Chapter 291: Old Candle

Hearing the mention of blood sacrifice, everyone furrows their brows. As knights, many come from noble backgrounds, and even Henwell’s own knights feel uneasy about it.

Henwell sets down his cup. “Then, Old Candle, can you explain what this blood sacrifice entails?”

Old Candle grins, revealing a set of uneven, yellowed teeth. “Blood sacrifice? What’s there to explain! If you don’t make it to a tribe before nightfall, just kill someone and spill their blood. If one isn’t enough, then two, three... until it’s enough.”

Orak frowns. “Old Candle, we’ve heard that as long as you have a tribe’s protective talisman, you can avoid disaster. Doesn’t that work?”

Old Candle pulls out a pipe and fills it with some moldy tobacco. “It works, but not every time. The talisman has some effect, but that’s for ordinary people. You all have too much vitality. And your numbers aren’t enough. It’s not like having more people can block the Fury Spirits. Let me put it this way: your combined vitality equals that of thousands of ordinary herders, but you’re only a little over a hundred. Does that make sense?”

The group looks puzzled, so Henwell speaks up. “You mean, just over a hundred souls but the vitality of thousands?”

The old man, lighting his pipe by the lamp, looks surprised and slaps his thigh. “Young man, looks like you understand!”

Henwell doesn’t elaborate. “Then why do the Fury Spirits attack when the number of souls doesn’t match the total vitality?”

Old Candle takes a deep drag and exhales slowly, sighing. “Like I said, it’s not that we have anything to defend against the Fury Spirits—they simply choose not to kill us. In our understanding, tribes have birth and death; everything follows the will of heaven and earth. Life’s coming and going happens daily within the tribe, and the Fury Spirits sense this balance. It’s natural law. Maybe to the Fury Spirits, we’re just part of nature, so they ignore us.”

Henwell shakes his head. “No, it’s not that. I get the feeling these Fury Spirits are targeting professionals like us.”

Old Candle coughs, seemingly choked by the poor-quality tobacco, then shrugs. “That, I don’t know. After all, I’m no professional myself.”

A faint smile tugs at Henwell’s lips. “Is that so?”

Old Candle falls silent, apparently ignoring Henwell’s skeptical tone.

At that moment, Hubert speaks up. “But many people have survived by using protective talismans. You’re not trying to scare us, are you?”

Old Candle scoffs. “I’m sharing secrets here! If it weren’t for fate bringing you all here, I wouldn’t be saying a word. Like I said, talismans don’t always work, and Fury Spirits don’t show up every night. Some get lucky and avoid them with a talisman; luckier still, the Fury Spirits just don’t appear that night. As for the unlucky ones who don’t make it—they’re torn apart, so naturally, they can’t warn anyone.”

Survivor bias.

Obian zeroes in. “If that’s the case, how do you know all this? Have you ever survived a Fury Spirit attack yourself?”

Old Candle sneers. “Me? I don’t have that kind of skill. If I were that good, do you think I’d still be stuck in this remote place? I heard it from others. Some have survived Fury Spirit attacks. There’s no shortage of adventurers, and no shortage of strong ones. Like this young fellow here—he managed to escape alive even when surrounded by Fury Spirits.”

The king’s messenger, Wacker, asks, “What if the blood sacrifice doesn’t work? What if we kill many people and still can’t drive off the Fury Spirits?”

Old Candle chuckles darkly. “That’s why I say you all might end up dead on the grasslands. What you do next is your own business. It could be a fight to the death, and you might be wiped out completely. But with blood sacrifice, at least there’s some hope of survival.”

Henwell grins. “Old Candle, can blood sacrifice be done using outsiders instead?”

Old Candle fixes Henwell with a sharp look. “No way. Ordinary people’s vitality is too weak. Only the blood of powerful warriors like you can make it effective.”

Henwell’s tone hardens. “So according to your theory, killing more ordinary people would complete the blood sacrifice?”

Old Candle narrows his eyes. “Young man, trust me—that path leads to endless damnation.”

Henwell suddenly laughs. “Ha! I’m not that ruthless. After all, I’m a noble. Protecting the common folk and the weak is part of my code.”

Old Candle rolls his eyes silently and continues puffing on his pipe.

Henwell tilts his head. “Old Candle, you seem experienced, why not be our guide?”

Old Candle replies flatly, “I’m too old to keep up; I’d just be a burden.”

Henwell counters, “If you can’t walk, we can put you on the cart. You’re old and close to death anyway. Might as well die with some meaning.”

Old Candle chuckles softly. “Heh, young man, you’re not very polite. It’s not just that I can’t walk—I’m losing my memory too. Things get fuzzy. The farther west you go, the deadlier it gets. If I lead you into a fatal trap by mistake, wouldn’t that be irresponsible? I’ve lived my full span; dying sooner or later makes no difference to me. But you all have bright futures—dying like that would be a waste.”

Henwell laughs along. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll move fast enough, so you won’t feel guilty.”

Old Candle falls silent for a moment. “No.”

Henwell leans forward. “What if I insist? No tribe can stand in the way of my will.”

Under the flickering candlelight, smoke curls through the wooden hut, almost enveloping Henwell and Old Candle together.

Outside, the eerie sounds of the Fury Spirits have vanished.

Only the night wind whistles through the gaps in the cabin.

Though Henwell hasn’t revealed his Blood Will, everyone senses he’s already in battle mode.

Obian, Orak, and the others place their hands on their sword hilts.

The atmosphere grows tense; sweat beads form on their foreheads.

Even Wacker, the weakest among them, grips his sword tightly. His hand trembling slightly.