Goblin Dependency
Chapter 100 - 75 Short Poem

Chapter 100: Chapter 75 Short Poem

On the Aifala Continent, there are many Divine, and their domains often overlap.

Except for those who have received higher education or are very interested in theological knowledge.

It is difficult for ordinary people to name every Divine and the divine office they correspond to.

Therefore, to distinguish between different Divine in the simplest and clearest way, facilitate directed faith and propagation, and also enhance its influence,

The Holy Emblem came into being.

Just like the "Bloodied Nine-tailed Whip" of the "Suffering Girl" Old Weieta, the "Three Bolts of Scattered Lightning" of the "Storm Lord" Taros...

Every Divine has its own Holy Emblem, a design that can to some extent manifest the power they wield.

And engraved on the cover of the strange leather book, that white human skull represents—

The "Master of Skeletons," "Harvester," "King of the Dead"

"Milcor."

The Half orc’s eyes showed a hint of disdain, muttering under his breath.

As a member of the "Dark Gods," a powerful Divine who rules over "the Dead," "Decay," and "Dusk."

Milcor is vicious and ruthless, fond of spreading fear to every corner of the continent.

Almost every adult has at least once dreamed of "a skeleton wielding a scythe, draped in a black hood," or "the undead in a dead silent wilderness."

This also makes his followers often commit some extreme, cruel acts, making people respect and fear death, thereby enhancing the influence of the Church.

The sinister and evil doctrine, the Power of the Undead that corrupts sanity, further makes him the master worshipped by many "Cultists."

Obviously, the Tomb Guardian before everyone is one of them.

"I’ve spent my life in the graveyard, watching countless deceased go to his Divine Country, and on that dim moonlit night, the most merciful and powerful master left a gift for his most devout servant."

The Tomb Guardian’s shriveled and gaunt face was filled with fanaticism, as if even his broken right hand no longer hurt.

"Only this book?" The sheriff frowned, asking the other party.

"And the bone whistle that contains the power of Divine."

The Tomb Guardian suddenly looked at the piece of misshapen, twisted Palm Bone in Xia Nan’s hand.

Hearing this, although Xia Nan’s expression remained calm, his heart couldn’t help but tremble twice.

Is it true?

He thought it was just an ordinary trophy; was its origin actually so significant?

As if sensing his thoughts, Alton beside him tiptoed up, reaching out to pat his shoulder in comfort:

"Don’t worry, with this old guy’s level, he doesn’t even count as the lowest level Cultist."

"No need for severe torture; with arms held up, he confessed everything; he’s anything but devout, how could he receive a gift handed down personally by the Divine."

"Just take it confidently, sell it in the city later, and there’s no problem at all."

As soon as he said this, the Tomb Guardian became agitated instantly.

"How dare you! How dare you belittle my faith in the master!?"

His face flushed red, and he leaned forward on his knees, as if ready to fight the Half orc to the death if he said one more word.

"Shut up!"

Ingram rebuked.

The two guards beside him timely grabbed the other’s shoulders.

The Tomb Guardian immediately lowered his head, becoming obedient like a quail.

"See, I told you." The Half orc gave Xia Nan a sidelong glance, looking as if he had anticipated this.

On the other side, Ingram stood in front of the Tomb Guardian, openly flipping through the leather book in his hand.

His belief in the Sun God "Amanata" and the Holy Light surging within him made him not care about these ordinary powers of the undead.

Suddenly, his hand paused.

With his fingertips pinching the spine, he turned the book towards the Tomb Guardian:

"What about these pages, why are they torn out?"

"Sir, I really don’t know! The night I heard the knocking, when I picked it up on the doorstep, it was already like this."

His voice became shaky and trembling again, and his thin body started to shudder again.

The grip from the guard on his shoulder grew heavier, and the bandage stained fully red by the severed right hand discouraged the Tomb Guardian from babbling further, and he spoke plainly in a pleading tone.

The thin, strangely textured leather book, the torn-out pages seemed to be the most crucial parts.

The remaining pages were inscribed with intermittent, vague handwriting, composing a short, structurally chaotic, and unrhythmic poem:

"The moonlight is pale, the girl lies lonely;

The Prostitute envies her beauty and takes off her ring; the stumbling sailor removes his shoes;

The pickpocket steals her bracelet in the night, the merchant’s scale holds her anklet; the gambler’s fingers are stained with greed, the pendant falls silently; the crippled elder shrouded in twilight cuts her hair;

The Pagan in the wilderness digs new ground, burying her with his hands;

Sinking into darkness, eternally asleep."

The poem is crude, with no apparent meaning.

But the strong directionality in the words made Ingram, already fully immersed in the case, react immediately.

"Prostitute, sailor, thief, merchant..."

Aren’t those the identities of the recent victims who were attacked one after another?

Even the accessories mentioned correspond exactly to the parts of the victims’ bodies that were lost.

"So, Tim is following this order?" a guard asked after hearing the sheriff’s conjecture.

"Not necessarily," Ingram pondered, "but what is certain is that he will definitely target the remaining categories in the poem."

First is the "gambler."

The Full Bag of Gold Tavern has a constant stream of people daily, each guest could somewhat fit this identity.

It’s impossible for him to protect everyone who has been to the tavern; managing to post a few guards nearby is his limit.

What a headache.

Next is the "Pagan."

Even harder to handle.

On this continent filled with countless Divine, pulling a random beggar from the street, he might just be a casual worshipper of some god.

Completely impossible to pinpoint a target.

As for the last, the crippled elder shrouded in twilight...

"Isn’t there one right here?"

Xia Nan glanced towards the Tomb Guardian’s direction, speaking casually.

"Twilight"—matches the identity of a Tomb Guardian and one who has touched the Power of the Undead;

"Crippled"—having had half his arm cut off by himself, fits perfectly;

"Elder"—goes without saying.

Upon Xia Nan’s remark, the sheriff paused briefly, looking at him somewhat surprised.

Seemingly not expecting him to identify the target who matches the characteristics so quickly.

After a brief hesitation, he nonetheless spoke:

"Now that you mention it, he does match the description in the poem."

"But..."

"The one I have in mind is someone else."