Everyone had a heart that yearned for goodness. Even someone like him, who was always scheming something nasty, held a measure of respect for truly honest people.
"Let's leave that aside for now." Richard waved his hand. "Annie told me they have a Shaman who can use Berserk Art. Have any of you seen him?"
When Nehru had first joined High Mountain Keep, he had mentioned that Minotaurs were one of the races that produced Shamans in abundance. Unfortunately, according to Annie's intelligence, the Bloodhoof Tribe happened to have one—and he had mastered Berserk Art.
In every respect, this spell could be considered an advanced version of Bloodlust Art. It could raise the recipient's strength and battle spirit more effectively, and even slightly slow the passage of time in their perception. Naturally, the advanced version was definitely more difficult than the original.
The fact that he could use this spell meant one thing—the enemy Shaman's rank was higher than Nehru's.
"I've seen him." Sendak thought for a moment, then patted Robbie on the shoulder. "This sort of question should be left to the tribe chief. He's the most learned dwarf."
Pressure could break a person, but it could also make them grow at the fastest possible rate. After only one night, this unqualified temporary tribe chief already seemed much steadier than he had the day before.
"The Bloodhoof Tribe does indeed have a Shaman who can use Berserk Art. He's an old Minotaur with white horns." Robbie deliberately gestured above his head—for the many beastfolk races that grew horns, white horns were considered a symbol of wisdom.
"He usually casts Berserk Art from three or four hundred yards away before a charge. And I think he probably only knows this one spell."
"Oh? How did you find that out?" Richard asked.
"I read it in a book. Minotaur Shamans all wear feathered crowns woven from bird feathers and skulls. Whenever they learn a spell, they stick a feather of the corresponding color into the crown." Robbie's fingers, which had been resting atop his head, formed a circular shape like a hat. "That Shaman's crown only has one red feather."
"But he might be hiding his strength." Richard rubbed the stubble that had just begun to grow on his chin, noncommittal.
In reality, it was perfectly normal for a Wilderness Shaman to know only one spell. Someone like Nehru, who had mastered several, was actually in the minority.
That was the drawback of lacking a proper inheritance. Many Shamans accidentally learned a trick or two from who-knew-where, then hurriedly set themselves up in the profession. After that, they had no choice but to follow the path of relying on one skill to overcome everything.
Devoting one's entire life to perfecting a single spell wasn't entirely without reward, either. For example, one could explore ways to shorten the casting time, expand its possible applications, or refine one's magic power to gain a boost in strength, among other things.
Some outstanding individuals could still take such a spell to an astonishing level, but this was absolutely a choice forced upon them by circumstance.
No matter how proficiently one cultivated a single spell, its inherent weaknesses would always remain. Nine times out of ten, it could not match the variety offered by combining several spells.
That was why human mages had always regarded Shaman Wizards as half-trained dabblers.
"They usually attach great importance to this. They won't deliberately wear one feather fewer unless absolutely necessary." Robbie seemed quite confident when discussing this, utterly unlike his timid performance earlier.
"That is indeed the case, my lord." Nehru hurried over to seize the chance to show off. "I heard that Pompeii distinguishes titles based on the purity and quantity of accumulated magic power, but the rules are different in some parts of the wilderness. There, they're based on the number of spells one has mastered."
Having said that, he puffed out his chest, his dog-like face filled with smugness.
By that standard, Nehru, who had mastered two spells, was obviously a more advanced talent than the Minotaur Shaman who only knew Berserk Art.
"Oh." Richard understood at once.
Whether they were mages or Shamans, spellcasters throughout the world seemed to share the same nature: they placed immense importance on empty titles. Why would they wear one feather fewer?
If it were a practical man like Lord, getting him to stick even half a feather into his head would be a fantasy. As for how many spells he knew, he would let his opponents slowly guess.
"Minotaurs already possess the ability to enter a Semi-Berserk State. Combined with Berserk Art, the effect is extremely terrifying. We call it Dual Frenzy." Robbie continued.
"I already knew that." Richard pursed his lips and tried hard to maintain a serious expression, but in the end he couldn't hold back a chuckle.
Robbie watched his inexplicable smile and suddenly felt that some unspeakable scheme was brewing.
"Everyone, we don't have time to chat. The enemy is here." Sendak raised his warhammer and lowered the visor of his helmet.
The light rain, which had paused for a moment, began to patter again. He walked forward, where several hundred fully armed dwarf warriors waited patiently. Silence hung over the ranks; the only sound was the sharp patter of raindrops striking iron armor.
In the distance, strands of rain hung like mist, making the indistinct Minotaurs seem even more mysterious, as if undead emerging from hell. The dwarves on the scene felt a weight in their hearts at the prospect of fighting such enemies.
The bloodstains left behind by the Bearfolk last night had not yet fully dried, and new visitors had already arrived on this land—ones even more powerful. Even the coldest and most heartless person could not help wondering why they had suffered so many disasters.
The Minotaurs had reached a position four hundred yards away. At this distance, the rain and mist could no longer obstruct their view of one another.
The dwarf formation inevitably stirred slightly. Amid the calm, the creaking of rubbing armor sounded exceptionally jarring.
It would be overly harsh to conclude from this that the dwarves lacked courage, because even Richard couldn't help being shocked by the Minotaurs' strength. Beneath their enormous bull heads, their bodies stood three blades tall, covered in muscles bulging like balls and moving smoothly with every motion. Thick blue veins spread across their skin, writhing like earthworms.
They actually carried no metal weapons at all. Instead, they used wooden mallets that were thick at the front and narrow at the back. They looked crude and primitive, essentially no different from toys children used when play-fighting.
But no one probably had the courage to mock their inferior equipment, because those wooden mallets were nearly two blades long. For humans, that already exceeded the category of weapons; they would have been more suitable for barring a door.
Their mallets had no sharp points whatsoever. They adhered even more closely to the ideals of the Templar Knights than those who insisted on leaving their weapons unsharpened, relying purely on blunt-force impact to inflict damage. But with the Minotaurs' strength, a single swing against a person would probably crush half their body into minced meat.
Richard whistled at them. "This lot is built like mountains. Let's see if we can capture a few alive later and sell them to the arena."
"They'll definitely be worth a lot of money." Gunther's tone was perfectly matter-of-fact.
"That depends on whether they're tough enough to stay alive." Hert rested his chin on his hand and assessed them seriously.
Sendak suddenly coughed several times as if he had swallowed water. He turned to look at the self-satisfied people from High Mountain Keep, his gaze saying they were all completely insane.
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