His arms were immobile. So were his legs. He couldn’t speak, and he couldn’t raise himself up. Not a single part of his body would move: not his eyelids, eyebrows, mouth, neck, shoulders, chest, stomach, or torso. Lying on the cold earth, mouth hanging open, arms and legs loosely splayed, he stared up at the dark ceiling. Water dripped from the ceiling, hitting the tip of his nose. He didn’t scrunch up his face or twitch in reaction. But he was alive. He was in the mountainous region occupying the central-northern area of the Howling Vilelands. It was there that the Evil God had once struck the Saint of the Single Flower in the stomach with its tentacle. The blow had winded her, knocking her out. Thus, the land was dubbed the Fainting Mountains. The north wind gusted from the sea, freezing cold. The Evil God’s toxin had colored the whole environs red-black. Within a dense woodland at the foot of one mountain was a massive cave with a gaping mouth. In that cavern lay the man. Any normal person who saw him there would surely want to quickly avert their eyes. His dessicated skin was deathly pale and had been cruelly peeled off in places to reveal the muscle and fat underneath. His flesh had turned a muddy dark color as it rotted. His unshorn hair was utterly filthy. His crude garments were also frayed so badly they resembled rags. The back of his neck was what drew the eye. A large insect clung there: a strange thing, big as a dagger, with a gnarled body and wings like a mayfly. Its feelers and legs were plunged deep into the man’s body. The man appeared to be nothing more than an abandoned, half-rotten corpse. But he was alive. A small lamp dangled from the ceiling, illuminating the cave. The faint light revealed a bizarre sight.
The floor of the large hollow had been smoothed flat and covered in rows of bodies, all lying faceup like the man. They were a varied lot: men, women, old, young. But all of them were shriveled and rotting, just like him. Also the same was the strange type of bug attached to the backs of their necks. There were far more than one or two hundred bodies here. A huge mass of corpses, far too many to count, were lined up in orderly rows, both lengthwise and crosswise. The man was near the center of the array. And there, he was alive. Unable to move, unable to speak, he would seem no different from all the other corpses. Only one thing about him set him apart—he was still capable of thought. As he gazed up at the ceiling, his ears drawn to the dripping water and other sounds, only one thing was on his mind. He had to save the Braves of the Six Flowers. He knew that at this very moment, the Braves were in greater danger than they could have known. They were caught in a terrible predicament, one incomparable to the challenges their predecessors had overcome seven hundred years ago, and again three hundred years ago. Most likely, they had not even realized it yet. They probably didn’t yet know what unbelievable feat the fiend commander Tgurneu had accomplished. They had no idea what a dreadful weapon it had prepared. The Braves of the Six Flowers were warriors with the power to save the world. They would be unusually insightful, and some among them would be Saints, gifted with powers that surpassed human knowledge. But this man doubted they would be able to discern the true nature of Tgurneu’s secret weapon. What it had prepared was so unbelievable. The man knew he was the only one who could warn the six Braves of Tgurneu’s plot, because he was the only one in the world who knew the fiend’s true intentions. If he failed to save the Braves, the world would be destroyed. His body wouldn’t move. Nothing—not his hands, feet, mouth, or fingers. Yet the fate of the world rested on his shoulders. It wasn’t a question of whether he could. Success was the only option. He would save the Braves of the Six Flowers. And no matter how dark this crisis seemed, he would believe in hope. He would alert the Braves of the Six Flowers to Tgurneu’s ultimate weapon and the secret of the Black Barrenbloom.
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