Chapter 290: Grassland Fury Spirit

Late at night, Henwell suddenly snaps awake on his fur bed, grabbing two longswords as he rushes out of the tent.

Moments later, several Battle Knights follow suit, emerging one after another.

Everyone fixes their gaze into the distance, gripping their sword hilts tightly.

What makes them tense isn’t what they see, but what they don’t see.

At this moment, all can clearly sense something just beyond the tribe’s fence, but it remains invisible.

Even Henwell can’t make it out, only sensing something large moving rapidly in great numbers.

At the same time, a strange sound fills the air—part mournful wailing, part furious roaring.

Conrad whispers nervously, “My lord, what is that? A wolf pack?”

Obian’s adjutant, Bosen, quietly asks, “My lord, could that be the wind?”

Obian says nothing, instead glancing at Henwell.

Henwell replies, “Not wind. Not wolves. No signs of life. But it moves, fast and in large numbers. Everyone stay alert!”

Just then, a sudden cough breaks the silence.

Startled, swords are drawn in an instant.

The noise immediately rouses all the knights, who leap from their tents, weapons at the ready.

Only Henwell stays calm, casting a glance at an old man opposite him.

The man looks frail, struggling to walk.

He leans on a long staff adorned with bones and trinkets, swaying wildly in the wind.

In fluent common tongue, the elder’s hoarse voice says, “My lord, have your men return to their tents. Too much strong life energy will only stir them up further.”

Henwell raises a hand. “Everyone back to rest! Don’t come out without my order! Sleep peacefully and ignore whatever’s happening outside!”

Obian turns to his men. “Back to rest!”

The elder looks at Henwell. “My lord, you seem to have questions. Follow me.”

With that, he heads toward a simple wooden hut near the edge of the tribe.

Conrad warns, “My lord, be careful!”

Henwell orders, “Conrad, Waintu, Barnett, stay here! Hubert, my brother, and I will go see what’s going on.”

The three follow the old man.

Obian tells his men, “Wacker and Bosen, come with me to investigate! The rest stay here.”

Bosen is his adjutant and a Battle Knight in strength.

Wacker is the king’s envoy and a viscount, though his combat rank is only knight.

The group arrives one after another at the simple wooden hut.

Here, their senses sharpen, and Henwell can even make out the shape of those creatures beyond the fence.

They are humanoid beings, standing about three meters tall, clad in bone armor, with long, razor-sharp claws.

As Henwell continues to focus, the old man coughs softly and says, “My lord, please stop provoking them. They’re very sensitive. Your vitality is too strong, and they harbor a fierce killing intent toward the living. Your constant probing only risks pushing them out of control, which would cause serious trouble.”

Henwell notices more creatures gathering, growing restless and starting to damage the ground.

Lowering his senses, he turns to the elder. “Can you tell me what those things are? They’re filled with destruction and murderous intent, and in such numbers!”

”Honestly, the fence won’t hold them. And your tribe is too small to withstand them. I want to know why they dare not attack here. Is there something they fear?”

The elder doesn’t answer directly, instead pointing to several seats. “Let’s sit and talk. There’s still a long night ahead.”

Henwell and the others exchange glances before taking their seats.

The elder pours each a cup of fermented mare’s milk, then raises his own. “What’s outside? I don’t know. I’ve never seen them myself. Anyone who has seen those things is already dead. None have returned alive.”

”Forget what they are, even their appearance and origin remain a mystery. We call them Fury Spirits—the Night Fury Spirits of the grasslands. They’re the guardians of these plains. Their presence keeps us safe from wolf packs and from being swallowed by the Kingdom of Ika.”

He pauses, glancing outside. “As for why they don’t wipe us out—it’s not because we have treasures or defenses. It’s simply because they choose not to kill us. They restrain their desire to slay us, though they have the power to annihilate every living creature on the grasslands.”

Henwell asks, “Sir, how should we address you?”

The old man chuckles, waving his hand. “No need for formalities. I’ve long forgotten my own name. We’re just strangers passing through, sharing a few words. We may never meet again. After all, I’m so old that I can see the faint flicker at the end of life’s candle.”

’As for you, it seems you intend to keep heading west. That’s not a wise choice. If you insist, you might end up walking ahead of this old geezer.”

At that, his tone grows grim.

Under the faint candlelight, his withered face takes on a more menacing look.

Then he takes a long sip of the mare’s milk, his expression returning to normal.

“You can call me Old Candle. As for my past, don’t ask, just as I haven’t asked why two forces from different nations are traveling together.”

Everyone exchanges surprised glances, not expecting Old Candle to see through such things.

Henwell gestures outside. “So how can we avoid the Fury Spirits out there? We have to go west. Despite the dangers, it’s our mission.”

Old Candle scans the group before fixing his gaze on Henwell. “Young man, honestly, aside from you, the others probably won’t survive.”

This old guy sure doesn’t hold back about Henwell’s true power.

Sensing Henwell’s sharpness, Old Candle laughs awkwardly. “Old age makes me a bit talkative. Please don’t mind, my lord.”

Henwell takes a sip of the milk. “Old Candle, is there any way to avoid the Fury Spirits?”

“The tribes. Stay inside the tribes at night, and you’ll be safe.”

Henwell frowns. “We can’t always find a tribe to shelter in overnight. The grassland tribes aren’t fixed, maps and coordinates won’t help.”

Old Candle ponders briefly. “If that’s the case… then it’s blood sacrifice.”