Surrounded by countless desert mummies, Henwell feels no trace of panic.

  Though the sky has fully brightened, and under the sunlight the mummies’ strength has risen to knight rank, Henwell still relies on his war spear and expert combat skills to clear a five-meter radius around him, turning it into a barren zone.

  Each strike shatters a mummy completely.

  When a desert mummy breaks apart, it disintegrates into a cloud of sand.

  From a distance, at the heart of the vast mummy horde, a small sand tornado nearly ten meters tall whirls, a result of all the sandstorms created by Henwell’s continuous destruction.

  On a nearby sand dune, Papaste stares with his mouth agape, dumbfounded as Henwell charges toward nearly a thousand mummies.

  In just over ten minutes, Henwell has eliminated almost half of them.

  The remaining survivors watch, numb, as Henwell’s relentless sughter unfolds.

  Just as Henwell is getting into his rhythm, the swirling sandstorms suddenly halt.

  The st three hundred or so mummies colpse into sand and vanish.

  As the dust settles, Henwell looks around, puzzled.

  Is it because the number of mummies dropped below a threshold, making their existence unsustainable?

  Or do the mummies only st for a limited time, like a summoned force with a set duration?

  Or perhaps the Lightchaser Fleet has moved too far away to maintain their magical influence here?

  Henwell sighs, watching the desert return to calm.

  He knows he can’t keep farming monsters forever.

  Like Fury Spirits, these desert mummies don’t directly boost his combat power, but they greatly enhance the strength of Civilization Aura and Shackles of Civilization.

  Henwell senses there’s a deep secret behind all this, but clearly, he’s not ready to uncover it yet.

  Brushing sand off his cloak, Henwell slings the war spear over his shoulder and heads toward the survivors on the sand dune.

  As Henwell approaches, the survivors don’t even dare to look him in the eye.

  They can hardly find the words to express their gratitude for being saved.

  Henwell’s presence overwhelms them.

  They simply can’t fathom someone being so powerful.

  A Grand Knight is no ordinary figure. Across nations, they are esteemed guests, people of wealth and influence.

  In any country, a Grand Knight holds at least the rank of viscount.

  In the military, they command legions.

  Such figures are far beyond the reach of these caravan members.

  Now, fewer than a hundred survivors remain.

  From a caravan of over a thousand, only this many are left after just over half an hour.

  Some survivors are badly wounded, cking medicine and proper care, making it difficult for them to survive the day.

  The Bck Storm truly is the deadliest disaster in the Scorching Sand Sea.

  To Henwell’s surprise, the guide named Mbatu is still alive.

  That’s a relief, at least they won’t get lost in the desert.

  Though they’re only a few dozen kilometers from the desert’s edge, losing their way here could easily lead them in circles, deeper into the wastend.

  Henwell looks at the dazed Mbatu and asks, “Can you still tell which way to go?”

  Mbatu hasn’t fully recovered from the ordeal, trembling and muttering to himself.

  Henwell gently taps him with the war spear and repeats the question.

  Only then does Mbatu snap out of his hysteria.

  But instead of answering, he colpses to the ground and breaks down in tears.

  Henwell understands the survivor’s trauma and doesn’t press further.

  Instead, he blows a sharp whistle.

  Moments ter, two warhorses kick and jostle each other as they thunder toward Henwell from afar.

  Papaste summons his courage and salutes Henwell.

  “Thank you for saving my life, sir. Once we reach Lumir territory, I will make sure you’re properly rewarded.”

  Henwell smiles but says nothing.

  Papaste presses on, “Sir, will those monsters come back?”

  Henwell shrugs, “I don’t know. But we need to move quickly. If we run into any more trouble, you’ll be the ones in trouble.”

  Papaste begins gathering the survivors, searching nearby for scattered camels and settling the wounded onto them. They load all the cargo they can carry, then quickly organize the group to set off immediately.

  The sole surviving guide, Mbatu, has recovered from his emotional breakdown and silently leads the remaining group onward.

  Half an hour ter, someone suddenly shouts in arm.

  There’s a problem with the wounded.

  Several severely injured have succumbed to their wounds, dying atop the camels.

  This was expected, but the way they died is strange.

  Henwell turns his horse and approaches, frowning as he looks at the bodies on the camels.

  He orders the bodies to be taken down and inspects them carefully.

  The corpses appear desiccated, like mummies long dead, their bodies completely drained of moisture.

  The flesh around their wounds has dried up, resembling withered, dead wood.

  Henwell checks the other injured survivors and finds their bodies rapidly losing moisture.

  Even with heavy hydration, the loss can’t be stopped.

  Soon, they too will be drained dry, death is inevitable.

  As Henwell frowns in thought, Mbatu speaks in a hoarse voice, “They’re beyond saving. Anyone wounded by the Withered Legion—even a small cut—can’t survive. It’s not poison. It’s the Withered Legion’s curse, the Scorching Sand Sea’s punishment. No one can save them.”

  No sooner has he finished than the group gasps again.

  The corpses on the ground begin to move, not rising as the undead, but slowly sinking into the desert sand, as if quicksand pits have opened beneath them.

  Before anyone can react, the bodies are swallowed completely by the yellow sand.

  The desert surface smooths over, as if nothing happened.

  Horrified, the survivors stagger back several steps, still feeling unsafe.

  Panicked, they scramble back onto their mounts.

  To their eyes, the desert seems like a terrifying beast beneath the surface, jaws wide open, ready to devour prey.

  Or perhaps the entire desert feels like an unknown monster greedily eyeing their flesh and souls.

  Some lose control, urging their horses and beasts to flee this dreadful sea of sand as fast as possible.

  Seeing the chaos, Henwell shouts fiercely, “Quiet!”

  The powerful roar causes a ripple in the sand around him.