"So, you don't know why you're in that situation all of a sudden, and you don't know how you were saved?" the pen left a last strand of black words on the white paper, and then emitted a milky white shimmer under the influence of magic. Pen, fun, pavilion www. biquge。 info

After listening to Eric Hoska's confession of his last trip to the Northlands, Frick was still not satisfied with the information he had accumulated. He had a faint feeling that although this adventurer had verbally expressed his willingness to cooperate, he still hid a lot of information that had not been revealed.

So he had to review what he had written down on a blank sheet of paper and ask questions about the parts of the conversation that he still had doubts about. There was already a thick pile of record paper that he had placed casually beside him, and most of it was the old adventurer's own words.

The previous recording process was in full compliance with the scribe's recording ritual, and the ability to preserve the narrative of speech was to ensure that there would never be a lie - and only a deliberate lie. The effect of this ritual is obviously not perfect enough, there is no way to completely prevent the narrator from telling the incomplete truth, and if what Eric is telling is only what he knows to be true, then simple precautions will not be effective.

Over the years since he became a scrivener, Frick has seen more than once that someone tried to play tricks on the scrivener and used inaccurate words to confuse the past, and because of the imperfection of technology, the fact is that they can only use words to narrow down the scope of evasion.

So he simply threw a through ball to see how Eric Hoska would respond. If he gives an answer without hesitation, then the previous statement can basically be regarded as fact, and if he is left and right, then it may be necessary to re-examine the information provided by this adventurer.

"You don't have to test me like that. ”

Of course, his intentions were quickly seen through by Eric Hoska: "There are some things I won't tell you, even if you say that you just want to investigate the whereabouts of adventurers who have been to the end of the North more than ten years ago, I can't just believe you. Although you may have come to you by chance, it is not difficult for me to find you - a young scribe from Sierra Leone. ”

Just as Dean was able to tell who he really was from a few details, Eric Hothka had no trouble revealing Frick's last name. This is certainly not a difficult thing to do, after all, Flick has already made some name in some circles because of his newspaper headlines.

Perhaps it was not enough to tell who he was by a surname, but the adventurer had clearly quietly planted a trap during the conversation. Then it occurred to Frick that he had quietly mentioned his father's name in his self-report, and that he had probably forgotten to hide his frustration at the time.

"If you want to ask about your father, then I can only answer that I have no comment—Stella Sierra Leone is indeed famous among adventurers, but I can only know about him as described in the intelligence. He then grabbed a bottle of bad liquor that had been placed beside him and poured it down his throat, "But one thing I must admit is that La Prair was clearly influenced by your father to explore the North. ”

It should be said that not only La Praar, but also many adventurers of the era who agreed with them only considered setting foot in this wild land after hearing about Stella Sierra Leone's adventure in the end of the country. After all, before disappearing completely, he brought back a lot of extremely valuable first-hand information in Zhongbei.

However, at that time, the guild did not make a large-scale announcement, but only contacted a group of adventurers who they believed were qualified to inherit Stella's qualifications, and delivered these materials to them. It seems that Stella was engaged in a large-scale adventure for the guilds and certain organizations, and that the follow-up personnel who had been contacted were the backup candidates who were able to take over his job when he was killed in the final north.

Unfortunately, Laprar was not part of that group of adventurers, as he was just one of many ordinary adventurers of unknown origin, just like Eric Hoska. They didn't even have a long-term organization, and they didn't have the power or prestige to be taken seriously by the guilds, but perhaps because of this, they were able to get away with this crisis.

"I don't know if you believe it or not, but we have already investigated a lot of information before we started exploring the North, which naturally includes the news of this so-called 'second group of Precursors'. Although there was a difference in time and elapse, they all died in the Northland without exception. ”

Indeed, as he said, the names that came out of his mouth were all famous adventurer teams, and without exception, they were all buried in the wasteland where the cold wind howled in the north for various reasons. These messages have long been public intelligence, but no one seems to have linked them.

Maybe it's because these events are too scattered, and going to the end of the North to venture is an act close to gambling, and no one can guarantee that they will get out. Hundreds of adventurers die in Zhongbei every year, who cares about these once famous adventurers?

Eric Hothka smiled narrowly, vaguely hinting at a kind of irony for the young man who was still venturing farther north. Of course, this "irony" is not aimed at those adventurers who are unaware of the hidden dangers of the Northlands, and he is obviously still satirizing himself who has suffered such an end.

After another sip of bad wine, he smiled miserably: "If you want me to say, Lapulard and I, we fools, should be considered lucky, at least many of us will come back alive...... Although there are many of them who have no way to return to their original lives. ”

He placed his hand in the light of the black ooze monster that had once been entangled in the ruins of Palapaz so that Frick could see clearly. The arm was severely atrophied like dry wood, and although it was able to move something that wasn't too heavy easily, it was clearly out of its whack.

Similar symptoms of flesh wilting resemble blight due to magical anomalies, but Frick quickly sees a decisive difference between the two. The blight makes people skinny, and some of the muscles are inactive and rotten, but they shouldn't be as black as charcoal like Eric Hoska, and the withered part of the adventurer's arm doesn't have the concentrated water produced by the decay, but there are no drops of blood in sight.

"Hmm...... You should have seen a doctor, right?" Frick thought about how to phrase it, looking at the arm that made people want to stay away, "And since you think it's a curse or a spell that caused this situation, did you go to a healer or something?"

If it's a disease or physical abnormality, go to a doctor, and if it's a curse or a malicious spell, go to a healer in that direction. Adventurers should be aware of this common sense, and veteran adventurers like him should have familiar old faces.

I don't know what kind of monster attacked him in the ruins, but if I can concoct a potion to match its effect, I may be able to find a way to slow down the decay. And if it's a curse, then having the healer dismantle it layer by layer depending on the type of spell should also have an effect.

"If I hadn't had someone to help me all these years, my body would have rotted into a mess of sludge. Originally, Frick thought that the ineffective treatment caused his body to become like this, but it is clear that this miserable appearance has been the result of his efforts to alleviate it.

After his body became like this, Eric Hoska continued to try treatment, and over the years he has visited many healers and tried many methods. Even if he sells all the loot he has collected in the past to fund his treatment, he will only be able to survive on his own.

As he spoke, Frick noticed that some of the dead flesh on his arm was still withering. They shrank like plastic ignited by flames, and finally curled up into a black mass that clings to the skeleton of the arm, and faintly emits a foul smell of corruption.

Every day and every night, he felt his flesh turn to charcoal, and his withered body was accompanied by indescribable pain, but he was able to sustain it with a strong will for many years. Whatever his purpose is to keep living, this survival instinct is shocking enough.

"That amount of money will probably scare you, but the final result of the treatment is barely enough for me to continue to live like this for a few more years. He may have gotten used to it, but his face just got worse, "so I'm about to give up, my loot has already been sold all these years, and only a few souvenirs that still have a nostalgic color are reluctant to sell—especially this one." ”

He pulled out a piece of metal from his underwear, as if it had been roasted in a fire, leaving smoky marks all over his body. Frick couldn't tell what kind of metal it was, but the sparkle seemed to come from something other than gold.

It clearly had text-like traces on its surface, and when Frick first looked at it, his eyes were drawn to those marks. He couldn't help but want to get closer, to discern if the tiny scratches were some kind of broken text or symbol.

Perhaps this is the professional instinct of being a scrivener, and when I see these similar records, I can't help but want to look closely and record them in my mind. Maybe it's curiosity, maybe it's the desire to learn, and all self-control seems so futile in the face of these almost hidden desires.