"I'm very sorry," Rand sighed. "It's too chaotic—we can't manage it. The bodies were buried in the backyard. When things calm down, you can go back and take a look."
There were simply too many dead. Burying the bodies on the spot was not an act of humanitarianism, but a precaution against the heat triggering an outbreak of disease.
Anser shook his head slightly and murmured, "It has nothing to do with you. They were stubborn and never listened to advice…"
At this point, hazy memories kept surfacing in his mind.
The original owner's parents had bad tempers, but they valued the original owner more than their own lives. After the incident, it was hardly surprising that they refused to leave.
"Do you know who did it?" Anser asked in a low voice.
"Not sure. The criminals were moving around committing crimes—maybe I killed them, maybe they escaped…" Rand did not conceal anything. "Right now, there's basically no one left in the Sow's Foot district. Those who didn't run will probably end up as Duergar slaves."
The Duergar wield psionic powers and are adept at enslaving other races.
Unable to hold back, Bratt asked, "What about the Flaming Fist? Are they just letting the underground creatures run rampant?"
"Yeah. We came all this way and didn't see a single member of the Flaming Fist," Anser said with a frown, a sudden trace of dissatisfaction and hostility toward them rising in his heart.
The Flaming Fist fortress is right on Wyrm's Crossing—only one or two kilometers from here—yet it did nothing.
Rand let out a sigh. "Yesterday, the Flaming Fist were ordered to support the collapse zone. They were almost fully mobilized, and in the end… suffered a crushing defeat. The losses are impossible to estimate. The survivors have already withdrawn into the Upper City.
"The Flaming Fist fortress no longer has the strength to fight. Their new orders are to seek external assistance and hold Wyrm's Crossing…"
"So that's how it is." Anser was secretly alarmed. The Flaming Fist had more than three thousand men, yet they were defeated so quickly.
After a brief consideration, he asked, "Was it affected by the Weave? The Duergar wield psionics—was that why they were so strong?"
"That's right. Something major happened to the Weave—this is the true source of the chaos!" Rand nodded, looking at Anser with curiosity. "You don't seem to have been affected much?"
"I'm a magic-power caster," Anser replied.
"No wonder," Rand said in sudden realization. "Sorcerers are born with command over primal magic, so they have a natural advantage in this regard. Still, for you to grasp magic-power casting so quickly—your talent is extraordinary."
"I see you can also release a holy strike. Does the disorder of the Weave have a big impact on paladins?" Anser asked.
"I'm level 6, yet I can only release divine spells of 2nd level or below. Not only is casting difficult, it also tends to fail…" Rand said with a wry smile.
Beyond affecting spellcasting, the Weave is also the crucial channel through which clerics or believers connect with the gods. The disorder of the Weave has nearly severed the connection between clerics and their deities, which is deadly.
He did not dare tell ordinary people, because that would cause even greater panic.
At this moment, Zahir walked over briskly. "We should get going. First, send the wounded back, then consider how to build a defensive line."
"You all go. I'll stay here and hold the line," Rand said, waving his hand to signal that they should take the wounded and leave first.
He patted Anser on the arm and said reassuringly, "Anser, go back to the chapel with the team. It's very safe there."
"Alright," Anser said, not refusing.
With both parents dead, he was completely unburdened. Right now, he was severely lacking a sense of security and only wanted to level up as quickly as possible. Following Rand was just right for leeching experience points.
The two retrieved their bundles and backpacks and silently followed behind the group. Bratt was in so much pain that his face twisted, yet he could not bear to drink even a single sip of a healing potion.
Anser was speechless. He had not expected this teammate to be such a miser.
"Wait a moment."
He stopped Bratt, planted his staff on the ground, mentally linked with it, and activated Goodberry.
The gray-green staff suddenly turned green. The patterns along the shaft curled and spread, rapidly growing ten small branches—and then… they withered one after another.
"What happened?" Bratt asked, utterly confused.
"Uh, there might have been a small accident," Anser said with an awkward dry laugh.
He examined the staff. It had indeed lost one charge. He inferred that both the casting and the recharging of Goodberry depended on the Weave, which caused the spell to fail.
He tried again, and it was not until the third casting that it finally succeeded.
The Goodberry staff was laden with plump, glowing small berries—ten in total—red and thumb-sized, apparently some kind of raspberry.
Anser picked them off one by one. Afterward, all the branches withered and vanished, and the staff returned to its original state.
"Here, try one." He held three raspberries in his palm and offered them to Bratt.
Bratt reached out to take them, his face full of surprise. "Sweet berries—Goodberry? A druid's spell?"
"You know quite a bit," Anser said with a smile. It was also his first time seeing this kind of spell, and he found it rather novel.
A single magical berry restored 1 Hit Point and could also satisfy a day's nutritional needs. Its value was very high.
Bratt picked one up and put it into his mouth. After chewing twice, he swallowed it in one gulp, smacked his lips, and savored the aftertaste. "Refreshing, sweet and sour, rich fruity aroma. Tasty."
As he spoke, he swallowed the remaining two in one bite. The light wounds on his body healed at a visible pace. After a few minutes, the small cuts had all scabbed over, and the wound on his neck had completely healed, leaving only a faint red line.
Seeing that Bratt was fine, Anser ate one himself. The taste was indeed excellent.
He put the remaining six into his backpack for later use. However, these berries could not be stored—if they were not eaten within a day, they would disappear.
"Being a spellcaster is great—you can have whatever you want," Bratt said with a sigh.
"Heh. Those Wizards probably don't think so right now," Anser joked.
The two chatted as they walked.
As they neared the chapel, a tall figure stood by the roadside with a bow and arrows on his back, his gaze fixed on Anser the entire time.
Anser recognized him—the archer who had provided support earlier from the hillside.
"Hello. Thanks to you just now. Were you waiting for me?" he took the initiative to greet him.
If not for this archer, he might have had to waste a Shield spell. The goblin officer's javelin was not easy to dodge.
"Yes. My name is Finn, a Beast Master. I have something I want to ask you," Finn said with a grin, his expression looking a bit stiff.
"My name is Anser, and this is Bratt. What is it?" Anser said, quietly sizing him up.
[Finn, half-elf, level 3 Ranger (Beast Master)]
Finn was a head taller than Anser, about one meter ninety by rough estimate—tall and thin, with a long face. His eyebrows and beard looked as though they had just been through a typhoon, ugly in a very distinctive way, and somewhat insulting to elven blood.
"Mm… are you a Wizard? Why wasn't your spellcasting affected?" Finn asked. His voice was very dry, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time.
"I'm a Sorcerer." Anser touched his own face—wasn't it obvious enough? "I gave up the Weave and spell slots and cast using innate magic power. There's definitely some impact, but it's not a big problem."
"Oh." Finn sighed, his tone somewhat dejected.
Sorcerers cast spells through talent and instinct. Even if they wanted to teach others, it couldn't be learned.
"You might as well specialize in archery and put spells aside for now," Anser advised.
Most ranger subclasses don't rely on spellcasting, and Hunter's Mark doesn't depend on spell slots either. That made them far luckier than spellcasters.
"Mm." Finn nodded and said no more.
Anser was helpless. This ranger was too introverted—after just a few lines, the conversation was already dead.
Since there was nothing more to say, they simply entered the chapel together.
Zahir was very busy. The one who received Anser and the others was an elderly cleric with graying hair and beard named Berg, who introduced Anser to the current situation.
The Church of Last Hope worshiped Tyr, the god of justice. It had many followers and covered a considerable area, but now it had effectively become a refugee camp. The courtyard, the areas outside, and the main hall were all packed with residents who had come to seek shelter—at least several hundred people.
Most of them were elderly or infirm with limited mobility. The young people had basically all been persuaded by the clerics to leave and fend for themselves.
Most of the Twin Song District had been emptied, but since there were no Duergar, at least a thousand people still hadn't moved away. This also forced Rand to stand guard at the road junction just now.
In fact, it would have been more appropriate to place the defensive line at Wyrm's Crossing. It was easy to defend and hard to attack, and had the support of the Flaming Fist and the Rivington District.
Unfortunately, many people refused to listen to orders unless they saw disaster with their own eyes.
Most of the chapel's clerics were ordinary people. Professionals were rare anywhere. That they threw themselves into this work without hesitation spoke volumes about their faith and moral standards.
Anser felt secretly fortunate. Thankfully, he hadn't chosen the paladin class back then. Otherwise, faced with a disaster like this, even if he wanted to run, his class oath wouldn't allow it.
Breaking an oath was very troublesome.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---