Otaku Translation: Lone Adventure V4C15

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Chapter 15: Life is Precious (Part 1)

Sometimes, I find myself pondering a question: How do we measure someone's strength? Is it simply about comparing levels, gear, or the mastery of skills?

I don’t think so. Not entirely. Because I’ve witnessed it time and again—during countless sparring matches and battles, adventurers with lower levels and inferior equipment often manage to hold their own against stronger opponents, regardless of whether they’re warriors, mages, or something else entirely.

There’s more to strength than raw stats. Wisdom in choosing tactics, the ability to judge timing, and even... courage. These intangibles can tip the scales just as much as any enchanted sword or spellbook.

Earlier, when I cowered in the grip of death’s terror, paralyzed by fear, Marquis Menewal seemed like an unstoppable force—a figure worthy of standing beside the Grim Reaper himself, capable of snuffing out my life without a second thought. At that moment, I couldn’t bear to look at him, let alone face him in combat. The very idea felt inconceivable.

In that state, I was utterly powerless. A child armed with nothing but a twig could have defeated me, for I had lost all semblance of bravery.

But now, having gathered my resolve and stepped forward once more, I see the truth. That towering, ferocious vampire lord wasn’t invincible—he was merely a phantom conjured by my own mind. Yes, he was formidable, his attacks overwhelming, but I wasn’t completely helpless. I didn’t have to bow my head and accept destruction.

Without my shield, fending off Menewal’s relentless assault became far more challenging. My strategy shifted to defense—I conserved stamina, relying heavily on the “Parry” skill to mitigate damage while keeping him occupied. Every second I held the line gave my allies precious opportunities to strike.

Taking on a powerful vampire like Menewal alone would be suicidal. Thankfully, Clado, the tauren shaman, stood beside me. Though casters aren’t built for tanking, taurens possess a vitality far greater than humans, allowing him to shoulder some of the pressure temporarily. Occasionally, he’d plant his Anger Totem, drawing Menewal’s attention and buying us critical moments to recover.

Our efforts paid off. Under our combined assault, Menewal’s health dwindled steadily, dropping to nearly a tenth of its initial value. But as his life drained away, his desperation grew. His swings became erratic, unpredictable, no longer bound by rhythm or pattern. Magical energy crackled around him constantly, flashes of brilliance that sapped our strength in dazzling displays.

The last time, my arrogance cost me dearly—I underestimated the need to heal, and it cost me my life. This time, I resolved not to make the same mistake. With no healing potions left, I retreated whenever my health dipped below half, seeking the dual blessings of Clado’s Life Totem and Longbow Sunshot’s holy spells.

As it turned out, my caution was well-founded.

Just as Menewal teetered on the brink of defeat, the monstrous vampire spread his wings, whipping up a gale that scattered us. He discarded his sword, brought his palms together, and began chanting an eerie incantation. Between his hands, a crimson glow emerged—a tiny speck at first, growing larger until it formed a fist-sized sphere of blood-red light.

With both hands, Menewal lifted the orb to his mouth and swallowed it whole. Immediately, he threw back his head and let out a guttural roar. His already grotesque features twisted further, his skin knotting into thick cords of muscle. A dark, purplish hue seeped through his flesh, and his nails elongated into razor-sharp talons. The red glow in his eyes burned brighter, as if fueled by some infernal fire within.

Clado, embodying the fearless spirit of the tauren, charged forward with a bellow, axe raised high. Without hesitation, he swung at the transformed vampire—but instead of slicing through flesh, the blade struck with a dull thud, like hitting solid wood. All that remained was a faint white scratch on Menewal’s arm; not a drop of blood spilled.

That single blow dealt only fifty points of damage—far below what a tauren shaman’s attack should inflict.

Menewal growled low, swiping casually with one hand. Clado flew backward, crashing to the ground. This bare-handed strike carried more force than any of Menewal’s previous sword swings. In an instant, the sturdy tauren warrior was reduced to a critically wounded mess.

As another melee fighter locked in close combat with the vampire lord, I soon shared Clado’s fate. Menewal’s enraged assault sent me sprawling. His claws struck with brutal precision, accompanied by a sinister chill that seeped into my bones. My muscles went limp, my body fragile as glass. What seemed like a simple hit left me hovering on the edge of death.

Had I not been meticulous about maintaining my health, that strike would have sent me spiraling back into the void.

“Be careful! His attacks are unnatural—don’t try to block them head-on!” I shouted as I scrambled to my feet, warning the others. At that moment, Menewal turned his attention to Black Aurora, our elven mage.

Black Aurora had ample time to evade, but he made a fatal miscalculation. Engrossed in casting a fireball, unwilling to waste the mana already spent, he misjudged Menewal’s newfound ferocity. Determined to complete his spell, he braced for the impact.

The fireball struck true, exploding across Menewal’s chest in a burst of flames. The damage was significant—one hundred fifty-three points vanished in the ensuing smoke.

But Menewal’s retaliation was swift and merciless. His claws tore through Black Aurora’s frail form with ease. Against the vampire’s debuff-laden strikes, even my chainmail offered little protection. For the lightly armored elf mage, there was no contest. Like paper pierced by a needle, he crumpled to the ground with a feeble cry, lifeless.

Longbow Sunshot, our fearless dwarven priest, had always been the most reckless among us. Yet even he showed surprising prudence this time. Initially, he charged forward, shouting, “Leave this brute to me! Watch me send him packing!” His bone-tipped staff spun as he barreled ahead. But upon witnessing Black Aurora’s swift demise and seeing Menewal turn toward him, his bravado faltered.

With a startled yelp, Longbow broke into a retreat, fleeing twice as fast as he had charged. As he ran, he frantically cast healing spells on himself, pouring resources without restraint. If over-healing could cause internal bleeding, he’d have achieved it.

Who says dwarves lack agility? Longbow’s nimble footwork during his escape could put a cheetah to shame. His stubby legs moved like pistons, spinning at incredible speed, and somehow—miraculously—he avoided tripping over his own beard.

Perhaps Menewal’s vision had deteriorated after two transformations and repeated burns to his eyes, making Longbow’s small frame harder to track. Whatever the reason, the vampire abandoned pursuit of the dwarf and turned his fury back toward Clado and me.

Damn it all—why does he keep coming after me?!

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