Chapter 119: Soul Combat Technique

The wasteland.  

Wade returned to the wasteland from the ratfolk’s cave, marking his third day back.  

The blood moon in the sky had nearly vanished, plunging the outside world into pitch-black darkness—a scene akin to the apocalypse.  

There was an unsettling sense that something lurked within the darkness. Without moonlight, this place felt like a terrifying black box.  

Wade no longer ventured outside. Instead, he practiced alone in the open space outside his cave dwelling.  

Combat Technique: Charge.  

He had spent three days learning this basic warrior technique.  

Gripping a thorny branch spear in his hand, he mentally reviewed every detail from the skill manual.  

The surroundings were silent and lightless, save for the faint howl of the wind.  

Facing the massive stone golem, he imagined it as his enemy, gathering his strength.  

His knee joints lowered, feet parallel—the key was controlling the explosive burst of power.  

Over the past three days, Wade had failed over a hundred times, always falling just short of that explosive surge.  

What was missing?  

A vague, indescribable sensation lingered—just a little more, and he could breach that threshold.  

Was it insufficient strength?  

Impossible. He had already advanced to Silver-rank. Against those Iron-rank Viking pirates, he could triumph with just his swordplay.  

Was his posture incorrect?  

Yet his bodily control was unparalleled, perfectly replicating the manual’s movements.  

What, then, was lacking?  

Memories surfaced of the two Viking professionals executing their techniques—their breathing, heartbeat, even the contraction of their pores slowed.  

He glimpsed something flowing in their blood—not just blood, but something forged through countless training sessions, condensed within their bodies.  

An intangible aura, a presence—releasing a combat technique bore similarities to casting a spell.  

But while spells required mana, combat techniques demanded a warrior’s “vitality”—that immense, superhuman vitality. Only by mobilizing it could one unleash such extraordinary explosive force.  

Skeletons differed from humans. Their movements didn’t rely on muscle contractions or so-called “vitality.”  

What drove their joints was the soul—the flame of the soul.  

Wade’s soul fire began circulating through his bones along a specific trajectory as he assumed the charging stance once more.  

In an instant, countless images flashed before his eyes—one after another.  

Sven Freud. Lucas Porter. Viking berserkers and Viking swordsmen…  

After observing those warriors’ movements and breathing, the images dissipated, leaving behind only a single skeleton.  

How pale that skeleton was—tearless, expressionless, voiceless. A sorrowful whiteness.  

Within a body long rotted to bone, only a lonely soul remained.  

Death. Destruction. Darkness. The embers of fire clung to the faintest glow, so easily extinguished.  

To shine brighter, one must not fear.  

To burn fiercer, one must welcome the wind that might snuff it out.  

At the moment of execution, Wade altered his stance—no longer rigidly replicating the manual.  

He adopted a posture that felt more natural, more correct to him.  

Then his soul fire erupted, the force driving his bones converging at a single point. He stepped forward, thrusting—  

A straight line of wind-blown sand erupted. The thorn spear in his hand shattered, its branches splintering mid-air.  

In an instant, Wade crossed over a dozen meters, charging straight at the stone golem like a fired cannonball, accompanied by a crushing gust that kicked up a miniature sandstorm around him.  

Only a forearm-length wooden handle remained in his grip—the rest had disintegrated under the pressure.  

Wade had burned his soul fire to unleash “Charge.”  

This power far surpassed the manual’s description—even the iron-hard thorns had been obliterated during the technique’s release.  

A genuine iron spear might have only survived a single strike.  

The cost was permanent—a portion of his soul fire, the energy that animated him, had been consumed.  

Humans replenished their vitality through eating—meat, bread, vegetables—constantly consuming other life to sustain themselves.  

After using combat techniques, professionals merely felt fatigued. A good meal and rest restored them to peak condition.  

Their cost was negligible.  

But for skeletons, these techniques demanded the burning of their very souls.  

Fortunately, Wade could bear this price.  

Had he attempted this upon first awakening, his soul fire might have guttered out after one or two techniques.  

Each technique’s cost equaled the soul fire required to animate an entire skeleton.  

Not excessive—manageable in combat.  

A wild skeleton would struggle to replenish its soul fire.  

Only phantoms could siphon souls from the living. Lesser skeletons could only harvest from their own kind.  

Wade faced no such constraints. The wasteland teemed with his kin—skeletons that had wandered here for untold years, their numbers uncountable.  

Moreover, he had Mia. When she absorbed souls, she could share with him. Thus, he had little to worry about.  

He sensed he could burn even more soul fire for greater power.  

But he wouldn’t test it further. Soul fire wasn’t as cheap as bread.  

He had grasped the essence of combat techniques—Charge, Sweep, Parry—all now accessible through soul fire expenditure.  

No longer bound by rigid forms, he could adapt fluidly.  

Sven had fought similarly—that Silver-rank pirate’s every strike and leap under the firelight rivaled the techniques of Iron-rank warriors.  

This power somewhat resembled his intrinsic battle skill—both consumed “souls.”  

The difference lay in their sources. His intrinsic skill drew upon external souls—the desires and prayers of the dead, who willingly fought alongside him after he accepted their wishes.  

Charge, however, required no external force. It was a technique he could wield alone.  

A skeleton’s combat techniques differed from those of professionals. He likely wasn’t following the “warrior” path described in the Professional Warrior Manual.  

Compared to warrior techniques, “soul combat techniques” might be a more fitting term.  

As a skeleton, he could only use soul combat techniques.  

There was no alternative—this was the path forced upon the undead.  

He suspected he could replicate any human technique by expending soul fire, with even greater potency.  

He didn’t know what to call this profession. It was a transcendent path beyond human reach—his techniques would be ever-changing.