Interrogation

As night fell, a roaring bonfire was lit at High Mountain Keep, casting an orange-red glow into the starless night.

Mental stress or excitement can rapidly deplete physical energy, so combat is actually more tiring than any heavy labor. Even the Barbarians, as massive as mountains of flesh, and the Centaurs were listless after the battle, most having returned to their quarters to rest.

Only a select few of the most energetic individuals still managed to stay awake and watch the commotion, Richard among them.

Next to the bonfire, a log stood upright, and a Kobold Shaman hung upside down from it by a rope.

War itself is never the objective; the objective is the gains it can bring. Since the bandits had been defeated, it was natural to take over their tribe's population, livestock, and property. This was the unchanging law of survival in the wilderness.

Doing so required intelligence, and the source of that intelligence naturally fell to the most esteemed individual among the bandits, the Kobold Shaman.

In the afternoon, Richard, with one hand on his hip, struck a commanding pose and issued a supreme directive: overcome all difficulties to pry open the Kobold Shaman's mouth and contribute to the great cause of High Mountain Keep.

As the saying goes, when the superiors speak, the subordinates run themselves ragged.

Hert used a whip, and Gunther was even more malicious, using thumb screws.

They were afraid of killing the Kobold Shaman, so they didn't strike too hard. But even so, working from afternoon until night had both of them covered in sweat.

Shamans are not as frail as human mages; their cultivation system includes physical enhancement. So the old Kobold was still enduring, letting the torture inflict pain so severe he couldn't even howl, yet still refusing to speak.

He was particularly afraid of death, fearing that he would be executed after speaking. Such individuals sometimes endure torture that ordinary people cannot.

Richard, growing impatient, personally intervened. He grabbed the Shaman by his collar and simply slapped him once on each side of his face. The resilient Kobold Shaman immediately gave in.

When he opened his mouth, not a single one of his pointed teeth remained; they all fell out, one by one, mixed with blood and saliva.

"Name?"

"Nehru."

"What is this thing?" Richard shook the piece of hide used to cast the Bloodlust Art.

"A Skin Scroll, equivalent to your human magic scrolls." Nehru's cheeks visibly swelled a hand's width almost instantly.

Kobold teeth can regrow, but their courage, once beaten out, cannot.

"Beast hide?"

"No." Nehru began to spill everything, like beans from a bamboo tube. "We Kobolds have a very thin Red Dragon Bloodline. Ten-odd years ago, there was a deformed child whose dragon blood concentration was particularly high, but he died a few days after birth. I skinned him for the base, burned his ashes for pigment, and made this Skin Scroll."

"This guy sure knows how to toot his own horn," Gunther whispered to those around him. Hert nodded vigorously in agreement.

Kobolds always liked to claim they had a thin dragon bloodline. It was hard to say whether it was true or false. But even if it were true, what then? It changed nothing about their cowardly and incompetent reality; a Kobold was still a Kobold.

"Coincidentally, I met a Dragon-blooded Goblin a few days ago," Richard mused idly, wondering if a dragon had truly once been active in this region and had very unique tastes in sowing its seed.

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

"You are very honest. Honesty is a valuable quality." Richard drew his longsword. Before the Kobold could react, the sword flashed, severing the ropes binding his hands and feet.

Nehru broke out in a cold sweat as the blade grazed his skin. He instinctively wanted to open his mouth to curse but, at the last moment before speaking, realized his precarious situation and swallowed the words back down.

"How many people are left in your tribe, and what's their strength like?"

"None."

"Be honest!" Hert raised his hand and lashed out with a whip, striking the Kobold directly on his nose, the most sensitive area for pain. He screamed and fell to the ground.

"There really are none left! The best warriors were defeated. The remaining ones are even less of a match for you."

"Tell me in detail." Richard spread out a piece of rough paper and held a half-burnt stick as a charcoal pencil.

Logically speaking, a garrison would naturally be weaker than the main force sent out on campaign. But his experience in the arena of the Southern Province had taught him many things, such as how caution is always a virtue.

Nehru spoke, and he took notes. These things could only serve as a reference; reconnaissance would still be necessary when the time came. That was how campaigning worked; a moment of carelessness could lead to catastrophic failure, and once it failed, there was no turning back.

"By the way." The night was growing late, and Richard was also feeling sleepy, ready to ask one last question before returning to sleep.

"Are Shamanic shamans common in the wilderness?"

"Not common. Only we Kobolds, Trolls, and Minotaurs are particularly prolific in producing shamans. Shamans of other races are rare." Nehru paused, then continued, "Oh, Ogres have actually produced quite a few shamans too, but they're too stupid, like wooden clubs."

He felt a bit aggrieved. A dignified shaman had been captured by a warrior who knew nothing about shamanic witchcraft. His pride as an elemental user was aching, but reality forced him to bow his head.

Richard stifled a yawn halfway through, swallowing it back down his throat. He leaned forward, looking intently at Nehru, "Then what spells do you all know?"

"We Kobolds have the Red Dragon Bloodline, so we generally master fire elements. Minotaurs seem to be mostly earth elements. I haven't dealt with Trolls much, so I'm not very clear, but the specific spells depend on each individual, even if—"

"What about Ogres?!" Richard interrupted the rambling Nehru impatiently.

"Ogres can master all kinds of spells, and their power is often astonishing. But their talents often harm themselves, because they're too stupid and too curious. It's said that most Ogres, after becoming shamans, last at most ten days before accidentally playing with a spell and ending their own lives."

Nehru was recounting the most popular joke in shamanic circles, one that usually elicited laughter from everyone present. But the Lord of High Mountain Keep stood with his arms crossed, his expression cold, clearly showing no hint of amusement.

The Kobold Shaman immediately felt his wisdom was being desecrated and once again lamented his unfortunate fate in his heart.

"Good, very good."

Richard slapped his thigh suddenly, giving the old Kobold a thumbs-up in approval.

An idea was slowly forming in his mind, though he wasn't sure yet if it would work. He'd have to find time to try it out.

Just as Nehru was happily assuming he was finally about to receive some recognition, Richard picked up a rope and personally bound him tightly, like a zongzi (pyramid-shaped sticky rice dumpling).

The Lord of High Mountain Keep was an uncultured bumpkin with little knowledge, both curious and wary of magic. He was very worried that the Kobold Shaman might cast a hex or use gu worms on him during the night, so he simply tied up his hands and feet and hung him on a pole like a pig.