Chapter 309 Barbaros

In the dim fog of Barbarus, everything became slow and stagnant. The pain becomes a dull sensation rather than a sudden spark of magic.

Pain is like a carrion sinking in the depths of the river of death. Its decay is slow and unstoppable.

Sometimes, the speed of decay even made Mortarion mistakenly believe that he could endure it.

When this kind of error lasts long enough, even long enough to be difficult to remember and cannot be counted, it becomes the truth.

The intolerable torture itself seemed to become a tolerable disaster, with two different additional ingredients at once.

One is revenge. Mortarion thought.

Some time has passed since he escaped from the prison of the sorcery overlord Nacre.

At first, he stumbled forward in the desolate thick fog, breathing in the vicious and rotten breath, letting the poisonous gas dig out bloody holes in his lungs, and the flocculent white sediment made him feel that he was changing. Into a pale gray.

He was not sure what was holding him up as he walked down, struggling to climb up after falling into the river or under the cliff. His arms, which had become extremely thin due to years of cruel experiments, still had the power to save himself.

There were times when he hated his own uniqueness.

Under the crazy and cruel teachings of the overlord of sorcery, the alien N'aklay, Mortarion soon understood that the experiments he underwent and the torture he suffered were because he was the only specimen who could endure it all.

It was Nak'rai who gave Mortarion his name. His name means son of death.

He would give death back to Nacre. Mortarion thought angrily. His pale hatred must be put to an end by his own hand.

Otherwise, this will become a mark that he will never forget, a scar that will continue to fester every night.

Mortarion would not succumb to a tyrant who ruled Barbarus, a man who punished the world in the name of death.

never.

Because...he has endured so much pain.

This is the second one. Mortarion admitted to himself. It was only in the depths of the unknown fog, in an accidental moment, that he was reluctantly willing to admit this with deep shame.

Second, he was proud of himself for being able to withstand so much torture. He won. He achieved his victory. His will to resist reaped the fruits it deserved.

He proved to be very patient.

Mortarion shook his head violently and pressed the end of the scythe's handle against the soft soil on the ground to help him continue to move forward.

The gaps in his gas mask were exposed due to his movements, thick smoke invaded his mouth and nose, and the corrosive pain burned his esophagus, which had not eaten for a long time. Mortarion repositioned it.

Fortunately, he was already close to the residential area where the fog was thin. Walking a little further, he could see the vague outline of the mud roof emerging in the dusk-like mist.

It was here that the people took him in after he escaped his reign in the dark foothills of Nak'rai, even though they harbored an unquenchable fear of Mortarion's towering frame.

Their simple and kind hearts gave him a stable tolerance. Mortarion took the simple farm tools they handed him and accompanied them in farming.

It was here that Mortarion first learned that in the deadly and cruel environment of Barbarus, there were still crops that had withstood the harsh acid rain and poor soil environment, growing hard and stubbornly.

Mortarion paused, coughing violently. Because he stayed in the poisonous place for too long, his eyes hurt so much that he couldn't open them at all.

At this time, you cannot help but rub your eyes, otherwise the particles contained in the toxic substances will quickly tear the cornea.

If he does that, he will become unable to see over a period of time. He didn't want to cause trouble to the villagers who took him in.

After a short wait, he closed his eyes, endured the burning pain, used his sickle to explore the path, and slowly moved forward in the direction he wanted to go.

He went out this time because he wanted to explore whether there were any edible animals or plants described in Nacre's book collection around this place.

This season, the crops were terrible.

Mortarion found that the woman who took him to drink the first bowl of porridge in his life, while everyone was enduring the pain of famine, secretly ran outside the house in the early morning, grabbed something and stuffed it into her mouth.

She didn't even have time to chew, all she wanted to do was make her stomach, which ached from hunger, feel full again.

He followed her quietly, then walked around to her side, trying to see what she was eating.

It was loose and barren loess on the ground.

He squatted down in front of her, and the woman raised her head and looked at him confusedly. She was stunned for a moment, then began to helplessly dust off the dirt on her hands, and seemed to be embarrassed to comfort him: "It's okay, kid..."

Some particles of soil were still stuck between her pitted nails.

"I went hunting," Mortarion said.

Therefore, Mortarion now carries a string of thick cuticles on his shoulders. In order to protect himself, the soft, high-water content photoreceptors that once existed on the body surface have degenerated. All by groping deep in the dense fog. Creeping animals.

After peeling away their tough skin, the flesh underneath appears sour and bitter, with little to no oil.

But they are enough to satisfy their hunger.

Back in the village, Mortarion will teach the young and strong laborers in the village about the successful experience of this hunt, telling them which direction the fog is thinner, which direction there are no terrifying beasts that can kill them with one claw, and which direction there are easy prey.

In the next season when the crops are waiting to mature, his sickle will be used to harvest the lives of animals rather than plants.

He heard some faint cries, mixed with painful howls.

Mortarion snorted. He recognized this abominable witchcraft trick. There were always whispers in the fog that lured passers-by, trying to lure people to the depths of the swamp where the fog was the thickest, and never return.

The burning of the eyeball degenerated into a soreness hovering on the retina. Mortarion closed his eyes patiently, waiting for the physiological tears to flow out from the tear glands located above the eye sockets to wash away the remaining toxins. This is one of the necessary survival skills for Barbarus.

Soon, a smell floated from the front, penetrated his gas mask, and drilled into his nasal cavity. It seemed to be the smell of straw mixed with some kind of fuel starting to burn.

Mortarion was confused. Maybe during the seven days he was away, the villagers found the straw stored in previous years in the warehouse to fill their stomachs? Why burn it?

The air began to become hot. Mortarion clenched his sickle, vainly rejecting all the information brought to him by his extraordinary senses.

Then, he kicked something under his feet. It was not the softness of the soil, nor the hardness of the rock. It was somewhat elastic, bringing some soft and pale reaction. It rested on his feet, and there was still a little temperature that was enough to be felt.

Mortarion forced himself to open his uncomfortable eyes with fear.

In sight, the golden flames burned away the mist and illuminated the countless broken corpses lying on the ground. In the center of the flames, two figures, one tall and one short, stood grimly.

When he saw the face of the woman lying at his feet and her belly swollen from eating mud, the long-awaited tears finally flowed from his tear glands, washing Mortarion's pale face twisted in unbearable pain.