Chapter 66: "Serpent-Handed" Shaman

Soulthief Genie did not have to wait long. A solitary figure emerged from the woods across the riverbank.

This person wore a black velvet cloak that radiated magical energy, held a staff crafted entirely from obsidian in his right hand. The smooth surface of the stone was veined with crimson lines, glowing like smoldering coal and exuding a searing magical aura—so intense that simply gazing at it from afar threatened to scorch one’s eyes.

The black-robed figure approached the river, slowly lifting his left arm. The wide sleeve slipped down, revealing a bizarre limb: below the elbow, the arm had been severed, and the stump was grafted to a venomous snake matching the thickness of the original arm. More astonishing, the snake, cut in half and transplanted onto the figure’s left arm, was still alive—writhing its sleek body, displaying black-scaled spine and milky-white belly, its broad, flat head slowly rising, flicking a purple tongue, its deadly fangs glinting beneath the hood.

He shrugged, and the snake, attuned to his mind, lifted like a true limb, its mouth seizing the edge of the cloak’s hood and pulling it back. The hood fell away, revealing a face of indeterminate age, pale skin and deep dark circles betraying a nocturnal existence. His gray eyes were profound and cold, devoid of any trace of emotion.

Leaning on his staff, the strange man gazed at the broad river ahead, a mocking curve rising at his lips.

“Those fools on the far bank think this river alone can halt my advance. How naïve.”

The black-robed figure sneered, performing a spellcasting gesture and whispering a hymn in praise of some demon lord. Evil magic surged forth, transforming his flesh into a cloud of murky mist.

The mist, nearly weightless, maintained a vague human shape and floated above the ground, swiftly crossing the hundred-yard-wide river on the night wind, then condensing back into a corporeal form on the opposite shore.

Soulthief Genie, Chaniquay, rushed to the black-robed man, dropping to his knees in servile worship, his face full of obsequious flattery.

“Honored master, your most loyal servant Chaniquay awaits your command.”

Though his face was plastered with fawning smiles, Chaniquay’s body trembled as he paid his respects, casting furtive glances at the figure’s sleeve, terrified the snake might dart out and sink its fangs into his throat.

Chaniquay had every reason to remain anxious before his master. Shaman, the High Deacon of the Conquest Cult, known as “Serpent Hand,” was not one for mercy. He was equally ruthless to enemies and subordinates alike. Chaniquay had witnessed more than once as Shaman’s “serpent hand” tore into incompetent underlings, those unfortunate souls dying instantly from its venom, unable even to struggle. Chaniquay had no wish to become the next sacrifice; his survival depended on humility, and no amount of it was excessive before Shaman.

Serpent Hand Shaman was quite pleased with his servant’s submission. He flicked his sleeve, signaling Chaniquay to step aside.

Soulthief Genie breathed a silent sigh of relief, wishing to flee at once, but he dared not make it obvious and retreated with continued deference.

Serpent Hand Shaman advanced with his staff, entering the dense southern woods of the River Ifan, surveying the towering, lush pines and cypresses with satisfaction.

He paused, suddenly striking his staff against the ground. With a muffled thud, the obsidian staff sank into the soft earth covered in fallen leaves, like a stone dropped into calm water. A wave of destructive, death-laden negative energy rapidly spread from the impact, instantly enveloping a one-hundred-twenty-foot radius around Shaman.

All flora within this zone, blasted by evil power, withered and died in an instant, forming a ring of death around Serpent Hand Shaman. Inside the ring, blackened, lifeless branches and leaves starkly contrasted with the verdant trees beyond, presenting a vivid tableau of life and death.

Standing amidst the dead foliage, a strange flush colored Shaman’s pale cheeks, and his eyes gleamed with vigor. As he destroyed the surrounding trees, this fallen druid and sixth-level “Blighter” not only satisfied his urge for destruction but also absorbed the trees’ vital essence, converting it into his own magical energy. This brutal act of plunder was the Blighter’s unique path of cultivation, and the driving force behind Shaman and his kindred’s relentless devastation of forests.

But mere destruction was not enough. Shaman next intended to make full use of the plants polluted by negative energy. He shrugged, guiding the snake grafted to his left arm out of his sleeve. With a tongue as dexterous as fingers, it untied his belt pouch and extracted a segment of tree root.

This “Gantias Demon Tree” root was about half a foot long, twisted and dark red, covered in nodules and knotted rootlets like tangled blood vessels. In the snake’s mouth, it trembled slightly, resembling not so much a root as a deformed heart.

Shaman raised the “Root of Gantias” with his serpent hand, softly chanting the activation spell. The blood-colored root, sensing the rich negative energy nearby, began to quiver violently with excitement, glowing a brilliant red.

The trees around Shaman, freshly slain by the negative energy wave, were bathed in the red light radiating from the Root of Gantias. As if infused with evil vitality, they began to writhe: withered shrubs transformed into twig monsters, needle-leaved trees into needle fiends, and vines into vine horrors.

These blighted creatures broke free from the soil, gathering from all directions around Shaman, their eyes filled with reverence for the ancient, sinister root in his hand.

Shaman was not surprised by this spectacle. The Root of Gantias he held had a storied past. The so-called “Gantias” was said to be the name of a legendary vampire from centuries past. This cold-hearted lord of the night conquered a kingdom with his formidable magic, compelling his subjects to erect a grand tower known as the “Nightfang Spire.” For decades, Gantias ruled this shadowed realm with brutal tyranny, until a hero overthrew his reign, and the vampire tyrant met his end—his heart pierced by a wooden stake.

Yet the tale did not end there.

The blood of Gantias imbued the stake that pierced his heart with terrifying magical power. Years later, the stake sprouted curled shoots and grew into a sapling infused with vampiric evil. A mad druid discovered it and transplanted it into the depths of a sunless cavern, where it flourished. It was said that this demon tree bore the world’s first seeds of blighted monsters, and the druid who nurtured it—having forsaken nature’s faith—became the first “Blighter” in the realm of Valares.

Serpent Hand Shaman did not know how much of this legend was true, nor the exact connection between the Demon Tree of Gantias, its cultivator, and the Conquest Cult. He knew only that high-ranking Blighters within the cult, himself included, could obtain a Root of Gantias from the Pontiff Doran. Once a week, Shaman could unleash the root’s accumulated magic to animate a host of dead foliage, creating a loyal army of blighted creatures.

After releasing its magic, the Root of Gantias dulled and its rootlets withered, as if frostbitten. For the next seven days, Shaman would have to destroy a patch of forest each day, feeding a portion of the stolen life essence into the root. Only after a week’s charging would the root regain its magic and produce a new batch of blighted monsters. Meanwhile, the previous twig monsters would lose their vitality and revert to dead branches and leaves.

Fortunately, even when depleted, the Root of Gantias still commanded authority over blighted creatures. As long as Shaman possessed it, he could order them as he pleased. This fact made him realize that the root—not himself—was the true master of these monsters. If he wished to employ this army in the southern reaches of the Ifan River, the most crucial task was to guard the Root of Gantias well.

With this in mind, Shaman carefully stowed the root back in his pouch, casting a glance at Soulthief Genie Chaniquay.

Chaniquay was adept at more than soul theft. Shaman’s threatening gaze warned his kleptomaniac servant against coveting the Root of Gantias, or else he would ruthlessly sever Chaniquay’s thieving claws and force them down his throat.

Terrified by the meaningful look, Chaniquay shuddered and stammered, “Honored master, what are your orders?”

Shaman scratched his chin with his serpent hand, pondering aloud, “These twig monsters alone aren’t enough to raze the Algonquin village. I’ll need to hire a more formidable force.”

“You mean the ‘Ogre Lord’ Shrek and his so-called ‘Five Hundred Warriors’ in the nearby mountains?” Chaniquay shrugged. “King Shrek’s troops are indeed formidable, but his asking price is astronomical!”

“Buying off that self-proclaimed clever fat man won’t require a fortune. The key is to appeal to his interests.” A sly smile curled at Shaman’s lips. “I am confident I can persuade the Ogre Lord to join my expedition. As for you, Chaniquay, your task now is to lead me to Shrek.”

“As you command, master.” Soulthief Genie bowed deeply to Shaman, harboring a thousand doubts as he led the way.