Chapter 110: The Rise of the Blood Moon

“Hey, kid, want to test your strength?” The leader of the Blood Gnomes chuckled. Humans were never known for their physical power, and as a Blood Gnome leader with immense strength, capable of matching trolls and tauren in a contest of might, how could he possibly take a human seriously?

Grinning broadly, his arm muscles bulged as he slammed down his massive wolf-tooth club with tremendous force. Yet the boy before him held the club firmly, as if bearing the weight of a thousand pounds, making even the gnome’s monstrous strength feel arduous.

Sinclair and Barnard exchanged glances, eyes wide with astonishment.

“Thud.”

Before the contest of strength could reach a conclusion, the boy’s power surged through his entire body. With a single kick, he drove the black boar’s head into the ground, sending a plume of dust skyward.

A roar erupted from the suppressed beast. The black boar struggled fiercely, but now it faced the combined might of the boy and Jim. Despite its bull-like form, it could not withstand such overwhelming force.

“Kid, get down!” Jim snarled, his beloved mount wounded. Abandoning the contest of strength, he swung a heavy iron chain from his left hand, wrapping it around the boy’s body.

The boy smiled coldly, releasing all his inner energy. With a sharp crack, he crushed the black boar’s skull, blood splattering everywhere. Then, grabbing the iron chain, he wound it twice around his palm, pushed aside the wolf-tooth club, stepped forward, and delivered a crushing punch to the Blood Gnome leader’s steel helmet.

“Bang!”

A thunderous clang rang out, sparks flying brilliantly. Even the large frame of the Blood Gnome leader staggered back two steps.

“You...” Jim’s heart skipped a beat. This boy was not like ordinary humans; he relied not on magic but on martial skill, wielding strength that defied belief.

The boy strode over the headless black boar. Barnard, Sinclair, and the Labrador readied themselves to charge, realizing that continuing the fight would only end in their defeat. Jim forcibly snapped the iron chain into several pieces, summoned all his strength, and dashed toward the boy. After a single strike, he turned and left.

“Barnard, I’ll be back,” his wild laughter echoed and gradually faded into the dense fog.

“Hmph, you won’t live to see that day,” the boy said, sweeping the flying iron fragments aside. He angled his body to pursue into the fog, but suddenly a sharp whistling pierced the air.

A blinding red light rose from the east, a towering pillar of blood-red radiance nearly a meter thick. The boy halted, lifting his gaze to the pillar of light that soared skyward, illuminating half the cursed land of Ibo. Then the single pillar split into four beams of red light, shooting off toward the east, south, west, and north.

“That is...”

“The Blood Clan’s secret treasure?” The four exchanged incredulous looks. Could the legendary Blood Ancestor’s treasure truly manifest in such a way?

They hesitated, but the howling wind brought the sound of approaching breaths. Shouts echoed from afar—the masters of the cursed land were converging.

“Better to believe it exists than doubt it. This is our only chance. Hurry, I’ll head west,” Sinclair said, injured but undeterred.

The tauren chieftain Barnard made a swift decision. “Labrador, come with me. I’ll go north.”

“I’ll take the east alone. It’s enough,” the boy declared. He suspected the Blood Gnome leader had intentionally distracted the tauren so the Hunter God clan could attempt an assassination. Now the Blood Gnome leader had retreated, the Hunter God clan was wiped out by him, and the tauren stronghold was secure.

He glanced back once more before plunging quickly into the thick fog.

The distance from the tauren camp to the eastern Bloodstone Monument was short. The blood pillars had vanished after descending, and no one knew exactly where they landed.

Winds howled continuously, with more figures arriving from all directions.

The moonlight was bleak; shadows of trees swayed like restless spirits, and every blade of grass seemed alert. As the boy entered a thicket, he heard the whistle of an arrow. Suddenly, a volley of sharp arrows rained down upon him.

“Hmph.”

With a low growl, he grabbed two bushes, uprooting them and holding them before him. The dense arrow storm struck the foliage harmlessly as he sprinted toward a swiftly moving figure to his left.

“Thwack! Thwack!”

Several more figures darted into the thicket. One was an elf, bow in hand and quiver on his back, who shot cold arrows at the group while hunching forward and running toward the swamp.

The quickly moving figure on the left mirrored the elf’s movements, clearly covering him.

Several were struck by arrows on the spot, screaming and collapsing.

“Ophelia, only wound, no kill!” the elf shouted.

The figure on the left made a sign of understanding and fired continuous arrows.

“Only wound, no kill? Hah, amusing,” sneered a proud young man amidst the bushes. He patted the large troll beneath him, which roared furiously and charged at the quiver-bearing elf, shrugging off the next volley of arrows with its thick hide.

Simultaneously, several burly dwarves wielding swords and shields charged at the female elf on the left.

Geranton of Frosthold?

The boy glanced at the young man seated on the troll’s shoulder. Tossing aside the two bushes, he launched himself like an arrow toward the elf.

The elves’ coordination was impeccable. Within moments, nearly half the attackers in the thicket were wounded by their arrows. Everyone knew that unless these two elves were neutralized, tracking the blood pillar’s location was impossible.

The dwarves howled as they charged Ophelia, but their speed was no match for the elves. Soon many dwarves lay wounded, while the boy ran with vigor and agility.

Sensing the pressure from this cold, determined youth, Ophelia flipped backward, landing her feet on two bushes. Three feathered arrows nocked at once, a sly smile curling her lips as she parted the arrow storm and closed in on the boy.

“Whiz! Whiz!” She released three arrows, then drew three more to fire a rapid volley.

The bowstring twanged; four feathered arrows flew in a perfect line toward the boy. Ophelia, without pause, used her momentum to leap to cover beneath another bush, quickly weaving through the battlefield.

The arrows sliced the air. With no chance to evade, the boy reached out and grasped one feathered arrow, spinning it in his hand to deflect the other three with precise arcs. The arrows thudded into the bushes behind him with force.

Seeing Ophelia attempt to flee again, the boy flung an arrow from his own quiver and dashed after it.

“Thunk!”

The arrow grazed Ophelia’s temple before embedding in the ground. She tumbled through the air, clutching her chest in obvious distress. But before she could recover, a figure appeared before her, grasping her shoulder firmly so she couldn’t retreat in surprise.