"Josen!"
"How could you—"
The young militia men glared angrily at their companion. The young man under the control of the Corpse Witch was ashen-faced, trembling, and kept his eyes to the ground out of shame and fear.
But he didn't want to die, did he?
Frey felt her heart nearly stop as she instinctively drew her sword. But the Corpse Witch extinguished that thought immediately; the green glow in its eye sockets surged, and the young man's arm exploded like a balloon, blood spattering everywhere. He screamed in agony and collapsed to the ground, curling into a ball.
"Big Sister, please save me—!"
Josen rolled on the ground like a blood-soaked figure, wailing incessantly.
This horrifying scene caused several people to turn and vomit immediately. The ponytailed girl's face turned pale, and she swayed, nearly collapsing.
"Human girl, you better not make any reckless moves," the Corpse Witch warned her sharply, its sinister gaze sweeping over everyone present.
But it quickly discovered that the people present were just some militia, insignificant bugs.
The green light in the Corpse Witch's eye sockets dimmed with disappointment. It was ordered to hunt down the whereabouts of that escaped human scout, not to get entangled with these bugs.
Frey's mind was blank, but she fought the waves of dizziness, trying to figure out how to escape this situation. She still remembered that she was the leader of this group and couldn't show weakness casually.
As for the girl beside Romantic, she had already fainted at the first moment, thanks to Miss Merchant for catching her.
Sophie felt Romantic's hand gripping her sleeve tightly, a sign of reliance and trust. Earlier, he had also helped the ponytailed girl militia captain from behind to prevent her from collapsing, although her resilience was unexpectedly tough.
But anyway, he knew the other party needed some comfort at this moment, otherwise, she might collapse psychologically first.
A girl living in a peaceful age could hardly accept such a cruel scene. Fortunately, Erune was a war-torn country, so most young people here had such awareness.
"Frey," Sophie said weakly and softly.
The girl jolted slightly, waking up immediately. She took a deep breath and gradually calmed down with Sophie's help. Sophie noticed her fingers on the sword hilt softening somewhat and couldn't help but nod in admiration.
Such behavior could be considered excellent; few people could remain calm on the edge of life and death. Though he didn't understand why he himself seemed not nervous at all—almost as if, after experiencing the ordeal of crossing over and the subsequent tests of life and death, his mindset had become serene.
But anyway, at least it could be considered a good thing.
He continued in a barely audible voice: "Do you remember what I said before, to prepare for the worst?"
Frey was momentarily stunned, then nodded slightly.
"Do you still have the strength to fight?"
"Yes—"
An almost imperceptible response.
Sophie was finally relieved. He rubbed the cold Wind Queen's Ring with his thumb—the sensation told him that the recharge was only halfway complete.
Three hours, compared to the ten-minute recharge in the game, was unbearably slow. But fortunately, half the energy was enough, though it couldn't create a complete Wind Bullet, it was sufficient to conjure a strong wind.
Anyway, he was prepared for the worst, there was no worse situation.
Meanwhile, the Corpse Witch finally confirmed there were no other ambushes here. It didn't even glance at the miserable wretch wailing at its feet and raised its skeletal arm:
"Soldiers, kill them all—"
As the sharp, dry voice sounded, four skeleton soldiers holding sharp swords and clad in heavy chain armor emerged from the forest, from the mist, emitting cracking sounds as they stepped towards Frey's group.
Perhaps earlier, Frey's team members still had the thought of fighting back against these cold monsters, but not now. The young people's previous confidence was now chilled by the enemy's ruthlessness, their remaining courage shattered by the approaching aura of death, leaving them powerless to resist.
They could only retreat step by step, pale-faced, until they reached the end. Perhaps driven by biological survival instincts, they clumsily went to draw the swords at their waists—but looking at their trembling forms, no one could guarantee how much fighting strength truly remained.