Ghost Knight King's Dungeon Project

Chapter 55 [Ansba]

A gloomy haze hung over the gray moss field, with withered moss and sparse grassland stretching across the land. The haze overhead was as vast as the distant field itself, and the dark clouds clung together, forming a mirror-like image of the lead-gray grassland hanging overhead.

Grayish-blue skeletons, moss-covered giant rocks, rusted broken swords, snapped spears, and tattered battle banners stand in the gray moss-covered plains, interspersed with sparse forests of rusted bronze trees, forming a distant, ancient battlefield ruin. Mist, like a ghost, flickers among the scattered broken swords and spears.

Warhorse skeletons, rusted copper tree roots, and gnarled rocks clung together to form horse-shaped undead with rusted copper antlers. They ran in herds through the woodlands and wilderness, standing silently like forest demons, digging into the humus and skeletons in the soil with their clawed forehooves, then binding them together with the rusted copper tree roots on their bodies.

Clang. Clang.

The slow footsteps sounded like those of a sluggish behemoth, and the figure in the mist moved slowly across the distant fields.

Amidst the heavy clanging of armor, Ansba dragged his heavy body clad in bronze armor, carrying a flame-shaped greatsword on his back. His massive boots sank into the hard, cold soil under the weight of his body, leaving huge footprints.

The weight of the shoulder armor slightly restricted the range of motion of the thick arm armor, but it created an incredibly burly and terrifying body. The thick breastplate was connected to the curved neck of the frog-beak helmet, like the armor plate of a chariot.

The heavy bronze armor made him move quite slowly.

However, taking it slow is good too, Ansba thought. He wasn't an impatient person. And right now, the one thing he had in abundance was time.

He could have found a mount to speed up the journey, but he was too heavy. The ordinary skeleton-forged warhorses on the Graymos Wilderness would have been flattened by his bronze buttocks, turning them into a flatbread of rusted bronze roots and bones.

Although the reinforced skeleton warhorse, forged with Nether Bronze, could bear my weight, it was just as slow and clumsy as I was, charging at a speed about the same as my trotting pace.

The Necromancer Earth-Eating Worm had just finished using it and was still in hibernation. Large Necromancers have very weak endurance; even with the addition of Nether Bronze Power Wheels for mobility assistance, they still need a long time to recharge.

Moreover, slowly traversing this vast, cloud-shrouded plain, step by step, has become a way of life for Ansba.

Just like how he used to drink a cup of nauseatingly bitter unsweetened strong coffee every morning at seven o'clock without fail, along with a bag of dry and tasteless hard biscuits, and then walk to work. At 7:35, he would greet an unfamiliar old lady walking her dog on the street corner, pet the old lady's huge, fat golden retriever, and at 7:52, he would ignore the incessantly chattering bald boss at the company entrance. At 8 o'clock sharp, he would sit at his workstation and begin to repeat the same life as the previous day.

Although it is tedious and boring, it is stable and reassuring.

It is 7:30 in the morning. The Ghost Knight Armor UI in this other world has a clock display module that automatically calibrates the local meridian time, accurate to the millisecond.

Ansba found the meticulous time management quite enjoyable; perhaps even the gods who manipulated his fate enjoyed making schedules.

He admitted he was a boring, rigid person, but he had no intention of changing. Since death had given him a job, he would do it; there wasn't much else to say.

Oh… speaking of which. Ansba stared at 7:32:15 on his armor's UI, remembering what he was doing at this time yesterday.

He looked down at his massive boots, which had stepped into the footprints he'd left the previous morning, where the position of the footprints had shifted slightly. Following the footprints he'd left the day before, Ansba slowly crouched down, struggling to lower his head to look at the bushes in front of him.

The stag frog helmet is specialized for terrifying defensive capabilities and is forged together with the breastplate, so it won't fall off. However, this also makes movement clumsy and difficult, and its field of vision is exceptionally narrow compared to other helmet types. It's not easy to see things through the dark gaps in the frog helmet's field of vision.

Hidden among the crisscrossing branches of the bushes was a small bird's nest. A gray, round, fluffy bird huddled fearfully inside, protecting its three chicks with its wings.

[Target organism detected and killed]

[Elimination Priority: Extremely Low]

The illusory beeping sound flashed symbolically twice in the helmet before going out again—after all, this target had virtually no priority.

Ansba ignored him. He stretched out his hand, which was large enough to crush a human skull, and rummaged in his breastplate, pulling out a small bunch of wild berries. With his astonishingly large bronze fingertips, he carefully pinched the bunch of wild berries and clumsily stuffed it next to the bird's nest.

He picked it from around his grave at 7:12 a.m. because he had made a memo the day before.

"Am I truly free, bird?" Ansbar's booming voice echoed inside his breastplate. "Or is death merely the beginning of my imprisonment?"

Unlike his barren, gloomy, and dull life, the wild berries were bright red, plump, and juicy with a sweet and sour taste.

He didn't wait for a reply, but slowly rose to his feet amidst the sluggish clanging of his armor, dragging his heavy steps forward towards his destination. Like a train that always runs on time, he rumbled along the tracks, neither delayed nor ahead of schedule.

At 7:53, he passed through the sparse, rusty copper forest and the gray rock formations, and ahead, in the misty shadows, was a bustling camp of living people.

Loose-knitted bedding rolls and filthy old carriages were parked haphazardly, piled with loot and monster corpses, while broken weapons and scattered household garbage formed a huge maze.

Hundreds of bandits, criminals, and fugitive gang members moved about the camp. Some were still fast asleep, snoring, while others were already up early, preparing for their daily tax-related activities.

The lord of Graymoss's daily routine was exceptionally disciplined. He rose early and returned early, and he did everything meticulously, like a well-organized and orderly machine.

This was a real hardship for the criminals who were used to breaking into homes and killing people at night and snoring loudly during the day. They had to get up early every day to greet the necromancer tax collectors in their gray-green cloaks and bronze barrel helmets, or the ghost knight lords in their antler-frog helmets.

Amidst the swearing and angry roars, several bandits, already furious from being up early, wrestled together in the camp. Other criminals around them laughed, pouring bootleggings they'd bought on the black market over their heads and bodies, and smashing glass bottles in their faces, sparking even more fighting.

The camp was filled with noise. Someone pulled out a dagger and suddenly extended the murderous blade, slashing it across another person's throat.

Blood splattered like flames. Enraged by the smell of blood, the bloodthirsty criminals trembled and cursed, drawing their weapons and preparing to kill each other over trivial matters.

Clang. Clang.

When Ansba's massive figure came to a halt at the edge of the criminal camp, the commotion instantly ceased. The criminals shrank back and scattered, leaving only the corpses of the victims of infighting on the open ground.

Ansba remained silent, the shadow of his antlers cast in the dim light before the camp, like the legendary monster Wendigo.

[Target organism detected and killed]

[Elimination Priority: Extremely High]

The virtual alarm beeped wildly, locking onto all humans in the field of vision.

The amplifier has been automatically activated.

The vibrations of psionic pulses echoed within the helmet, carrying with them a manic rage and a neurotic anxiety.

"A sinner..." Ansba muttered to himself, ignoring the flickering UI.

“Sir…” A gangster who looked like a leader approached.

He wore an elegant leather overcoat with turned-up edges, a gold pocket watch tucked into his vest pocket, and had a refined and scholarly appearance. He was as thin as a stick and quite old.

It's truly baffling how this skinny guy could become the leader of these ruthless criminals in a bandit camp where fists and knives are the only weapons. Ansba thought.

“Three corpses every day,” Ansba said. “As the price you pay for living here and enjoying the protection of the dead. By whatever means you use, give me three corpses every day.”

"Yes... sir," the skinny leader replied in a low voice.

"Where is today's corpse tax?" His cold voice echoed through his breastplate.

"Please rest assured... We have bribed the corpse collectors of the Oak Knights' territory, and from now on, at least five corpses will be transported here from the Knights' territory's crematorium every day to be offered to you..." The skinny leader bowed and scraped respectfully beside Ansba.

“I didn’t ask about what happened afterward,” Ansba said. “Today’s corpse tax.”

The skinny leader paused awkwardly. "Today's," Ansba repeated, "three bodies."

“We’ve just started this corpse-stealing business, and we only stole one body yesterday…” the leader of the skinny gang said in a low voice, “Including this one in front of us, that makes two.”

He pointed to a bleeding bandit still convulsing in an open area of ​​the camp. His throat had been slit, but he was not yet dead; he was still crawling and struggling.

The leader of the skinny men drew a short sword from his waist and swiftly plunged it into the heart of the dying man, twisting the hilt violently until he completely lost his life, turning from "a person" into "a pile of flesh".

“Three,” Ansba stubbornly repeated.

"Perhaps, perhaps you could be lenient for a few days?" the leader of the stick-like people asked in a humble voice.

“Three,” Ansba replied, “I’ll take it myself.”

Enhanced by the psionic pulse and amplifier, he temporarily increased his movement speed, striding into the panicked group of criminals with agitated anger, peering around through the narrow gaps in his frog-beak helmet.

The bandits retreated in panic, like chicks seeing the shadow of a vulture, huddling together in a frantic scramble, hoping to escape the judgmental gaze peering through the narrow slits of the Ansba frog's beak.

There was no point in hiding in the crowd. Ansba grabbed one of the bandits with the most blood on him—the very same one who had killed someone in the earlier infighting.

The massive bronze gauntlet gripped the killer's skull like it was holding an apple.

"No, no, sir! No! I beg you!" the murderer cried out.

“I have come here for judgment,” Ansba replied. “Death has given me a new job. I have nothing to complain about; it’s just work.”

"I have come here to kill sinners and cleanse the world."

*Crack.* A crisp sound rang out from his broad, thick gauntlet—the sound of his skull shattering.

Crack. Crack. With a series of sounds, the sinner's head shattered in his palm.

The loop permeator is now activated.

With a humming vibration from the Nether Bronze, Ansba retracted his gauntlets. Psionic circuits seeped into the corpse, forming three undead constructs. The sinner had been transformed into a pure puppet, while the newly born undead stood silently in place, becoming one of the tools for purifying the world.

He grabbed the other two corpses and did the same.

The bronze resonator is now in use.

Thump! Thump! Thump! He pounded his broad breastplate with his fists, producing a thunderous roar like war drums, and turned to leave with three newly created undead.

"Tomorrow morning, at the same time, I, or my men, will come to collect the corpse tax again." Ansba left these indifferent words before departing.

The living were left behind, and the psionic pulses and extermination detector alarms in the helmet gradually faded. Ansba slowly made his way to his grave, carefully following the footprints he had left the previous morning.

With the three undead, he regained the calm and slow pace he had when he strolled through the gray moss-covered fields that morning.

The dark clouds overhead rolled around casually, like some huge, furry monster, wriggling little by little.

A skeleton-cast warhorse with rusted bronze tree root antlers on its head stood in the distance of the woodland, bowing its head to the distant monarch Ansba. Wandering skeleton warriors carried ancient weapons made of half rock and half bone, drifting among broken flagpoles and spears.

Clang, clang. Ansba walked slowly, listening to the reassuring creak of his heavy shoulder armor as he moved.

On his way back, as he passed that bush, he once again laboriously crouched down, peering through the narrow slit of his frog-like beak at the tiny bird's nest in the bush.

The berries I brought this morning have already been mostly eaten by the birds. The chicks seem quite cheerful. When Ansba's burkes once again ventured into the bushes, it didn't scream and retreat, but instead quietly stared at the burkes.

“I don’t like people, but I like wild animals,” Ansba said gently. “Don’t be afraid, bird.”

He stood up and slowly walked toward his grave.

Ansba's "tomb" is a fortress built of gray-white molten stone, located in the center of a sparse rusted copper forest behind the Tono Hills. Hidden among the rusted copper trees, it resembles a giant deer skull, with the gnarled and twisted roots of the rusted copper trees on both sides forming thick antlers.

The tomb is surrounded by rings of shrubs and semi-dried flowers, with deep red and bright yellow berries dotting the gray-green brushstrokes, like a somber and soft oil painting.

The heavily armored knights in their bronze barrel helmets, dragging tattered cloaks woven from vines, lichen, and gray moss, patrolled slowly among the bushes and flowers, as sluggish, clumsy, and powerful as their sovereign.

Ansba opened the heavy bronze door of the cellar and threw the three undead materials he had collected that day into it. The walls, floor, and ceiling of the cellar were all covered with a layer of bronze insulation, and this cold environment could slow down the decay of the undead and corpses.

What should I do next? Ansba thought slowly. It seemed like he didn't have any further work plans.

It's 9:30 AM. At this time yesterday, I was tending to the Undead Earth-Eating Worm, repairing its damaged Nether Bronze Armor. But the work is finished; the Undead Worm is now dormant in the hollow beneath the Deer Skeleton Fortress. There's no more work to do for now.

He slowly sat down in front of the tomb, his massive body gently leaning against the fortress of deer skulls built of molten stone amidst the clanging of metal.

*Crack*. A piece of fused stone brick beneath my buttocks shattered from sitting on it.

He sat there sullenly, staring blankly at the open field before him through the narrow gap in his helmet. In the distance, skeletal warhorses galloped, their rusted bronze antlers gleaming. Several small birds fluttered their wings and flew down from the branches beside him, landing in a row on Ansba's helmet antlers, jostling and jostling for a more comfortable spot.

The soft hopping of bird claws and the chirping of birds echoed within his enormous frog-beak helmet.

"What should I do today?" Anspa wondered. "Should I go and beat up Rahado again?"

But you need an excuse to beat someone up. You can't just go to the border and beat him up because you think of Rahado and find him annoying.

At least find an excuse; maybe I'll beat him up next time he acts like a jerk.

Should we fight Dekgon again? Dekgon seems to have collected another batch of monster muscles.

"Oh dear." A strange-sounding voice rang out.

What is that sound...? It sounds like a small creature I've seen before, like a long-legged, hard-skinned taro, burrowing in and out of the soil.

However, they usually hide very well.

Ansba, with a head full of tiny birds, slowly raised his head, trying to figure out why these elusive little creatures had come to him.

"Oh my." A rotten root ball with a bronze bell-shaped helmet on its head stood in front of him.

"Hmm," Anspar responded in a booming voice, "A newcomer?"

"Good morning," said the one-eyed bell-shaped helmeted rotten sphere. "Perhaps we can talk?"

“Come on over,” Ansba replied. “I happen to be free.”

(End of this chapter)