Diary of a Dead Wizard-Chapter 358: Yellow Sparrow, Yellow Sparrow, Yellow Sparrow

Boom—

Boom—Boom—

Several loud explosions erupted in succession from the hull of the floating ship.

But the ones who lit the explosives were the very crew members aboard the ship.

The first mate, who had just claimed the half-elf was no stronger than a First Rank, now stared blankly at the sky, completely indifferent to everything around him.

Dozens of crew members ran back and forth across the deck.

Some were laughing, some were begging for mercy.

One was scrubbing the deck with a bloodstained mop. As someone passed by, their foot slipped, and they plunged headfirst into a wooden bucket filled with red, filthy water.

Before he could even struggle to climb out, the mop-wielding crew member, wearing a twisted grin, raised the mop and viciously plunged it into the bucket.

A sickening crack like a watermelon splitting rang out, and a cluster of white, unidentifiable objects floated to the surface.

The mop-wielding crewman nodded in satisfaction, then pulled the now red-and-white mop out and continued sliding across the deck.

The first mate was still gazing at the sky.

He opened his mouth—inside, there was nothing. No tongue, no teeth, no throat. Just a writhing mass of red meatballs.

A “woo woo woo” sound emanated from within.

A panicked crewman accidentally bumped into the first mate and instantly forgot what he had been doing. Mimicking the first mate, he too looked skyward.

“Ah!” He stared into the sky, eyes filled with terror, mouth wide open.

But before he could let out a second cry, something pierced through his mouth with a squelch—taking with it his lips, teeth, throat, straight through to the end.

The fear on the crewman’s face vanished. He slowly closed his mouth.

A few minutes later, when he opened it again, his organs and muscles had all melted into lumps of flesh, emitting a weeping “woo woo woo.”

Another huge explosion sounded. The wooden hull at the ship’s bottom burst open, and from within rolled out a massive black sphere ten meters in diameter.

The black ball resembled a tangle of knotted hair, the ends of which were still twitching. It was a grotesque mass formed by the necks of countless slender shadowy wraiths twisted and tangled together.

They bit each other fiercely, writhing and contorting, as if locked in a life-or-death battle with hated enemies.

From within the black sphere came agonized howls.

Humans were going mad. And even the monsters weren’t spared.

Wilder stood atop the tallest sail, looking down, the corners of his eyes twitching uncontrollably.

“I don’t know how much Yura paid you, but I can offer more. Stop this corruption, half-elf—this is suicide!”

He wasn’t in good shape either.

The skin on the left side of Wilder’s face had been torn off, revealing raw, red muscle.

The muscle slowly pulsed and regenerated, only to be ripped away again by his own hand.

A closer look would show that the red on the left side of his face was far too vivid—less like blood, more like blazing fire, scorching his flesh and nerves.

His once thick beard and curly hair had been entirely ripped off. Each time they regrew, Wilder mercilessly tore them out again.

That was the most terrifying part.

All the injuries—were self-inflicted!

And the half-elf had only struck once.

That one time was when the Land Drifter’s cannonball hit him. The half-elf instantly turned into countless flakes of snow.

Thus, in the warmth of spring, a blizzard descended.

Ten minutes later, the half-elf stood atop a sail slightly lower than Wilder’s. Snowflakes still danced around him.

These snowflakes would instantly melt upon touching the ship, seemingly harmless but they were the true cause of the catastrophe.

It was from being touched by one such snowflake that Wilder’s face was half-destroyed.

Even now, the corruption there was restless, trying constantly to break through his defenses, to invade his core, to reach his mind and soul.

“I don’t know who Yura is. I came on Gorsa’s behalf.”

“Gorsa?” Wilder narrowed his eyes.

Though the half-elf’s corruption was gnawing at him, he remained calm.

After all, to track Saul, this ship was merely a guard vessel in his fleet. If it was destroyed, so be it.

As for the crew… Wilder had resolved to sacrifice them all when he signed the three-party agreement.

He was, after all, the one meant to serve as the visible enemy and draw enemy fire.

This, his men didn’t know.

But if, by drawing fire, he accidentally drew Gorsa himself—

That would be too dangerous.

At this thought, Wilder no longer spared a glance at the people on board. He soared into the sky, channeling his magic to its limit, enduring the mental pressure from the half-elf, stabilizing his mental form, and flying quickly toward Hanging Hands Valley.

Only when the half-elf confirmed that every person aboard had been consumed by his corruption did he slightly turn his head. His entire form scattered into swirling snowflakes, chasing after Wilder.

Suddenly, a piercing voice rang out nearby.

The sound had such penetrating force that the flurry of snow began to unravel slightly.

So the storm reformed into a person.

The half-elf looked toward the newcomer who had just prevented his pursuit.

“Kismet?” His voice was still beautiful—just devoid of emotion.

Light flashed. An elegant figure stood atop a massive tree trunk near the ship.

Kismet set down his harp and offered a theatrical bow to the half-elf.

“An honor that you still remember my name. For that, would you consider sparing Wilder this time? I owe him a life, after all.”

“Don’t believe you,” the half-elf said calmly.

“Tsk tsk,” Kismet clicked his tongue and changed tack. “Fine, fine. I actually owe him a favor.”

“Don’t believe you.”

“Right, that excuse was lame too.” Kismet thought for a moment, then brought his hands together. “Truth is, he’s still of some use to me. So he can’t die just yet. Could you let him go this once?”

That reason seemed a little more believable.

The half-elf didn’t immediately decide whether to believe it or not. He merely shifted his toes in Kismet’s direction.

But before he could speak, another voice answered for him.

“No!”

Both Kismet and the half-elf turned to a third direction.

A powerful magical aura surged from afar.

But in the next instant, Kismet leapt down from the tree, landed lightly on his toes, and darted away, vanishing nearly a hundred meters in the blink of an eye.

At the same time, a man in a red-brown cloak—Gorsa—appeared in the very spot Kismet had stood.

He stared at Kismet but spoke to the half-elf. “Don’t forget my commission, half-elf.”

The half-elf withdrew his foot, which had already shifted direction, and once more turned into a swirling storm of snow, rushing after the fleeing Wilder.

Now, only Gorsa and Kismet remained.

Silver eyes met silver eyes.

One gentle. One playful.

Suddenly, Gorsa moved. He raised his right hand—wrapped in pink bandages—and opened his palm. A black shadow flew out, expanding rapidly like a net, swooping down toward Kismet.

The shadow spread swiftly, blanketing the sky above Kismet, as though turning day to night.

Kismet instantly tensed. His long fingers plucked rapidly at the harp strings, and he opened his mouth in a silent scream.

“Clang—”

As if a mirror had shattered from a hundred meters in the air, the black canopy above him fragmented into countless shards and rained down from the sky.

Like a storm of black snowflakes.

The moment the flakes hit the ground, they darted into the shadows of grass and trees, vanishing without a trace.

Kismet’s fingers didn’t stop even after the dark veil had shattered. The harp's rapid notes sent waves of sound like solid ripples, keeping all the shards at bay—none could approach him or his shadow.

Only when every last fragment was gone did Kismet lower his harp. His face had paled several shades, but the smile still hung on his lips.

“You really switched to dark-element magic? Aren't you afraid of being spanked by your glorious ancestors?”

(End of Chapter)