Chapter 69: Can I Eat Him? |
Unlike Mick’s delight, the dwarven elder Burlo Warhammer was in no pleasant mood.
He had suffered quite a few losses during the negotiations over the auction rights to large parcels of land among the various races—but there was nothing he could do.
The elven elder did not yield to them in the slightest. Even in open bidding, aside from raising the price to a point the dwarves could not afford, there would be no exceptions.
But by then, it would basically amount to offending the elves to the death.
Moreover, a large portion of the auctioned land was located near residential and commercial districts—none were suitable for building dwarven forging workshops.
In the end, he had only obtained several plots suitable for residential construction. Most of the remaining auctioned properties were scattered storefronts or small outposts.
“The Shadow Guild really is a bunch of useless trash! Just this little bit of property! No wonder they got swept out! ……”
Burlo cursed furiously.
He wanted to purchase land from other local forces, but they were not fools either.
Irritated, he smashed his wine cup onto the table. The spilled liquor splashed onto the map, soaking a large section.
His gaze swept casually over the wet stain. Just as he was about to look away, his eyes snapped back, staring fixedly at that patch of land.
Four large words were marked there—Artisans’ Association.
***
Time flew, and in the blink of an eye, several more days passed.
To add a final spark to the auction, the organizers deliberately arranged Baruk’s third-round match as the final bout on the day before the auction.
This time, Baruk would clash with another opponent who had also achieved two consecutive victories.
The Toxic Blast Warlock—Donovan Hassen.
Although Donovan had not displayed the overwhelming dominance that Baruk radiated, in terms of sheer troublesome ability, he ranked among the top five of all participants and was likewise a hot contender for the top ten.
From his title alone, one could tell he was an expert in poison. In addition, he was proficient in the rogue profession, excelling at stealth and ambush.
His direct combat strength was not high, but his lethality was tremendous.
After every battle, he even had to personally detoxify his opponent. The organizers’ detoxification capabilities could not remove his toxins in a short time.
Unless a top-tier druid or paladin stepped in to purify the body.
Coincidentally, Mick was an extremely skilled druid in detoxification. He personally forged a talisman for Baruk that could absorb and suppress toxins for a short duration.
However, that only suppressed toxins within the body. Donovan’s true strength lay in the “blast”!
Even with tournament rules limiting the number of items he could use, forcing Donovan to rely solely on the toxins within his own body and his mana to cast Toxic Blast, every match left the arena floor corroded into pitted craters, without a single intact foothold remaining.
His two previous opponents had ended their fights in miserable, wretched states and could only concede defeat.
When Baruk reviewed Donovan’s information, his brows furrowed deeply.
He was not afraid of losing—he was worried about his beautiful brown fur.
Even though there were hair-regrowth potions, being corroded by poison into a mangy, dog-chewed appearance before countless spectators was something he absolutely could not accept.
Especially if the match recordings were sold across the world—did he still want his face or not?!
He had to give Donovan no opportunity to cast spells! Even if he had to reveal another trump card, he would not allow his majestic and domineering bearing to be damaged!
Donovan likewise conducted meticulous research into Baruk’s two matches.
He was certain that as long as he did not engage in close combat and kept evading, neither of Baruk’s two abilities posed a threat to him.
The Axe Blade Storm was powerful, but it was not without blind spots. It was slow and consumed significant stamina. For an agile rogue, it would not be difficult to handle.
As for the roaring ability, it was even simpler. When spread wide, its lethality was insufficient. When concentrated narrowly, it would not catch him. Over time, his poison would inevitably gain the upper hand!
Besides, he had already secured two victories and advanced. Whether he won or lost now would not affect his standing. He definitely would not reveal any trump cards.
Thus, amid each man’s calculations, the final match of the third round began.
***
Bang!
Donovan spun through the air like a top, smashing into the protective array before slowly sliding down, streaks of bright red blood seeping from beneath his green-scaled armor.
Though he still retained consciousness, his body was completely unresponsive. He did not possess a warrior’s physique—after taking that strike from Baruk, the fact that he was not dead already meant Baruk had shown mercy.
The entire audience fell silent once more.
While it was true that exchanges between experts were deadly with every move, this arena match, which should have been a fierce clash of dragons and tigers, had been turned by Baruk into a father disciplining his son—utterly thorough!
“What just happened?”
“No idea?”
“The Toxic Blast Warlock just got slapped away?”
“He didn’t even dodge?”
“Referee! This isn’t cheating, is it?!”
The referee himself was somewhat bewildered. He had not seen what happened either.
He had just shouted “Begin,” then saw Baruk dash forward in a single step and deliver an enormous slap—and it was over.
He looked toward Gann Cole, who had once again taken a seat among the spectators, hoping this big shot would explain.
“Mental Intimidation.”
Gann Cole uttered only four words before vanishing from the stands.
“Mental Intimidation? What’s that? Anyone know?”
“It sounds like some kind of spiritual will-type attack.”
***
Within the deeper layers of space, Alvaro, Isos, Montoya, and the finally awakened Adrian also watched the match.
Kyle, through Isos’s spiritual link, was likewise observing.
‘This bearfolk is something else. He’s got a protagonist’s aura!’
Although Kyle still could not fully control his berserk talent, with the assistance of the array, he could now roughly anchor the information he wanted, rather than having all information flood into his mind indiscriminately.
“Boss, that bearfolk looks delicious! Can I eat him?”
Montoya’s eager consciousness echoed in the spiritual sea. It had been a long time since he had tasted blood food that looked this delectable—from flesh to soul.
“No!” Though he knew Montoya was merely running his mouth again, Kyle still refused sternly.
He feared this fool might get carried away in battle and actually start gnawing without restraint.
That was right—Montoya was also a participant in the tournament, only under a disguise.
Montoya did not belong to dark creatures. Like Alvaro, he was a special lifeform.
As long as he did not deliberately expose himself, it was difficult for others to detect his uniqueness.
He had participated in several matches already, each time under a different identity. Aside from honing practical combat skills, it also allowed him to feast to his heart’s content.
“Alright then, I’ll just take a few bites. He’s so big—no one will notice a couple of bites······”
Such a plump, juicy bear—taking a few tastes was not excessive, right?
Adrian listened to their conversation, feeling somewhat uncomfortable deep down.
Was this the everyday topic of non-human beings?
“Ahem! Montoya is rather special. Believe me, if Montoya bites that bear a few times, it would only bring benefits, not harm!”
As a blood demon personally transformed by Kyle, Kyle could sense part of his thoughts.
Of course, he normally kept that connection largely blocked—he had no interest in prying into his subordinate’s privacy. But now that he could not fully control himself, he could clearly sense what Adrian was thinking.
Adrian was not surprised. It was common knowledge that vampires held absolute control over their blood thralls.
“My lord, I just… need time to adjust.”
“It’s fine. Spend more time together, and you’ll understand that no one harbors ill intent. Montoya would never lay a hand on a pure soul. He’s simply accustomed to talking big.”