interrupted Nehru, who kept missing the point.

"Ogres can master all kinds of spells, and their power is often astonishing. But their talent frequently harms them, because they're too stupid and too curious. Supposedly, after most Ogres become shamans, they accidentally play themselves to death with magic within ten days at most."

What Nehru had told was the most popular joke in shaman circles. In the past, merely telling it would instantly send everyone into hysterics. But the lord of High Mountain Keep stood with his arms folded and an indifferent expression, clearly showing not the slightest intention of laughing.

Thus, the Kobold Shaman immediately felt that his wisdom had been desecrated and once again lamented his unfortunate fate inwardly.

"Good. Very good."

Richard suddenly slapped his thigh and approvingly gave the old kobold a thumbs-up.

An idea was gradually taking shape in his mind, but he still did not know whether it would work. He would have to find some time to test it.

Just as Nehru happily thought that he was finally about to receive some recognition, Richard picked up a length of hemp rope and personally bound him tightly into a dumpling.

The lord of High Mountain Keep was an ignorant bumpkin with little experience. He was both curious and wary of things like magic. Worried that the Kobold Shaman might curse him or use venomous insects against him at night, he simply tied up the kobold's hands and feet and hung him from a stick like a suspended pig.