Listening to the man's description, Castorice realized she likely wouldn't meet the Black Hand even if she went to the spire. After a moment's thought, she changed her question. "Sir, do you know where I can find Nathaniel, the Northern Barbarian?"
Her goal was to find a local power broker to inquire about the Divine Artifacts. If the Black Hand was unavailable, she'd simply try someone else.
"You want to meet Boss Nathaniel?" The burly man raised an eyebrow, then adopted a contemplative expression. "Hmm... well, I suppose that could be arranged. After all, we captured our target so smoothly thanks to you. I'll mention it to the Boss; he probably won't mind seeing you."
Castorice exclaimed in surprise, "So... Nathaniel was the one who wanted to capture that frail man?"
The burly man grinned widely. "Of course!"
But Castorice was even more puzzled. "Then what about those Black Cloaks earlier? Were they working for the Black Hand?"
"Nah," the man replied. "They're just ordinary gang members."
In Chaos City, a place entirely populated by criminals, operating alone is impossible. Survival depends on joining a faction, willingly or by force, which has led to the proliferation of countless gangs and organizations throughout the city.
Castorice recalled the Leader of the Black Cloak's dying words. He clearly hadn't known their enemies included Barbarians, nor that the opposing force was one of Chaos City's three major power brokers.
"So why didn't you just say you worked for Nathaniel?" Castorice asked, puzzled. "If they knew your boss's identity, wouldn't they have handed the person over immediately?"
The question stumped the burly man. He scratched his head. "Huh? If I'd said my boss was Nathaniel, they would have just handed him over? Why?"
Castorice's small mouth formed a cute "O" shape. She blinked, her eyes wide with confusion. She was utterly bewildered, unsure how to explain what seemed so obvious.
How could some nameless, insignificant gang possibly stand up to one of the city's ruling powers?
The burly man continued scratching his head. "I don't get you Alliance folk," he said. "In the Northern Lands, we don't have this 'state your name and they surrender' nonsense. Everything we get, we have to take by force."
"Never mind that," he said. "Come on, lass, follow me. I'll take you to see Boss Nathaniel."
With that, Castorice followed the burly man toward their main camp. Shortly after they left, two figures in Black Robes arrived at the scene.
Unlike the mismatched Black Cloaks from earlier, these two wore clearly standardized robes, identical in style. Each had a silver badge pinned to their right breast, intricately engraved with floral patterns intertwined with scythes.
Undoubtedly, these were priests of the Death Church. Having sensed the recent battle, they had arrived quickly, only to discover a mere two casualties—one not even fully dead.
"Wasn't there supposed to be a gang war here?" one priest exclaimed in disbelief. "How did it end with only two dead?"
The other priest shook his head in bewilderment. "Even if you ask me, I wouldn't know."
As they spoke, they approached the man who was still clinging to life—the unfortunate soul whose arms had been torn off by the burly man at the start of the battle. After that brutal act, the burly man had abandoned him to chase after others, but the man's luck held; he was still barely alive.
The two priests knelt beside him, clasping their hands together and holding their emblems with solemn reverence. "Sir," they said, "it appears you are in need of assistance. We can help you swiftly end your suffering and embrace the Death God's embrace."
Hearing this, the man's already pallid face, drained of blood, turned even whiter. He stammered, "Q-Quickly end my suffering? What does that mean?!"
One of the priests extended his right hand. A swirling orb of dark green energy materialized in his palm—the 1st-level divine spell Resting Art. This spell's effect was simple: it allowed a dying person to pass away peacefully and painlessly. It was one of the core divine spells all Death Church priests were required to master.
After carefully explaining the effects of the divine magic, the man exclaimed in terror, "Holy shit! So your idea of 'helping' is killing me?! Aren't you priests? I think I can still be saved! Can't you just heal me?!"
The two Death Priests ignored his pleas and repeated, "Sir, do you wish to accept our assistance?"
The man was now faced with a stark choice: bleed to death in agony or accept their "help" and die peacefully. Realizing this, he wailed, "No! Get away from me! Couldn't you send a normal priest?! I don't want to die! Mom!!!"
His final scream seemed to exhaust his last reserves of strength. His head lolled to the side, and he fell unconscious. Yet he remained alive. The Death Priests stood silently by, refraining from action. One of the core tenets of the Death Church forbade the use of the Resting Art on anyone without explicit consent.
After waiting for the man to draw his last breath, the two priests hoisted his corpse onto their shoulders, preparing to carry it away for burial.
One of them thoughtfully gathered the severed arms, hoping to reattach them during the burial to make the body appear more complete.
As they passed the body of the Leader of the Black Cloak and picked it up as well, the two priests suddenly paused, their faces registering shock. They stared at the corpse and murmured in disbelief, "This... how could someone die so peacefully?"
Death Priests possessed the ability to sense the lingering "emotions" within corpses. If a person died in despair, anger, or pain, these emotions would cling to their remains for a time. The Death Church's practice of carefully moving and properly burying bodies served to soothe these residual emotions.
At first glance, this might seem pointless. After all, what difference does it make whether a dead person is happy or angry?
But this was a world of magic! If a person's resentment was strong enough, it could give rise to vengeful spirits, death banshees, and other undead creatures. It wasn't even impossible for a corpse to spontaneously rise from its grave long after death.
The Death Church's existence effectively controlled the population of undead creatures, a core tenet of their faith: the dead should rest peacefully and not interfere with the world of the living.
Normally, everyone clung to life, fearing death. Corpses invariably carried residual emotions like fear and pain. Take, for instance, the unfortunate soul whose arm had been torn off—his corpse radiated pure despair.
But the Leader of the Black Cloak's body was different. It was devoid of any emotion, as serene as a sleeping infant, quietly returning to the Death God's embrace without the slightest attachment to the mortal world.
Such a phenomenon was exceedingly rare! Only two possibilities remained: either the deceased had been a living saint who genuinely embraced death, or the problem lay with the person who had killed him. Frankly, believing a living saint could emerge in Chaos City seemed more far-fetched than believing a dwarf could undergo a genetic mutation and grow to five feet tall.
That left only the second possibility. The two Death Priests exchanged solemn glances. "We must report this to the Archbishop immediately!"
-
The perspective shifts back to Castorice, who had been following the burly man through the city for at least fifteen minutes. After navigating countless dilapidated streets, a relatively intact three-story building came into view.
Though cracks riddled its walls, giving it the appearance of a crumbling structure, it was at least complete compared to the surrounding buildings, many of which were missing walls or roofs.
Behind the three-story building lay a spacious open area filled with dummies, weapon racks, and other military paraphernalia. It wasn't hard to guess that this place had once served as a barracks or training ground. After all, Chaos City had originally been Demon King's City, a fully functional metropolis, so such structures were to be expected.
As they approached the barracks, the burly man dismissed his subordinates, instructing them to return to their duties. He then hoisted the frail man over his shoulder and led Castorice to the entrance. Two equally muscular guards stood watch. They glanced at the burly man and the black-robed Castorice behind him, asked no questions, and waved them through.
With that, the burly man led Castorice into the military camp. As they walked, she frequently saw muscular, bare-chested men striding back and forth. Many bore scars on their chests, backs, or faces, giving them a fierce and intimidating appearance.
A petite and charming young girl entering such a place filled with hulking men might have hesitated, but Castorice showed no fear whatsoever. Her face brimming with curiosity, she gazed around at everyone, even asking, "Excuse me, are all of you Barbarian Class Holders?"
The burly man chuckled. "We're all from the Northern Lands, of course we're Barbarians. Just need a White Petal to enter Rage. Unfortunately, we didn't bring enough when we left the North, and we're running out fast."
This meant that during their earlier confrontation with the Black Rat, everyone on the burly man's side could have entered a Rage state. The fact that only a few actually did so was simply to conserve their dwindling supply of White Petals.
Hearing the man's words, Castorice exclaimed in surprise, "But... shouldn't something like this be confidential? Why are you telling me so openly?"
The burly man smacked his lips. "Hey, who cares about secrets? What's the harm in telling a little girl like you?"
Castorice was momentarily speechless, unsure whether to admire his nonchalance or condemn his condescending view of women.
Soon, they reached the third floor of the barracks, standing before an office door. "Sis, wait here for a bit," the burly man instructed. "I'll go tell the Boss and call you in later."
Castorice nodded gently and stood quietly by the door.
The man hoisted the emaciated man—who wore an expression of utter despair—into the office. After about a minute or two, he reopened the door and beckoned Castorice inside.
Upon entering the office, Castorice's attention was immediately drawn to the rows of weapon racks lining the walls, overflowing with various armaments. Only then did she turn her gaze to the man seated in the center of the room: Nathaniel.
Even seated, Nathaniel towered over Castorice by more than a head, and that was despite her high heels. His height was conservatively estimated to be around two meters.
Like other Northern Barbarians, Nathaniel was bare-chested. His chest was crisscrossed with dozens of scars of varying sizes, while a wolf's head tattoo adorned his back.
With one arm wrapped around a shivering, emaciated man, Nathaniel propped his chin on his other hand, his curious gaze fixed on the black-robed young girl before him. Of course, since Castorice was completely shrouded in her robe, only her figure offered any useful information.
Nathaniel's gruff voice boomed, "I hear you have business with me?"
Castorice cut straight to the chase. "I wish to inquire whether you possess any information regarding the Seven Heroes and the Seven Divine Artifacts they wield."
"Heroes? Divine Artifacts?" Nathaniel raised an eyebrow. "Actually, according to the traditions of the Grey Wolf Clan, if you want anything from me—whether it's a material object or information—you must first defeat me in combat."
Castorice pursed her lips. Defeating him? That would indeed be difficult. Well, the real challenge lay in defeating him without killing him.
But the next moment, Nathaniel continued, "However, this tradition only applies to men. I wouldn't lay a hand on a woman. Besides, you just helped my men, so I might as well tell you directly."
Hearing this, Castorice couldn't help but feel speechless. Do all you barbarians look down on women this way? Still, the outcome would certainly save her a lot of trouble.
Then, she heard Nathaniel say with remarkable candor, "As for your questions about the Seven Heroes and the Seven Divine Artifacts... I don't know a damn thing about any of them."
Castorice: "..."
P.S.: Here's a barbarian joke that bards love to tell: "The fiercest men drink the strongest liquor, fight the toughest battles, and... only women sleep with women. Real men sleep with other real men!"
The absurd thing is, only a few barbarians ever seem to object when they hear this joke.