Reborn As a Pirate - Chapter 168

Chapter 168: The Ice Witchp!
The journey through the secret passage was brief, and within minutes, the team emerged near the edge of the imposing Great Rift Valley. As they approached, the scale of the chasm became oppressively tangible.

Ryan surveyed the bleak landscape. Cyan River’s earlier descriptions didn’t do justice to the stark reality. Above, a thick veil of black fog obscured the sky, while even the soil beneath their feet was tainted a sinister shade of black, signs of a deep-seated corruption.

The sheer depth of the rift was daunting; a direct leap could spell doom for even the hardiest adventurer. Knowing this, each member prepared to descend in their unique way.

Without a word, Cyan River melted into the shadows, her form blending seamlessly with the darkness as she navigated her way to the valley’s floor with practiced ease. The others readied their own methods, each movement a testament to their skills and the strange, dark beauty of the world they navigated.

Yellow Sand descended into the rift with a grace that belied the rugged terrain. With each step he took, a staircase of shimmering ice crystals formed beneath his feet, winding elegantly into the rock wall. As he moved, the stairs behind him dissolved into a fine mist, as though he were strolling through his own serene garden rather than navigating a treacherous rift.

At the edge of the rift, Ryan, Green Tide, and Blue Mountain watched in silent amazement. A quick exchange of knowing looks confirmed their shared understanding: all three were melee fighters, their skills honed in the thick of combat rather than the subtle artistry of their companions’ descent.

With no other option, they prepared for a more mundane approach. Leveraging the uneven surfaces and jagged outcrops of the rift walls, they clambered down with the skill and agility that third-level melee professionals possessed. It was a less elegant descent, but effective nonetheless.

At the valley’s base, they regrouped in the shadowy gloom. The ground here was not the firm soil they were accustomed to but a thick, clinging mud that seemed to grasp at their boots.

“Which direction now?” asked Blue Mountain, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space.

Yellow Sand paused, his gaze piercing the darkness. “This way,” he directed, pointing toward a distant flicker of energy. “I sense odd spiritual fluctuations over there, likely the remnants of a weakening seal.”

Ryan eyed him with a mix of curiosity and respect. The precision of Yellow Sand’s senses was impressive, his role within their group marked by an uncanny awareness of the unseen.

Without further hesitation, they set off toward the indicated direction. It wasn’t long before Cyan River’s voice sliced through the murk, laced with concern. “Wait, shouldn’t we be more discreet? Marching straight toward them hardly seems like an ambush.”

Yellow Sand reply came calm and measured, “True, it’s a surprise attack. But surprise doesn’t always require stealth. Sometimes, the best ambush is to overpower all opposition before they can react.”

Cyan River faltered, her assassin instincts clashing with yellow Sand’s unconventional tactics. Silently, she conceded, falling back in line as they continued.

Ryan watched yellow Sand with growing admiration. The bold strategy appealed to his own nature as a hunter of giant beasts. Stealth and subterfuge were tools he understood but seldom preferred. His style was more direct, a dance with death where the stakes were clear: kill or be killed.

Despite his agreement, a cautious voice in the back of his mind whispered a reminder of the high stakes. In the real world, unlike in simulations or controlled environments, there were no second chances. His life depended on every choice, every move.

With a quiet cough to clear his thoughts, Ryan refocused. It was time to face whatever lay ahead, ready for whatever challenge the rift valley and its hidden dangers might throw their way.

As the group ventured deeper into the cavernous depths of the Great Rift Valley, their swift pace soon brought them upon a chilling scene. In the gloom, a group of about ten figures in black robes encircled an ominous altar. The altar itself was a macabre structure, crafted from an array of unidentified bones, chilling in its appearance and intent.

At its center stood a sinister sight: an inverted cross, longer at the top than at the bottom, with a figure bound to it, a stark perversion of the traditional symbol.

Before this ghastly altar lay a translucent energy plane, spanning several meters in radius, embedded within the earth itself. This was the seal guarding the entrance to the underground maze. Now, however, it showed signs of distress; tiny cracks webbed its surface, exacerbated by the throbbing, blood-colored veins that emanated from the altar. Each pulsation of these veins widened the cracks, hastening the seal’s demise.

The group’s approach, far from stealthy, caught the immediate attention of the robed figures. Remembering Cyan River’s previous infiltration, the cultists were quick to react. As Ryan and his companions appeared, five of the robed figures detached themselves and glided towards them, their movements unnatural as they seemed to slide, leaving behind patches of black swamp.

The leader, distinct in his robe trimmed with blood-colored lines, moved with menacing intent.

Yellow Sand, ever calm, assessed the situation with a strategic eye. “Leave the leader to me. He looks interesting,” he remarked coolly. “As for the others, pick your target.”

With those words, yellow Sand vanished, only to reappear beside the leader, delivering a powerful palm strike that enveloped the foe in a burst of icy mist. The impact sent the cultist crashing into a nearby rock wall, encased in a giant palm of ice.

“So fast!” Ryan exclaimed under his breath, astounded by Yellow Sand’s technique. It wasn’t mere physical prowess but seemed akin to teleportation, a movement so swift and silent it defied ordinary explanation. Witnessing the ice control, a realization dawned on Ryan. Yellow Sand’s mastery over the elements, his ability to manipulate ice with such precision, it was not the hallmark of a typical professional.

Ryan’s suspicion crystallized as he watched. “Could it be… is he, no, she, a witch?” The thought fit; the level of elemental manipulation Yellow Sand displayed went far beyond the capabilities of regular professionals like Cyan River, who, despite her shadow affinity, couldn’t manifest power to such a dramatic extent. Only a witch could wield such control.

If Yellow Sand was indeed a witch, it explained her top-ten ranking among third-level professionals, a rank justified by powers that seemed to bend the very fabric of nature to her will.

The concept of witches being “forbidden” beings, imbued with formidable power beyond their peers, pulsed through Ryan’s mind. Yet, there was no time to dwell on these thoughts. The battlefield demanded his full attention as the four remaining black-robed assailants charged forward, undeterred by the capture of their leader.

The loyalty or sheer confidence they exhibited in their leader was palpable, but as they closed the gap, one of the attackers faltered. His eyes locked onto the purple mask veiling Ryan’s face, and his stride broke. The sudden hesitation caught the attention of his comrades, yet they had no time to query his actions; battle lines were already drawn.

The hesitant black-robed man, overcome by a remembered terror, spun on his heel and fled. This unexpected retreat sent ripples of shock and anger through his allies and even surprised Ryan’s own team.

Cyan River’s eyes narrowed, piecing together the puzzle. “Could he be one of the three from before?” she mused aloud, recalling a previous encounter where her and Ryan’s paths had crossed with hostile forces. The psychological scars from that day’s events seemed to have left a deep imprint on their adversary.

This sudden desertion threw the remaining assailants into disarray, wavering between fight or flight. However, Ryan’s companions wasted no time.

Green Tide, embodying the essence of a third-rank [Great Knight], charged with the ferocity of his title. His greatsword cut through the air, landing with the force of a tidal wave, ensnaring one of the black-robed figures in a brutal bind.

Cyan River, ever the shadowy avenger, melded into the darkness only to reemerge behind another foe. Her past encounters had taught her the hard way, but she was no longer the same frightened figure. Now, she faced her enemy with a cool, calculated precision.

Blue Mountain was not to be outdone. Armed with a heavy shield and a nail hammer, he launched himself at another assailant. The force of his charge, driven by some unseen skill, pulled his target inexorably toward him.

And then there was Ryan, momentarily left without an opponent as his would-be attacker had fled. He stood still, his presence calm and observatory, his eyes shifting to where Yellow Sand was engaged in combat with the leader, the man in the blood-patterned black robe.

Ryan’s interest was particularly piqued by this duel. Yellow Sand’s methodical, almost serene handling of his opponent contrasted sharply with the chaos elsewhere. This scene held more than just a fight; it was a demonstration of power, of control over elements that Ryan had only begun to suspect. Intrigued and analytical, he watched, ready to learn from Yellow Sand’s’s formidable display.