Not long after, five fast horses, as if emerging from the Underground, trod on the soft sand, skillfully bypassing the hidden sentries and trap zones set up on the periphery, and quietly arrived outside the tightly closed East Gate with almost no sound.
The Steppe Bandit leading them dismounted, clutching a palm-sized object wrapped in oilcloth.
A rope was lowered from the city wall, and he skillfully climbed up, agile as a monkey.
“My Lord, Bestour!” The Steppe Bandit captain knelt on one knee, holding the oilcloth package above his head, his voice carrying a barely perceptible tension: “This thing was buried in a soft sand pit fifty paces west of the city gate. We confirmed it was buried by the messenger; we watched him bury it and then completely disappear before we dug it up. As Bestour ordered, we used a long pole with a leather bag as a glove to hook it up from a distance, but…” He paused, seemingly hesitant, “When we retrieved it, there was a strong smell of blood in the surrounding sand, and a strange smell like burnt Skeleton.”
Shen Mu reached out and took the oilcloth package.
It was slightly heavy, cold, and hard to the touch.
He unwrapped the oilcloth, revealing a dark-colored, dry-feeling parchment scroll inside.
Upon opening it, a mixture of old dust, faint sulfur, and an indescribable, decaying scent, like mold from a deep space, instantly permeated the air.
This smell was distinctly different from the human scent the messenger had disguised himself with, carrying a chilling and blasphemous sensation that pierced deep into the soul.
Unfurling the parchment, what was drawn on it was not a traditional map.
The ink was not pure black, but a deep, dark color like congealed blood, with twisted and intertwined lines outlining patterns that were not fixed landforms, but rather resembled points of energy convergence.
Those symbols seemed to faintly writhe, and a few more glances would make one dizzy. The text was even more bizarre, like twisted scratches left by some reptile, filled with the chaos and malice characteristic of the abyssal depths of hell.
Shen Mu’s fingertip brushed the edge of the scroll, and from that bone-chilling touch, a barely perceptible burning sensation traveled up his fingertip—as if the parchment itself was resisting, even attempting to contaminate all living beings that touched it.
Shen Mu’s gaze was as deep as an abyss, sharply analyzing every mad line and every strange symbol containing poisonous information on the parchment.
However, in the middle, many things were written in Blue Star text.
Shen Mu understood it.
It was indeed information about the Bone Armor Cavalry of the Ghost Light Second Dynasty, and the Skeleton Archer of the Black Arrow Tower Seventh Dynasty.
“It seems that the ‘Scarlet Claw’s Hell Scroll is much more ‘sincere’ than their human skin masks.” Shen Mu’s voice was as cold as clashing iron, with a hint of cynical insight: “Bestour.”
“Here, my Lord!” Bestour immediately stepped forward, hand on his sword hilt.
“Withdraw your men, arrange for rotation and rest, and ensure they are well-rested.” Shen Mu’s gaze remained fixed on the parchment, as if extracting true information from those madly twisted symbols.
“Yes!” Bestour saluted, his eyes flashing with ferocity as he glanced at the ominous parchment, then immediately turned and strode away to execute the order.
The cold touch of the parchment and its blasphemous aura lingered on Shen Mu’s fingertips. He closed the scroll and placed it on the cold stone battlement.
He looked up, his gaze directed towards the darkness outside the city that had swallowed the messenger.
The Desert under the night sky was suffocatingly silent.
…
Another four or five days passed.
The shadows cast by the New Rivadin city walls grew long and heavy under the gradually setting sun.
In the air, the scorching smell of dust, the faint scent of blood and rust, and an ever-present, unshakeable sense of decay from the depths of the spirit world, together formed the unique aura of this frontier fortress.
Days had passed since that eerie meeting with the devil messenger, and the chill and warning brought by the blasphemous parchment scroll had transformed into a deeper resolve within every reinforced stone of the city walls.
Shen Mu’s orders silently permeated every corner of the fortress.
Bestour’s Kujit Steppe Bandit were like the most agile flocks of hawks, re-released into the wilderness.
They no longer moved in large groups, but rather broke down into small, precise combat units of two or three, like dandelion seeds, lightly and vigilantly scattered across the vast “suburbs” of eastern New Rivadin, which had completely turned into a dead Desert.
Their mission was clear.
It was to monitor!
To monitor every ridge of every sand dune, to monitor the huge Underground entrance near the ruins of Su Family Village, which opened like a wound in the earth, and to monitor any ominous dust or unusual shadows on the horizon.
Hooves made almost no sound on the soft sand, and the Kujit’s keen eyes pierced through the heat-shimmering air, like invisible threads, weaving an unseen early warning net across the silent Desert.
At the same time, defensive works outside the city were progressing at an unprecedented speed.
Under Lezalit’s steady and powerful supervision, a low but sturdy stone-and-earth mixed wall, like stubbornly growing bone spurs, rose around the outer perimeter of New Rivadin’s main city wall.
This low wall did not aim for height; its purpose was to delay and disrupt.
The wall was only as high as a horse’s belly, but exceptionally thick, with a deliberately sharpened top, enough to cause charging cavalry attempting to cross it to be thrown from their horses.
And beyond the low wall, on the land further out, hundreds of horse traps were dug.
These carefully designed traps were covered with thin, disguised turf or sand, beneath which were buried bowl-sized, poison-tipped barbed wooden stakes.
They covered several relatively flat and suitable choke points for cavalry charges, from the Underground ruins to the remnants of Su Family Village, and further out into the Desert.
Any enemy attempting to sweep through this area at high speed would face broken bones, torn sinews, and rivers of blood.
This low wall and the deadly horse traps, like a cold iron plow, clearly separated New Rivadin from the outer wilderness.
Alarmingly, this growing defensive strength seemed not to have undergone any severe tests in recent days.
As night fell, the Undead Monster wandering in the silent Desert did not disappear, but the impact of Skeleton legions, often numbering in the tens or hundreds, or destructive assaults by five Bone Armor Cavalry with their attendant infantry, had temporarily vanished.
Nightly harassment turned into scattered low-level Skeleton Warrior aimlessly wandering, or a few broken Skeleton Warrior quietly crawling out from the shadows of the Underground entrance, attempting to approach the low wall only to be mercilessly swallowed by the horse traps.
Betusier’s Bandit patrolled, stood guard, and dispersed these small enemy groups like ghosts in the night. Although there was no exhilarating slaughter, it was like a constantly sharpened blade, maintaining a tense and efficient state of alert.
However, this superficial calm did not ease the atmosphere on the city wall in the slightest.
Shen Mu stood before the main city tower’s lookout, unconsciously fiddling with a pebble-like piece of sand.
His gaze fell on the closed parchment scroll on the table.
Although it had not been opened since that night, the chilling aura emanating from that gift from hell, like a tangible cold current, always lingered around.
The generals privately called it “the devil’s whisper.”
Lezalit strode onto the city tower, dusty and with fresh mud still clinging to his armor.
“My Lord, the fourth section of the low wall and the horse trap cluster in the northeast corner have been completed and inspected. The traces of sand backfill will be smoothed by the wind within a few days, completely blending into the terrain.” He paused, then said in a deep voice: “But are we being too cautious with this ‘map’? Time is also a resource; if it could point out a weakness of the enemy…”
“Cautious?” Bestour’s voice interjected. He had just returned from patrolling the city wall, his face bearing the dryness of the Desert and his usual ferocity: “That thing smells of human skin and sulfur! Lezalit, do you want us to believe the words of monsters in human skin and charge? Perhaps the arrow points exactly to the sand valley where the hellish ambush is hidden!”
“Hmm, indeed we cannot trust devils. In our Calradia, don’t devils also represent lies?” Aleron’s sharp gaze swept over the parchment on the table, then looked out at the Desert, which glowed with a cruel golden hue in the setting sun: “They have been silent for too long. This doesn’t fit the greedy nature of the Undead, nor the style of devils. This calm is more like they are accumulating something… or waiting for some opportunity.”
He pointed to the large shadow of the Underground entrance in the distance, “The fighting between Black Arrow Tower and hell Underground has also been much quieter than in previous days. Are they reaching some kind of understanding? Or… are they shifting their focus?”
Shen Mu did not respond immediately.
The sand between his fingertips was ground into powder, falling silently.
He turned, his gaze shifting from the arguing generals’ faces to further away—to the heart of the desolate Desert, dyed a bizarre golden-red by the setting sun, where silence spread.
“A devil’s gift always comes with a barbed hook.” He finally spoke, his voice low like grinding bedrock: “Its ‘value’ at this moment lies in proving the part they want us to believe. But the markings on this map are difficult to discern, their purpose unclear. Rushing out, whether to try and verify it or to ignore it, could lead us into their pre-set rhythm.”
He paused, his gaze growing deeper: “As for this superficial calm… Bestour’s Bandit see not peace, but abnormality. The legions of the Undead will never disappear, nor will the whispers of devils cease. They are adjusting, adapting, or waiting for some weakness we haven’t perceived.”
Shen Mu’s hand pointed to the low wall and the trap zone: “Use this energy to reinforce defenses, temper soldiers, and cultivate patience. Treat every mark on the map, whether true or false, as a tactical possibility, and incorporate it into our defensive planning. Let them accumulate, let them scheme.”
His voice took on a hint of cold resolve: “Our time, too, is becoming the thickness of the city walls, the penetrating power of arrows, the potential energy for the Holy Tree Knight’s next charge. When they finally can’t hold back and crash into this bastion we’ve forged with vigilance and steel…”
He didn’t finish, but the biting evening wind on the city wall seemed to have swept away the unspoken words, leaving only a silent, more oppressive conclusion—that it would be a more brutal, more thoroughly prepared collision.
The true storm had not disappeared; it was merely circling at an unseen height, brewing its next, even more violent dive.
Night fell in an increasingly heavy silence.
The lights of New Rivadin outlined the grim silhouettes of spearmen on the city walls, the low wall lay dormant in the darkness, the horse traps opened their invisible maw, and in the depths of the distant Desert, the massive Underground entrance remained like the silent throat of a giant beast leading to an unknown abyss.
Night, like a vast velvet cloth soaked in ink, heavily covered the Desert east of New Rivadin.
A cold wind, carrying fine sand, whistled and whined through the low dunes.
Several miles away, in a sheltered hollow off the main patrol route, flickering orange-red firelight barely dispelled a small patch of darkness.
Five Steppe Bandit belonging to Bestour’s command sat around a small bonfire.
The air was filled with the smoky aroma of roasted meat and the sour tang unique to coarse black bread.
Several Desert rabbits, hunted with Nomadic Bow, sizzled on wooden skewers, fat dripping into the fire, occasionally splattering sparks.
“Thanks to the Lord, we can even have a feast while patrolling.” A younger Bandit grinned, tearing off a large piece of meat from the roasted rabbit’s hind leg, so hot he kept blowing on it.
His name was Batu, and he had the deep-set eyes and aquiline nose characteristic of the Kujit.
“Go easy on the salt, Batu.” Beside him, an old, weather-beaten veteran named Gegen chewed on bread and took a swig from his murky water skin: “Who knows how long this war will last? Salt is like dinar at a crucial moment, very useful.”
He was older and the temporary leader of this small team.
The other three also took food, quietly enjoying the rare warmth and moment of peace.
Their warhorses were tethered nearby, snorting softly, occasionally lowering their heads to chew on the coarse salt hanging by their saddlebags.
Batu felt a bit parched from eating and took a few gulps from his water skin.
As the sandy water slid down his throat, his swallowing motion suddenly froze.
He tilted his head, frowning deeply, his greasy fingers paused at his ear.
“Uncle Gegen…” Batu’s voice held a hint of uncertainty: “Did you… hear anything?”
Gegen and the other three stopped chewing, the crackling of the bonfire sounding exceptionally clear.
They strained their ears, the relaxation on their faces quickly fading, replaced by a hunter’s alertness.
“…It seems so.” A Bandit named Su He said hesitantly, his fingers instinctively reaching for the hilt of the scimitar at his waist.
“Like… bones clashing?” Another squinted.
“No… is it fighting? And… that ‘shush’ sound of arrows cutting through the air?” Gegen added in a low voice, his experienced ears catching the unusual sounds carried by the wind, clearer than what Batu had heard. (End of Chapter)
