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TWL Chapter 485: Where Whispers Once Lingered
🕑 Added 2025-07-11 04:46:00 +0000 UTCThere wasn’t much to say about the Godling’s base stats—this was by far the weakest follower Lann had ever contracted. Not even as strong as
There wasn’t much to say about the Godling’s base stats—this was by far the weakest follower Lann had ever contracted.
Not even as strong as Milva when he first encountered her—and back then, the girl was still a starving, half-feral bounty hunter.
But the Godling’s trait was interesting.
This [Instinctive Discernment] wasn’t a combat-oriented trait, but in human society, it could turn someone with zero social skill into a master of interaction. For someone like Lann, who was destined to rule, it was an exceptional tool for vetting subordinates and collaborators.
After all, no matter how powerful you were, no one liked rats and worms scheming in the dark.
On the other side, the Godling clearly felt the surge of genuine goodwill radiating from Lann—and his trust in this human only deepened further.
A solemn and majestic force surged into his body, obliterating a dark, insidious power that had been lurking within him—like a collapsing dead tree under a mighty storm.
The Godling suddenly dropped to his knees, coughing and retching with gut-wrenching spasms.
A crow, dripping with stringy saliva and oozing multicolored fluids, was abruptly vomited out from the Godling’s mouth—followed by a swarm of flies and other insects beyond count.
The grotesque scene made everyone instinctively step back.
“Disgusting!” the Godling shrieked at the top of his lungs. “That’s so disgusting—wait? I can talk?!”
He immediately stopped stomping the bugs and smashing the crow, bursting with joy as he unleashed his voice like a rehearsed monologue.
“Whiskey! Snot slug! Bumblebee! Warty toad! Trash! Scared me to death! Hahaha! I can talk again!”
The Godling danced around with his tongue sticking out, even spinning in circles around Lann.
He was overjoyed—while Lann, for a moment, felt like a hornet’s nest had been cracked open inside his skull.
“All right, all right, little one,” Lann said, shaking his head. “Feeling better now?”
“Ah~ ah~ thank you, thank you, kind stranger whose name I don’t know!” the Godling sang out, still dancing. “I’m Johnny, thank you so much! I really thought I’d never speak again!”
Lann waved his hand dismissively. “I helped you out, so that makes us friends now, right? Would you do a favor for a friend?”
Johnny the Godling immediately fell into gloom, stopping his dance. “Oh no... what a beautiful, selfless act—why must it always turn into a transaction?”
Lann reached out and ruffled Johnny’s hair—it felt surprisingly nice. “You probably heard what we’re after. We’re planning to take on the Crones of the Forest. How much do you know about them?”
“Huh? Those three ugly old witches!” the Godling jumped back up. “Yes, yes—they’re going to attack the whole forest!”
“Then all the more reason for you to take us to stop them,” Lann said with a grin.
...
A tide of crows and flies—black as storm clouds—descended, blotting out the land below.
The Crones of the Forest stood before a colossal tree, their eyes sweeping over it. Strange blood seeped through the cracks in the bark, flowing downward to feed a massive, ever-swelling tumor at its base.
The Weavess licked her lips. “It’s been sealed away for so long. Surely, it’s ripe for feasting by now?”
The Brewess released her fingers, tossing a large, severed wolf’s head in front of the tumor. The bulge immediately began to convulse violently, as if something within it was about to break free.
“Just taste it and see,” one of them muttered. “We must gather every scrap of power to stand against the Elder Blood.”
...
The truth buried beneath the myths of Velen goes like this—
The so-called 'Lady of the Wood' was once an ancient druid who protected the forests of Velen. As for the Crones of Crookback Bog, they were foreign entities that arrived in this world alongside the Wild Hunt during the ancient age.
To seize control of the swamps of Velen, the Crones used wicked sorcery to defeat the druid.
But defeating her on her own land was one thing—killing her was another matter entirely.
The spirits of the forest, earth, and all living things continued to uphold the druid’s life, preventing the Crones from ever truly destroying her.
So the three sisters resorted to binding her—physically and spiritually—beneath the great oak. Through the earth’s leeching, the villagers’ endless offerings, dark spells, and the grinding erosion of time itself, they steadily wore her down.
Bit by bit, they stripped away her life force, drained her strength—until she was weak enough for the Brewess to finally cook.
Until today.
The three Crones twisted and writhed as they stepped out of their cave. Their warped faces betrayed no visible expression, but their movements brimmed with anticipation.
"A little rushed… what a shame..." croaked the Weavess with genuine regret. "But the flavor is truly exquisite."
They had called the place where they sealed the druid Whispering Hillock—named after the agonized wails the druid constantly let out under the seal. Villagers mistook them for whispers from the hill itself.
Now that the druid was no more, Whispering Hillock had fallen completely silent.
The entire hill lay in deathly stillness. Bathed in moonlight, it looked like a grave.
And the Crones reveled in this grim atmosphere. The Weavess closed her eyes to savor the moment—only to suddenly stiffen in alarm.
“Something’s wrong!” she screamed. “Even this cursed hill shouldn't be this quiet. Something’s not right!”
“Sister! Look around—see what’s happening!”
Startled by the warning, the Whispess widened her eyes. She slapped her hands hard against her ears, but all it did was make her head spin—she couldn’t hear a thing.
“I can’t hear anything! No offerings, no ears—nothing! I can’t hear a single thing!” The Whispess sounded on the verge of tears.
Of course—it made sense now.
Because the druid had been sealed here, the land of Whispering Hillock had long been tainted by her wrath and magic.
This forest was the only part of Velen not under the Crones’ dominion. In fact, it was the very land that suppressed their power—where they were at their weakest.
The three sisters exchanged a glance. Without hesitation, they turned and transformed—into clouds of crows and swarms of flies—attempting to flee the hill at once.
But it was already too late.
Above them, the real storm clouds had long twisted into a swirling vortex, descending upon the Crones with the crushing force of a tornado.
“Awoooargh!”
…
Keltullis twisted through a veil of thin mist, her brick-red scales shifting and shimmering like a falling volcano.
Dragonfire rained down from above, scorching every inch of land with precision and heat.
Before the flames could fully descend, the swarming flies burst apart with crackling pops, like beans frying in a pan. Then came the crows—their feathers caught fire, filling the air with the thick stench of burnt flesh and charred meat.
The three Crones couldn’t withstand it. In the blink of an eye, they were forced to abandon their scattered forms, reconstituting their twisted bodies midair before crashing hard to the ground.
There was no time to cry out in pain—vines, soil, and tall grass surged toward them, drawn by their lingering power. Infused with dark magic, these elements formed a makeshift barrier around them, barely holding back the incoming flames.
[Boom!]
The fire struck. The shield trembled on the verge of collapse.
“It’s that dragon—the one that took Johnny! It was coming for us!”
The Whispess shrieked like a madwoman, “There was always one dragon in the Elder Blood—it must be this one! The Elder Blood sent her after us!”
“Why here of all places? Why now?”
Desperately, the three sisters tried to draw strength from the earth beneath their feet. But this soil—tilled by their enemy’s wrath—lashed back at them like a hammer. The blow left their minds reeling, and Keltullis’s dragonfire nearly pierced their defenses.
This wouldn’t do.
The Weavess gritted her teeth. “Scatter! If we split up and get off this hill, any one of us can take down that red dragon alone!”
“Even if it breathes more fire, it can’t burn us all in one go!”
It had been millennia since they faced a threat this grave, but the Crones wasted no time reacting.
The Whispess yanked a severed hand from the pouch she always carried. The Brewess snatched it from her and stuffed it into her mouth, chewing wildly. Amid a piercing scream, the rotted flesh on her massive boar-like frame began to melt like wax, then launched like a fountain toward Keltullis.
“Raaah—URGH!!”
The rancid blood twisted midair as if it had a will of its own, forcing its way down Keltullis’s throat. The moment it entered, the stench and venom spread like a dye shop exploding.
Even with Keltullis’s resistance to such toxins, the foulness overwhelmed her. Her throat convulsed; the fire gathering in her windpipe nearly detonated inside her.
She had no choice but to stop the chase.
And that was all the sisters needed.
The Brewess, once massive as a wild boar, now looked more like a walking skeleton. The Weavess and Whispess grabbed what remained of her, spun around, and once again dissolved into a storm of flies and crows.
