Chương 77: Distant Rampage

June's eyes were heavy, his posture was slouched, and his shoulders drooped as if he were undead; he was reaching his limits, physically, not to mention mentally. So why was he standing alone in front of the enemy's pursuit camp? He was having a hard time thinking; his thoughts ran in loops and spirals, his head pounded, and every sound abruptly grated his ears with a sandpaper-like sensation. Silvester urged June to rest, but any second of his respite meant another second of danger for others.

His neck had no strength, and his head hung limply to the side, while his legs faintly shook like a newborn fawn; he was having a hard time remembering why he was attacking the enemy camp in this state. Every so often, the host would announce the current number of survivors.

'Only 27000 left.' One of June's legs buckled, and he collapsed over in front of a gathering force. He fell onto his face, and he had no strength to push himself onto his feet. He felt a sense of relief that he was no longer in the marshlands. He enjoyed the gentle caress of grass against his face and the scent of petrichor after a rainy day. The footsteps were getting closer, but even then, June didn't move. He deeply inhaled the earthy scent and enjoyed his last moments before his enemies ended his life.

'How did I get here?' He couldn't remember walking to the camp; he couldn't remember making the decision to come alone. He just remembered setting Silvester down lightly against a tree on an overlooking cliff and tying the prince's feet to a tree to dangle. A waking pain pierced his back; a spear had just skewered him while on the ground.

'Why am I here?' He didn't know the exact number of people residing in the camp, but he knew there were thousands. A dull pain kerfuffled his thoughts as an enemy stomped on his head. Thinking felt hard, his thoughts felt quiet, and the pain felt loud.

'How am I here?' He wanted to sleep. He needed to rest. His heavy eyelids drooped down, obscuring his view of the mud and grass as he lay face down. His extended senses slowly dimmed as his body's yearning for respite slowly overtook him.

'This is it.' Another pain plunged into his back as another enemy tore it and rearranged his innards with a blade of sorts. The pain hurt, but in a twist of nonsensical irony, it felt like the pain put his pain to rest.

'I can finally slee—' His head was stomped on again, and the dull pain resounded and shuffled his thoughts once again. The pain reminded him. It reminded him that he was able to open his eyes when his will was depleted. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. It reminded him why he had come alone. SURGE A loud, crumbling explosion resounded nearby. Silvester shot up from his calm nap and fumbled around for his bow.

He nocked an arrow, and with crusted eyelids, he slowly pried them open to let in the violent sunlight. He winced from the sudden light and shouted.

"LANDSLIDE!?" The sounds of fighting were present nearby. He quickly wiped his eyes and shook himself awake while taking cover. He looked around, taking in his surroundings. He woke up in a new place. There was no landslide, but off a nearby cliff, a veil of dirt was thrown hundreds of feet into the air. Silvester clambered over to the side and pulled the string of his bow back with an arrow already nocked, and his eyes widened.

A massive camp that sprawled hundreds of acres had come alive to kill a stampede hidden in an earthy veil. Silvester fell onto his back with his mouth agape.

'SHIT! That's the pursuit camp after the Brighthaven survivors.' He looked around for June and saw a frightened, wide-eyed prince dangling upside down on a branch. He nocked an arrow and pierced the flesh vine holding the man up, which allowed the forces of gravity to allow him to plummet down. Silvester looked over the cliffside again, but the attacking party was still hidden in the veil of dirt. He sprinted over to Martin, grabbed his shoulder, unsheathed a dagger, and put on his most intimidating voice.

"WHERE IS HE?" The prince's eyes began tearing up as his whiny voice squealed back.

"HE WENT DOWN, HE WENT DOWN." Silvester let go of the squealing prince and sheathed his dagger and renocked his arrow.

'SHIT! SHIT!' He looked over the cliffside once again, and this time most of the falling veil had settled enough to show a silhouetted figure tearing through the enemy forces.

'GODDAMMIT JUNE! THERE ARE OVER 5000 ASPIRANTS THERE.' Silvester stamped his foot back, drew his bow, and began to fire into the distant battle.

June was awake. He remembered why he attacked the camp. It was a reckless move to use his will so that he could return and look at Lilia without his eyes beaming. The idea of returning excited him.

'The games were almost over anyway, so I can go see Lilia.' He began to sing as he danced around his enemies at breakneck speeds. Unlike many other Dreamers, June did not imbue will into his every action; he no longer fought the world constantly, and he preferred to keep his will as a reserve. He was a miser of will, but even then, his body was strong enough to go toe to toe with Aspirants.

It was a series of benefits that allowed him to be a penny-pincher of will; he had a bodily affinity, he was a flesh shaper, and his body was remodelled with the mysterious strings. He had no bones, no veins, no muscle, and no organs; everything he lost in his most recent transformation was replaced with the nebulous strings of the Voice. He could bend and contort his body and flesh as he pleased due to his affinity with the strings; he could muster viscous strength with his every move, even without will.

June was an anomaly without a proper education of will; he treated it like a limited resource despite the fact that it constantly replenishes itself. But today, for this battle, June freely used his will, and the difference was uncanny. His limbs no longer turned black and blue from the rebound of his own attacks; his superhuman strength leaped several bounds with simple applications of will. He threw his arm like a whip and imbued it with the will to be unimpeded.

It stretched and crushed through several weapons and skulls alike as it continued its course uninterrupted. He retracted his arm, grabbing an unlucky Aspirant to use as a meat shield. He extended two fingers and pierced his meat shield's brow and flicked forward, exploding brain matter and bits of skull, censored by the blue mist, onto his enemy's face. He used the lull of fear to toss his disintegrating meat shield to the side and plunged his hand into the floor.

SURGE He tore his hand forward, and the floor imploded for hundreds of feet, sending dirt and everything in his path flying at unbelievable speeds. The enemies in his immediate vicinity were torn apart by the sheer force or obliterated into chunks; the ones further away were pierced and battered by stones and debris flying at breakneck speeds. He had long started singing his song; it exposed his position within his veil, but the sooner his enemy approached him, the sooner they would die.

In the short time since he invaded the enemy camp, hundreds of Aspirants had met their ends. A sword plunged through the veil, nearly taking his face off, but to an Aspirant's sword was more or less a child's rattle. June grabbed the poor Aspirant's wrist and tore it off their arm along with the sword. He plunged his fingers into the Aspirant's chest and threw them as far as he could muster. He had obtained their sword, and he ran through the floating debris and imbued the sword with the will to sever.

With a single decisive slash with no deviation from its path, he violently parted several Aspirants. His amateurish swordsmanship was hidden by his enemies' fear, and the resolute ones who attempted to comprehend his swordsmanship were dumbfounded. His technique was nonsensical and broke the common expectations of swordsmanship; his borrowed blade flowed behind him like a scorpion's tail, and an open claw was the first to attack and defend.

His slashes lacked hesitation, yet his cuts were unclean; the enemy swordsmen who failed to comprehend his wrathful sword were left with the singular thought. A Butcher's Cleaver.