Shadowed Gaze: The Highserk War Saga - Chapter 69

The abdomen of the Tyrant Worm, fused with the wall, burst open, scattering searing body fluids and charred flesh around. Walm, who emerged by repeatedly slicing off the outer skin with a protruding sword, had made a split-second decision to dive into the dead Tyrant Worm’s mouth, proud of his quick thinking. However, exhausted and immobilized under the weight of the gate tower’s debris and the Tyrant Worm’s own mass, Walm had lost consciousness.

“Losing consciousness three times on the battlefield,” he thought.

While losing consciousness in battle was not uncommon, most who did so ended up dead. Considering this, Walm, having lost consciousness three times yet still alive, could be considered incredibly fortunate.

Looking over the castle from atop the massive carcass of the Tyrant Worm, the silence was eerie.

“There’s no sound.”

Walm, who had stabbed his longsword into the outer skin, descended to the ground and started to run.

Birds pecked at the corpses of people and monsters, with insects emerging. Some corpses had turned into undead, reaching out towards Walm as if envious of the living.

“Sorry,” Walm muttered as he thrust his sword into a skull, slicing it in half and stopping its movements. Anxiety and fear gripped him, hastening his steps.

There were no large monsters left, and their numbers were not great. The problem was the lack of any human figures. The only ones present were either devoured corpses or those transformed into monsters.

“Is there no one here? Anyone?!”

Shouting while scattering death among the monsters, Walm found no one in the warehouses or along the ramparts. It was as if he was the only person left in the world, a profound sense of isolation enveloping him.

Faint black smoke rose from a burned-out hut, and death was rampant everywhere. The causes were diverse, affecting young and old, women and men, soldiers and civilians, humans and monsters alike.

“Please, someone respond!”

Anyone would have sufficed. Walm desperately searched, but his hopes remained unfulfilled.

As he approached the promised return to the infirmary, he felt his steps growing heavier, as if a wraith had grabbed his feet.

“Please, no. Not this, please.”

He knew he had to look, yet he didn’t want to. With trembling hands, Walm steeled himself and flung open the door to the infirmary.

A foul stench, like a concentrated, simmered brew of odors, filled his nostrils. Intestines and excrements mingled with rot, completely masking any lingering scents of incense or holy water.

The dim interior was filled with sounds of chewing and slurping. The only ones present were goblins scavenging the corpses. Some, in a frenzy, continued to thrust atop the bodies. Walm’s rage boiled over into a physical embodiment of hatred.

“Don’t think you’ll have easy deaths.”

The 20 or so goblins, welcoming Walm as a late guest, attacked but soon found themselves frantically trying to escape within the room.

Walm decapitated and slashed at the limbs of a goblin, whose legs had been destroyed by Demon Fire, repeatedly cutting into the torso until death.

Once one stopped moving, he moved to the next. What remained were only fresh goblins and ravaged corpses, indistinguishable from one another. The only reality was that no survivors were left. The room, smeared with guts and blood, contained nothing but devoured bodies.

All the beds, once occupied, were now empty.

“Everyone, are they all dead?”

He lamented the loss of his fellow soldiers, the civilians seeking refuge, the girl from his world—all gone.

“Hah, haha! Useless… I can’t do anything when it really matters. I can’t save anyone, I can’t rescue anything. Just a failure who couldn’t even die properly.”

In the decayed castle, Walm laughed. Laughing was all he could do. He couldn’t control his emotions properly.

He indiscriminately killed monsters, wandering the castle in search of survivors, but all he found were the intense traces of a bloodbath.

Eventually, Walm stopped making any sound. The area around the makeshift castle walls was particularly horrific, with tens of thousands of people and monsters dead. In one corner, Walm encountered an adventurer.

Amy, holding the head of Al in her arms with a look of affection, was leaning against the rubble, motionless. Her eyes, staring into the void, were devoid of life.

The cause of death was bleeding from the neck, and judging by the bite marks, it was undoubtedly done by a wolf species.

“I couldn’t forgive the grudge from the forest, but I didn’t want you dead either. It’s true. I mean it, I’m sorry.”

They were decent people to hang out with, so much so that it was evident just by fighting alongside them on the battlefield. Not only did they protect Mayard civilians, but they also defended Highserk soldiers, their sworn enemies, and fought well. Even if it was for survival, this view appealed to Walm’s clouded eyes.

There were no survivors inside the castle. As he continued to wander, he climbed the partially destroyed tower, damaged by the Breath attack.

The inside of the tower, heavily marked by the dragon’s attack, was stained with blood. There was no discrimination between old, young, men, or women. A mother, pierced through her torso along with her baby, lay there. What remained of the Highserk soldiers were mere fragments of flesh sticking to their armor, scattered on the floor. In the back, the remnants of civilians, who had evidently lost any chance to escape, were piled up in a corner.

With each step through the corridors and staircases, a sticky moisture clung to the soles of his feet. Easily identifiable, Walm did not want to confirm it. At the top of the stairs, he was greeted by a spiderweb and a hanging dead body.

In a corner, mummified bodies drained of their fluids were piled up. A fat Death Spider, lifting its legs, threatened Walm.

The spider, sensing the expanding magical power of the human it faced, chose to abandon its nest and flee, but Walm’s azure flames raced through the corridor, burning the spider, its web, and even the corpses to ashes.

After extinguishing the fire, Walm looked at the charred bodies. Despite being faint, the expressions of agony were visible.

It was hell. He could feel his sense of balance going awry. He had reached his limit. Supporting his staggering body against the wall, he moved through the corridor. In the midst of this, Walm found a room that wouldn’t open. The entire tower was warped by the Breath, making it impossible to open.

Wielding his sword, he used a “Strong Strike” to pry open the twisted door. The doorknob shattered, and wood splinters scattered around. Walm entered the room. Fortunately, there was no one left to blame him.

The room, likely belonging to a castle servant, still had household items. It was clean, not stained with blood or filth, a rare sight in the castle.

Walm, barricading the entrance with furniture, scattered his armor around the room, and with his sword and magic bag, he dove into the bed. Having already surpassed his limits, Walm let his emotions pour out.

“Ah, aah, aahhh! Damn it, damn it, damn it! Why? Why did it come to this?!”

Holding the sword, Walm was overwhelmed by unbearable loneliness. To maintain his sanity, he took out fruit wine from the magic bag and gulped it down. It was tasteless.

He continued to pull out high percentage distilled spirits, pouring them into his stomach. The bottles emptied one after another, rolling onto the floor.

Suddenly, as if rejecting the alcohol, his stomach acid began to reflux. Leaning out of the window, he scattered the contents to the castle yard below.

The demon mask nearby trembled slightly. It seemed as if it were comforting him, and Walm let out a small laugh.

“Gyahaha! Is it just you and me left?”

Once again, Walm gulped down the fruit wine, covered himself with his cloak, hugged the demon mask to his chest, and curled up, tearing at his hair. After several cycles of drinking and vomiting, Walm finally fell asleep.