After the old guide finishes speaking, Henwell looks up at him. “What’s going to happen tonight?”
The guide doesn’t answer. Henwell presses on, “Does it have anything to do with the desert dwellers we saw today?”
The guide sighs. “This is the Scorching Sand Sea. Though it’s just a corner, it’s still part of the Sand Sea.”
Henwell narrows his eyes. “Scorching Sand Sea? The key is why it’s called a sea, not just a desert, right? Since it’s a sea, whether sand or water, there should be vessels, boats used for travel and transport.”
”Are you saying there are ships that can sail on the sand, and the people on them kill any outsiders? If they’re ships, they must have power—wind, maybe? Is a strong wind coming?”
The guide stares at Henwell for a long mont but offers no explanation. He just shakes his head and walks away.
Henwell thinks it over for a while, then heads back to his tent.
When Henwell returns, Mbatu brings him a basin of warm water. “Sir, soak your feet well tonight. We’ve got a long day tomorrow. By tomorrow afternoon at the latest, we’ll reach the edge of the desert, and things will get much better.”
Henwell glances at him. “You get so rest too.”
Mbatu’s heart skips a beat, grateful for the concern, and he returns to his quarters.
Late at night, Henwell gazes at the star-filled sky. It’s breathtaking.
The weather doesn’t show any signs of severe changes.
After waiting a while longer, Henwell finally drifts off to sleep.
Four hours later, the caravan stewards rouse everyone.
It’s still dark, and the temperature has dropped to just a few degrees.
Compared to nearly fifty degrees Celsius during the day, everyone wraps themselves in thick blankets.
When it’s cold, no one wants to get up early.
The camp fills with scolding and curses, and so stewards, already irritable, brandish whips and sticks.
It’s not that they’re cruel, they want to sleep more too. But in this dangerous environnt, leaving quickly is the best choice.
After the caravan arrives at the next stop, the stewards will naturally throw a big feast for the crew.
After nearly an hour of dawdling, the caravan finally gets organized.
Once headcount is confird, they set off at dawn’s first light, braving the coldest part of the desert.
Nothing happens all night, which surprises Henwell.
But he doesn’t dwell on it. After all, the old guide’s warnings are just experience, not a guarantee of disaster.
After walking for more than two hours, the sun rises, and the temperature clearly starts to climb.
At this rate, they should be out of the desert by this afternoon.
Once they leave the desert, it won’t be long before they reach the next town for resupply and rest.
Two more hours pass, and it’s 10 a.m. The sun is now showing its full strength.
The sudden rise in temperature forces everyone to shed so layers.
At that mont, Henwell raises his binoculars again to scan the surroundings.
He notices many animals roaming the desert, wolves and foxes stalking prey, along with venomous insects and snakes.
At first, Henwell assus this is just the usual hunting behavior and doesn’t pay it much mind.
But over an hour later, he observes that the number of animals on the desert surface hasn’t decreased; in fact, it has increased.
Seeing Henwell frown, Mbatu senses the change in his mood.
Nervously, Mbatu asks, “Sir, what do you see?”
Henwell remains silent and hands the binoculars to Mbatu.
Mbatu quickly notices sothing unusual too. “Sir, I don’t know what’s going on! Should I go ask my uncle at the front of the caravan?”
Henwell points at the sun. “Don’t you think the temperature feels off right now?”
Papaste, panting from the heat, says, “Yeah, sothing’s wrong. Why is it so hot today?”
Mbatu freezes for a mont, then suddenly reacts. “It’s too cold!”
Papaste’s eyes widen. “No way! Are you heat-stunned or sothing? How can it be cold?”
Henwell smiles. “He’s definitely not heat-stunned. The temperature has actually shifted. It’s noticeably different from yesterday. At this ti yesterday, the desert was much hotter, far hotter than it is now.”
Henwell has his own asuring instrunts, allowing him to accurately sense the surrounding temperature.
Right now, the temperature reads 29 degrees Celsius, whereas at the sa ti yesterday, it was already 39 degrees.
Even without relying on any apps or cheats, Henwell’s Iron Knight abilities let him clearly perceive changes in the environnt’s temperature.
Mbatu’s expression turns anxious, while Papaste still doesn’t grasp the significance. “Isn’t a lower temperature better? At least we’re not suffering as much.”
Mbatu replies, “You don’t understand! This ans the weather is about to change!”
Papaste shrugs. “Weather changes are normal! We’re almost out of the desert. Maybe the temperature should be like this.”
Mbatu grows restless, unwilling to argue with Papaste, and prepares to consult with the other guides.
Just then, sothing new happens.
A large number of animals suddenly appear around the caravan, as if startled out of their nests.
The sudden rush of creatures throws the group into chaos.
Many people and cals suffer bites from venomous insects, and there are even casualties.
After the caravan regains order, everyone notices the scorching sun has vanished.
Not only is the temperature dropping noticeably, but a wind begins to pick up.
The guides shout in alarm, “Gather together! Prepare for the wind! The Black Storm is coming!”
Within minutes, the sky darkens, resembling dusk, and visibility worsens significantly.
The gentle breeze turns into a fierce gale.
People huddle together, hurriedly putting on clothes as the temperature plunges.
Henwell dismounts his warhorse, gripping his sword’s hilt as he stares into the distance against the wind.
After a mont, he suddenly draws his longsword.
Except for Mbatu, no one else notices.
Mbatu doesn’t know what’s happening, but this is the first ti since entering the desert that he sees Henwell’s expression so serious.
Mbatu draws his curved blade in response.
Before he can ask what Henwell has seen, terrified shouts co from ahead.
Chaos erupts in front of the caravan, people seem to have spotted sothing.
Straining to hear over the wind, Mbatu catches a few scattered words.
“Ships… fleet… black fleet…”
Mbatu nearly drops his blade, trembling as he says, “We’re dood! It’s the Lightchaser Fleet!”
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