Moving Fortress

Anse rode his horse up to a high ridge and reined in to look back.

The undead trailing them were scattered and clearly lacked coordination, while the main force of the undead was currently surrounding and attacking a group of capable adventurers.

He guessed they were the Amnians he had encountered during the day. They were breaking through toward the camp, and their current position was barely a few hundred meters away; he couldn't tell if it was a coincidence or a deliberate attempt to lure the disaster toward them.

After that burst of Holy Light, the undead had suffered heavy losses, but only the low-level ones had perished, and the Amnians' situation had not improved.

"Anse, look over there." Brat caught up, his forehead beaded with sweat, though his breathing remained steady.

Anse followed his gaze and saw that the undead were about to overtake Emon and the others; a battle could break out at any moment.

It wasn't that the undead were fast, but that the Stonemason Guild had too many elderly, weak, women, and children to run quickly. Emon couldn't bear to abandon them and had been lagging behind to help.

Brat pursed his lips, his expression pained, his hand gripping his Longsword until his knuckles were deathly pale. He didn't want Anse to risk his life, but he couldn't just watch Emon go to his death either.

Emon had his principles, and Brat had his own moral bottom line.

"I'm sorry, I have to go help..."

"How do you plan to help?" Anse raised a hand to interrupt him, reached back to unbuckle his pack, and tossed it to the ground. "You and Finn take the packs and keep heading west. Keep your stamina up. I'll go help him. With Noronos here, those undead won't be able to catch me."

Before Brat could reply, Noronos let out a neigh and bolted down the slope, charging straight toward the undead pack.

After a day of practice, aided by the saddle, it could finally pick up speed. It was so excited that it ran faster and faster.

Anse raised his hand and cast a Light Spell on his Staff. Noronos had 60 feet of Darkvision, but he did not.

The motion was so practiced that it involuntarily reminded him of that dual-wielding berserker Gandalf, who would cast a light spell and immediately start hacking away.

The distance of several hundred meters vanished in a flash, and the figures of Emon, Alva, and the others came into view.

Seeing Anse arrive, Emon felt a surge of gratitude, but it was clearly not the time for talk.

He and Alva stopped simultaneously, drew their weapons, and turned to face the enemy. He didn't think he could bring himself to let Anse hold the line alone.

"You guys go, I'll use hit-and-run tactics." Anse waved at them, his tone resolute.

He wasn't trying to be a hero; with Noronos, he could fight and run without any worries. Having two extra people would only hold him back.

Emon and Alva hesitated for a moment, then chose to trust him, but they didn't run too far, trailing behind the crowd from the Stonemason Guild so they could provide support if needed.

Anse focused his mind on the Zombies, his dice trembling slightly before their information popped up:

[Skeleton, Undead, Challenge Rating 1/4]

[Zombie, Undead, Challenge Rating 1/4]

The ones running fast were Skeletons, the slow-moving ones were Zombies; the variety was quite monotonous.

"Doesn't look like much."

However, the undead didn't tire, didn't feel fear, and moved in swarms. Aside from bones and rotting flesh, there was nothing to them, and no one wanted to fight them if they could avoid it.

Anse raised his Staff, ready to test their mettle.

"Sorcerous Burst!"

The spell's light cut through the night, flying across dozens of meters in an instant to strike the target's chest with precision.

"BOOM—"

The Skeleton didn't even dodge; it was blown over by the sudden explosion of fire, its ribs shattered. Yet it didn't wail or roar; it simply scrambled up and continued the pursuit.

[You cast Sorcerous Burst on the Skeleton... The Skeleton is hit, taking 6 points of fire damage. Current HP: 9/15...]

Noronos turned and galloped a few steps, putting distance between them again.

Once it steadied, Anse cast his spell again. A Sorcerous Burst hit the target square in the face, triggering a Chain Burst from the maximized damage, blowing the Skeleton to pieces.

[You cast Sorcerous Burst on the Skeleton... Target destroyed, gained 45 Combat Experience.]

"This is too easy." Anse watched the straggling undead chasing after them, his eyes gleaming.

No dodging, no need to waste Magic Missiles—weren't these just ideal experience pinatas?

Thinking of this, he didn't hesitate. He had Noronos move forward to create space and repeated the tactic, using three Sorcerous Bursts to blast the second Skeleton to bits.

[...Target destroyed, gained 50 Combat Experience.]

The experience from each Skeleton varied slightly, but it was roughly the same.

Anse wasn't greedy. He rode Noronos, fighting while retreating, always maintaining a safe distance and focusing only on the one in the lead.

He used nothing but Sorcerous Burst the entire time. It was the signature Cantrip of a Sorcerer, and among all offensive Cantrips, only the Warlock's Eldritch Blast could consistently outperform it.

This led to a bizarre scene: dozens of humans running in a long line through the night, with Anse behind them, and the scattered undead trailing behind him.

The undead acted as if they were rushing to their deaths; one would go up, and one would die. At their closest, they never even got within fifty meters of Anse.

Anse was having a blast. In no time, he had taken down four Skeletons and one Zombie.

Only today did he realize how important a mount was to a spellcaster!

There was no need to stand still to cast, no need to worry about melee threats, and by using mobile Spellcasting—hitting once and moving to a new spot—monsters with lower movement speeds couldn't touch him at all.

It was only because his horsemanship was subpar, making it impossible to maintain focus and precision while jolting about, that he couldn't cast spells while mounted; otherwise, he would have been a proper mobile artillery piece.

By now, there weren't many undead left behind; under the cover of night, only a few zombies were still slowly trailing them, and the distant village and the horde of undead were no longer in sight.

Anse did not remain in place to wait for the zombies, choosing instead to retreat alongside Emon and the others; he had no desire to take risks for a mere pittance of experience.

He now had a profound understanding of the chaos in Faerun; as for experience... it would eventually come knocking on his own door.

On the other side, the Amn squad looked at the empty campsite ahead and the figures that had already vanished into the night, their hearts filled with despair.

He had intended to use these forty-plus people to share the pressure and seize the opportunity to break through the encirclement, never expecting the other party to be so vigilant and flee so early.

Looking at the Holy Grail in his hand, he felt a pang of regret; had he known, he would have held off on using it for a while longer.

"We are a slave-hunting party of the Nahivarr family!" he shouted to his surroundings. "I know who you are, servants of the Lord of Bones, we are not enemies..."

"That's right, we are from Esmirtalan in Amn..."

"Lord Nahivarr is not far from here, you had better think this through..."

The surviving team members also realized the situation and began to shout one after another.

However, no matter how they cried out, the offensive of the undead horde did not weaken in the slightest.

In the shadows, two mysterious figures clad in black robes embroidered with white human skulls remained silent, their eyes burning with a hint of anger.

They had only been away for a few days, yet their lair had been occupied by others; the aura of the holy relic, combined with the scent of blood and death, had stimulated the Resurrection Circle, awakening the slumbering undead horde prematurely.

Not only was the strength of the undead not up to standard, but many had also spiraled out of control, ruining years of planning.

One of the black-robed figures looked toward the west, where the night was deep, yet the image of that Knight wearing a Holy Symbol on his chest still lingered in his mind.

"A follower of Tyr," he said, his voice grave.

"I have eyes," his companion replied, his voice hoarse and his tone foul.

Followers of the God of Justice loved meddling in other people's business; once word of the situation here got out, swarms of believers and paladins would soon come knocking at their door.

Their current situation was dire; most of their divine spells could not be cast, and no matter what they did, they could not receive a response from the God of Death, Milkor.

They had begun to harbor dark suspicions, forced to hole up in the wilderness, where only these undead could provide them with a shred of security.