Chapter 34: Roddy's Outburst

“This bastard! No wonder so many people end up supporting him! Go ahead, play the hero—then die here in my place!” Charles was shaken by the other man’s actions. He’d meant to drag him in as bait, but instead, the man was risking his life to save him.

Without hesitation, Charles darted past him, feigning panic as he fled. This sudden reversal caught Roddy off guard. Yet Charles had barely taken ten steps before he stopped, shoved the little white fox into his robe, spun around, and drew his bow. His target: the raven swooping down again.

He could have easily used the other man as a decoy and escaped, but such an act would haunt his conscience forever, a nightmare that would never fade.

This time, his arrow struck with the precision of a serpent’s flickering tongue, hitting the base of the bird’s wing—its only path of attack. The arrowhead, as long as a finger, buried itself deep, and the raven let out a piercing, ear-splitting screech.

The sound itself was a sonic assault, making both men reel with dizziness and ringing ears. Fortunately, the enormous black wolf that had been attacking them also staggered, dazed.

“Run, now!” Charles struggled to nock another arrow, letting it fly and striking the raven’s wing once more. This time, however, it merely glanced off its feathers with a metallic clang—the arrow couldn’t pierce the bird at all.

Luckily, the first shot had crippled its wing, forcing it to crash to the ground and ending its pursuit. For now, their greatest threat was neutralized.

“Shadow, fall back!” Roddy called his totem back to him and fled alongside Charles.

But the black wolf was still terrifyingly fast—far too quick for either of them to outrun. Charles shot an arrow, but the wolf caught it in its jaws and casually tossed it aside.

Clang!

Roddy was forced to turn and swing his sword at the beast, but the wolf batted the blade away with a single paw, sending both the weapon and Roddy himself crashing into a tree trunk.

The wolf lunged. The little creature Roddy had summoned leapt at it, determined to protect its master. But it was far too weak—an unevolved beast, fierce in appearance but no match for a totem that had undergone evolution.

The giant wolf bounded gracefully, jaws gaping wide, and clamped down on the little beast. Perhaps the creature’s back spines pricked it, for the wolf flung it to the ground and pinned it with a massive paw.

“Shadow—now! Unleash everything!” Roddy, seeing the wolf’s jaws descend toward his totem’s neck, screamed in desperation, his eyes wild with fury.

Such a mortal wound could cripple, even destroy, a totem for good.

If a totem was slain before its master’s eyes, the price to restore it would be higher than breeding a new one from scratch. Auxiliary totems could be discarded and replaced, but a primary totem was crucial to a Spiritmaster’s advancement. To replace it would take years and consume rare resources. That’s why Spiritmasters would never let their totems die unless facing true life-or-death danger; some even gambled on their own survival, withdrawing their main totems and risking their own lives instead.

Roddy drew a handful of source crystals from his robes, channeling all their energy into a strange pattern—like a mysterious altar—that instantly enveloped his totem beast.

A red mist rose from the creature’s body, its form swelling, a deep, guttural roar issuing from its throat.

“This is it—he’s force-burning his inheritance genes, awakening the totem’s primal power!” Charles’s eyes lit up, recalling a scene from the future storyline. It was by unleashing this desperate technique—a so-called “cosmic burst”—that Roddy would reverse his fate, defeat his second-level Spiritmaster foe.

Now, under Charles’s interference, Roddy was forced to use this gambit, just as in the original story. Would it succeed here as well?

But already, the grizzly was upon him, smashing through a tree as thick as his arm with a single paw. The splintered trunk struck Charles in the side, sending him flying several yards.

He spat blood, pain tearing through his abdomen—he’d suffered serious internal injuries. Worse still, he glimpsed another Spiritmaster approaching through the trees.

With no time to lose, Charles forced himself upright and dove into the dense underbrush. The furious grizzly let out a roar but gave up the chase, turning to join the attack on Roddy.

Charles had barely run ten meters before Roddy’s furious shout rang out behind him: “You bastards—die!”

He didn’t know what Roddy had just endured, but the man’s voice was laced with a bone-deep hatred. Charles couldn’t help but wonder if Roddy’s two companions had been killed.

Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Someday, this man would rule the Harrison Empire, a peerless hero who would save the world from calamity. His path was never meant to be ordinary.

“Good luck,” Charles muttered, not breaking stride as he fled through the forest.

A thunderous beast’s roar shook the woods behind him—a cry of primal arrogance, as if a wild king had claimed dominion over all.

“So it happened after all. The future King of Totems, the mightiest divine beast in the world, has begun to reveal its power.”

A flicker of envy flashed in Charles’s eyes, but it soon faded. He firmly believed his own future would not be outshone. With White Spirit as his miraculous advantage, if he couldn’t surpass mere “NPCs,” he might as well be dead.

For now, though, he had to address his injuries. Spotting a massive hollow tree ahead, he hurried inside and leaned against the soft, rotting wood, focusing his will.

“White Spirit!”

A translucent virtual interface appeared before him. He focused on the “Constitution” field, and an evolution point ticked down.

A wave of heat surged through his body, as if worms writhed beneath his skin. The evolution point transformed into a mysterious energy, mending his damaged organs.

He spat out another mouthful of blood, this time flecked with fragments of tissue—the remnants of his wounded innards.

The clotted blood expelled, his complexion improved. Now able to sit up, he carefully withdrew the little white fox from his robes.

He was grateful he’d kept the fox tucked against his chest; if it had taken the brunt of that tree’s blow, it would surely have perished.

White Spirit wasn’t an ordinary totem—once dead, it was gone for good, no price too high to bring it back.

But now, the fox was gravely wounded, lost in unconsciousness.

“This is ridiculous. To evolve a totem, you have to slay powerful totems or mutant beasts—but with my current strength, it’s nearly impossible to do so safely!” Charles slammed his fist against the tree, bitterly frustrated by his weakness.

“Charles, is that you in there?” A familiar voice called out from outside, making him start. It was that strikingly handsome man.

Charles, with his knowledge of the future, knew the man was no stuffy scholar as he appeared, but a cunning and dangerous hypocrite.