Richard's Plan

Everyone has a good side, and even someone like him, who's usually full of bad intentions, still holds a certain respect for truly decent people.

"Let's not talk about that for now," Richard said, waving his hand. "Annie mentioned they have a shaman who can use the Berserk Art. Have you seen him?"

When Nehru first joined High Mountain Keep, he once said that Minotaurs are a race that produces a relatively large number of shamans. Unfortunately, according to Annie's intelligence, the Bloodhoof Tribe indeed has one, and he masters the Berserk Art.

This spell can be considered an advanced version of the Bloodlust Art in all aspects. It can more effectively enhance the strength and fighting spirit of those it blesses, and can even make time seem to pass slightly slower for them. Of course, an advanced version is definitely more difficult than the original.

Being able to use this sorcery indicates one thing: the opposing shaman's rank is higher than Nehru's.

"Yes, I have." Sendak recalled for a moment, then patted Robbie on the shoulder. "Let's leave this question to the Chief. He's the most knowledgeable Dwarf."

Pressure can break people, but it can also make them grow at the fastest rate. In just one night, this unqualified interim chief already seemed much more composed than yesterday.

"The Bloodhoof Tribe does have a shaman who can use the Berserk Art. He's an old Minotaur with white horns." Robbie gestured above his head—among the many horned demi-human races, white horns are considered a symbol of wisdom.

"He usually casts the Berserk Art when they're three or four hundred yards from the charge, and I think that might be the only sorcery he knows."

"Oh? How do you know that?" Richard asked.

"I read in a book that Minotaur Shamans wear feather headdresses woven from bird feathers and skulls. For every spell they learn, they insert a feather of the corresponding color into the headdress." Robbie's fingers, which had been on his head, formed a circle shape like a hat. "That shaman's headdress only had one red feather."

"But he might also be hiding his true strength," Richard mused, rubbing the stubble that had just appeared on his chin, noncommittal.

In reality, it's quite normal for a Wilderness Shaman to know only one spell; those like Nehru who master multiple are actually the minority.

The drawback of lacking a complete lineage lies here—many shamans haphazardly start practicing after coincidentally learning just a trick or two from who knows where, then are forced to stick to a single, effective method.

Devoting one's entire life to infinitely refining a single spell isn't entirely without reward. For example, exploring how to shorten casting time, how to expand application scenarios, how to refine magic power for increased potency, and so on.

Some outstanding individuals can still achieve astonishing feats, but this is absolutely just a reluctant choice forced by circumstances.

No matter how proficiently a single spell is cultivated, its inherent shortcomings will always exist. Nine times out of ten, it can't compare to the diverse combinations offered by several spells.

Human mages have always considered Shaman Wizards to be half-baked, and this is why.

"They generally value this very much. They wouldn't intentionally omit a feather unless absolutely necessary," Robbie said, sounding very confident as he spoke of these things, a stark contrast to his previous timid demeanor.

"That's absolutely right, my lord." Nehru quickly came over, seizing the opportunity to show off. "I heard that Pompeii distinguishes ranks based on the purity and quantity of accumulated magic power, but in some wilderness areas, the rules are different; it's based on the number of spells mastered."

After speaking, he puffed out his chest proudly, his dog-like face filled with a triumphant expression.

According to that standard, Nehru, who mastered two spells, was clearly a more advanced talent than the Minotaur Shaman who only knew the Berserk Art.

"Oh," Richard immediately understood.

Whether mages or shamans, it seems the nature of spellcasters across the world is similar: they highly value superficial prestige. Why would they ever wear one less feather?

If it were a practical person like the Lord, making him stick even half a feather on his head would be a dream. Let his opponents guess how many spells he knows.

"Minotaurs themselves have a Semi-Berserk State ability, and combined with the Berserk Art, the effect is terrifying. We call it Dual Frenzy," Robbie continued.

"I already knew that," Richard said, pursing his lips and trying his best to maintain a serious expression, but ultimately couldn't help but chuckle.

Robbie looked at his inexplicable smile and suddenly felt as if some unspeakable trickery was brewing.

"Gentlemen, we don't have time for idle chatter. The enemy is approaching." Sendak lifted his warhammer and lowered the visor of his helmet.

The light rain that had briefly stopped began to drizzle again. He walked forward, where hundreds of fully armed Dwarf warriors waited patiently. A solemn silence filled the air, broken only by the patter of raindrops on their iron armor.

In the distance, the rain fell like mist, making the vaguely appearing Minotaurs seem even more mysterious, like specters emerging from hell. Facing such an enemy, the Dwarves present felt a heavy weight in their hearts.

The bloodstains left by the Bearfolk last night hadn't fully dried, and now new, more powerful visitors had arrived on this land. Even the most callous among them couldn't help but lament why they faced so much hardship.

The Minotaurs were now within four hundred yards. At this distance, the rain and mist could no longer hinder them from observing each other.

The Dwarf ranks stirred slightly at this moment, the creak of armor in the silent surroundings sounding jarringly loud.

It would be too harsh to judge the Dwarves as not brave enough based on this, because even Richard couldn't help but be astonished by the Minotaurs' strength. Beneath their massive bull heads, their bodies, three yards tall, were packed with muscles bulging like spheres, moving fluidly with every action. Thick blue veins crisscrossed their skin, resembling wriggling earthworms.

They didn't even carry metal weapons, instead using a type of wooden mallet that was thick at one end and thin at the other. It looked very primitive and crude, essentially no different from a child's toy.

However, no one would dare to mock their inferior equipment, as those wooden mallets were nearly two yards long. For humans, they were beyond the scope of a weapon, more suited for barring a door.

Their wooden mallets had no sharp points, adhering even more closely to the tenets of the Templar Knights who famously refused to sharpen their weapons, causing damage purely through blunt force. But with the Minotaurs' strength, a single swing landing on a person would likely be enough to crush half a body into pulp.

Richard whistled at them, "These guys are really strong. Let's see if we can catch some alive and sell them to the gladiator arena later."

"They'd definitely be worth a lot of money," Gunther said matter-of-factly.

"Provided their lives are sturdy enough," Hert assessed seriously, chin in hand.

Sendak coughed violently, as if choking on water, and turned to look at the self-satisfied High Mountain Keep crowd, his gaze utterly that of someone looking at madmen.