3: Act 1 Dream Person 3: Act 1 Dream Person “Warning: Excessive bleeding, life-threatening—”
“Warning: Reduced heart and lung function, life-threatening—”
When Sophie woke up, his brain seemed to still be echoing the high-frequency alarm sounds from that fierce battle.
That sound was like a file scraping in his head, making his headache split.
Right, he remembered he should be in the game with his ‘Divine Power’ comrades resisting Madara’s Undead Army in the mountains of Orkash.
The lead-grey sky howling cold wind, countless dark creatures poured down from the dagger-like steep peaks continuously, boundless like a black tide.
Tens of thousands of Skull Army and Corpse Witches hidden in the sea of bones, along with Bone Dragons and chilling Ghosts flying above…
Attacked front and back, they were doomed.
His first reaction was to curse in his heart, those bastards from Thorny Flower Fire, incompetent and still dragging their allies down, allowing the enemy to bypass behind, damn it, outrageous!
Then he checked his own status, not dying was an unexpected joy, knowing Madara’s army never leaves survivors.
But he frowned quickly; the injuries were too absurd—not only were there fatal wounds on the heart and abdomen, but also Corpse Rot Poison.
Wait, Corpse Rot Poison?
Hadn’t he already completed the Perfect Body mission?
How could the Silver Clan’s body be affected by these low-level dark corrosion?
What are the officials doing?
He didn’t have much time to question this, the young man weakly coughed and barely supported himself to sit up from the dust-covered ground—he realized the dark corrosion was still a minor issue; a Priest could dispel it.
But by the look of his own status, if he didn’t stop the bleeding quickly, he feared he might die from weakness.
Though he wasn’t a top-tier player, he was at least experienced enough to understand roughly what to do.
Sophie groaned, casually pushing away the half skeleton that was pressing on him.
These low-level soldiers from Madara seemed air-like in existence—speaking of which, it’s already year 44 of the Second Epoch, and Madara is still summoning these low-level cannon fodder, utterly useless and solely wasting Soul Energy.
The brains of those Wizards in Ocatto’s Undead Series have completely corroded by negative energy; they are inflexible.
He had the mind to grumble but then found even pushing away this skeleton felt slightly strenuous; indeed, the punishment of the weak status wasn’t trivial.
Usually, he could easily push away a Bone Dragon.
Sophie remembered the last time he fell into a dying weak state, how long ago was it?
Divine Power’s combat strength wasn’t boastful; if not for those incompetents from Thorny Flower Fire, his undefeated record would likely continue.
Thinking about this couldn’t help but make the young man gloomy again.
Holy Temple Force was defeated in a landslide; the forums would surely be buzzing at this point.
He thought of these trivial matters while reaching back to touch his backpack—only to touch an empty space.
Sophie was stunned, then started cursing.
“These Madara robbers!”
Curse he may, he still needed to find a way to stop the bleeding.
At this moment, a Healing Potion would be the best; if nothing else, bandages would do.
These things shouldn’t be lacking on the battlefield; normally, nobody bothers with the cannon fodder’s backpacks, filled with Healing Potions and bandages, especially bandages.
Before the battle, he even saw a rookie lugging around a full pack of bandages.
What a joke, thinking carrying more bandages would prevent death?
He instinctively prepared to get up, but upon turning, he froze—wait, was this still the mountains of Orkash?
He should be seeing this scene: desolate weed patches, exposed white rocks jaggedly distributed on steep slopes, corpses everywhere, ravens flying over the silent battlefield, Graces’ tattered Great Bright Cross Flag fluttering on the mountaintop.
However, the imagined scene didn’t reappear in the young man’s eyes—
No Orkash mountain’s northerly wind howling through the night, no silent shadows walking like Ghosts through the mountains, not even the bone-chilling cold that could freeze the air into dry powder.
All seemed like an illusion, and when this illusion shattered, he found himself lying on the wooden floor of a silent, dilapidated room.
The ground was made of nailed smooth planks, with a conspicuous pool of blood on it…