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Chapter 7: The Mysterious Black-Robed Men

On the road skirting a dense forest.

A black-haired youth carrying the Twin Swords rode nimbly on a pure-black steed.

Horse and rider had been galloping at full speed all day without showing fatigue.

The boy glanced at the dusky sky and the terrain around him, patted the horse’s neck, and said, “Charcoal, find us some water up ahead so we can make camp!”

The black horse snorted helplessly, for Charcoal was the name the boy had given it.

Although it disliked the name, it hated even more the idea of being jabbed again by the youth’s terrifying silver needles.

After they located a campsite with water, the boy dismounted and rubbed the chafed muscles at the tops of his thighs.

He patted Charcoal and let it graze and drink on its own, not at all worried that the beast-control ring on its neck would allow it to run off.

Ashura walked into the forest intending to catch some game for dinner.

After hiking for quite a while he noticed no sign of small animals, yet life on the road had already turned him into a seasoned hunter.

Just as he planned to head deeper, his ears twitched, and he swiftly climbed to the top of a nearby tree.

Drawing a short blade with his right hand, he wrapped his left arm around the trunk, hid himself in the leaves, and gradually slowed his breathing.

Soon the underbrush rustled, and a group of black-robed figures emerged.

Their robes were wide-sleeved and their black hoods covered their heads, so from above Ashura could not see their faces.

The leader stepped diagonally forward to a spot near Ashura’s tree, looked down at the road, and rasped, “This is those little dwarves’ only route; set the Ghost-Locking Array here in a bit!”

“Tomorrow do exactly as I say… do not let a single one escape!”

The black-robed men behind him answered in unison, “We obey, Envoy!”

The group sprinted toward the road and spread out until they were standing in a circle roughly 30 meters across.

Judging by their footwork they were all capable Warriors; some dug pits, others carved runic patterns.

From the treetop Ashura could clearly see every move they made.

Although he had no idea what array they were building, he had read general descriptions of such formations in his grandfather’s miscellaneous books.

Every array had to be prepared in advance, with runes inscribed and energy cores positioned.

The final step was the so-called formation eye, which was also the key to breaking the array.

About the time an incense stick would burn, the leader surveyed their work and nodded in satisfaction.

He then took 8 steps to the right, nine steps back, and planted a small black flag behind a large tree.

The moment the flag touched the ground, the circular area erupted with ghostly wails and then fell silent again.

The black-clad man cackled, waved his hand, and the robed figures vanished into the forest.

At first Ashura thought agents of the Black Water Clan had found him, but it was clear they were here for someone else.

Even so, he could feel the danger radiating from them.

He was caught between a rock and a hard place; he guessed the black-robed men were hiding nearby and feared that any movement would expose him and cause trouble.

What worried him most was that his foolish horse might come looking for him after he had been gone so long, blowing his cover.

He doubted he could escape with only Warrior Stage 2 strength, so he kept praying for safety.

And so he clung to the tree in tense silence the whole night.

Fortunately Charcoal did not appear, but the strain of staying awake was agonizing.

The boy just wanted to leave this mess quickly so he would not miss the entrance exam for Saint Gobban Academy.

The surrounding forest remained deathly still, with no chirp or rustle, and he had no clue where the black-robed men were hiding.

He held out until noon, when drowsiness began to overtake him.

Suddenly hoofbeats sounded in the distance, and Ashura snapped awake and scanned the horizon.

At the end of the road a caravan was slowly approaching.

As it drew nearer, Ashura realized it was a caravan of Dwarves.

Ten fully laden wagons were escorted by more than 20 dwarven warriors.

They were short yet thick-set, clad in leather armor, all sporting heavy beards and wielding identical battle-axes.

The leader’s axe was nearly as tall as he was, and his knotted muscles radiated power.

Walking at the front, he surveyed the surroundings, frowned slightly, yet kept moving.

It was Ashura’s first time seeing dwarves; he had never left Olei Kingdom before, so everything outside was novel to him.

His grandfather had told him that dwarves were quick-tempered but fundamentally kind-hearted.

Dwarves were especially gifted at forging and loved liquor to death!

However, dwarves were not particularly friendly toward humans, and it was hard for humans to earn their trust.

Ashura guessed the black-robed men were after these dwarven warriors, since the leader had called them “little dwarves” the night before.

His instincts told him the black-robed men were anything but good.

He could not bear to see the dwarves walk into a trap, yet he dared not act and could only fret in silence.

Once the caravan entered the 30-meter circle, the draft horses spooked and froze.

The dwarven leader finally sensed danger and signaled the caravan to halt.

The dwarven warriors raised their axes defensively and watched the surroundings with caution.

“So you runts finally showed up; I’ve waited a long time for you!” the raspy voice called as black-robed figures emerged from the forest and surrounded the caravan.

The dwarves showed no fear; instead their fighting spirit soared.

The dwarven leader slammed his axe into the ground and roared, “Who are you? Was it you who attacked our tribe before? Are you ready to face the fury of the Dwarves?”

His voice was so loud that leaves rattled down from the trees.

The black-robed leader sneered, “No need to ask who we are; just call me Master from now on. Come back obediently and smelt iron for me… you runts are still useful.”

The moment he finished speaking, the dwarven chief hefted his giant axe and charged, for dwarves were not fond of words.

Their boundless rage and sharp axes were the best reply.

Yet before the leader had gone far, crimson chains shot from the ground and bound the dwarven warriors.

The dwarven captain swung his giant axe in fury, but the chains flowed like liquid; each time he severed one it reformed, and the warriors grew ever more sluggish.

The black-robed man cackled, “Inside my Ghost-Locking Array you’re sheep at the slaughter. Stop resisting, runts… be good slaves and forge for me!”

The dwarves ignored him and kept trying to break free of the bizarre red chains.

The leader scowled and said in a chilling tone, “Since you don’t know what’s good for you, kill a few disobedient slaves to set an example!”

With that he waved his hand, and the surrounding black-robed men drew their weapons and charged the dwarves.

Hampered by the chains, the dwarf warriors soon suffered cuts and wounds.

The dwarven chief fought four black-robed men at once without falling behind.

The robed leader snorted, drew a black dagger, and lunged at the dwarven chief…

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