Chapter 143: The Remnant Body and the Shadows

The workshops of the Graywater Delta

Two months later.

Deep within the Graywater Delta lay a ruin encircled by corrupted waters—the remnants of an ancient elven outpost. The stone walls had long been eaten away by acid rain and fungal decay, leaving only a few crude stone chambers barely able to shelter from wind and rain.

Karava chose this place and converted the largest chamber into a workshop.

The workshop had no windows; the only illumination came from three magic lamps hanging above the stone platform, their wicks soaked in abyssal fish oil, burning with a sickly green glow that turned the entire room into a specimen preserved in formaldehyde.

In the corner lay piles of materials: bundles of demonic bones, sealed ceramic jars of abyssal blood, dragon scales preserved in oil, and several captive kuo-toa, chained in iron cages, their eyes clouded, mouths constantly murmuring unconscious gibberish.

The air reeked of a thick blend of preservatives, blood, and a cloying, sweet decay.

Karava stood before the stone platform. He wore a leather apron stained with dark splotches, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing pale, slender forearms covered in fine, burn-like scars—not from battle, but from magical backlash during experiments.

Lying on the platform was a black dragon-humanoid puppet.

It was nearly complete. The black scales glistened oily under the sickly green light, each meticulously polished to a razor edge capable of slicing through cloth.

Its limbs were long and slender, joints stitched together with silk from the nest-spiders of the Fungal Nest, the seams smoothed down so carefully they were nearly invisible unless scrutinized.

The chest cavity was open, revealing intricate rune circuits and energy conduits; the runes had been carved into the flesh with the blood of ash-gray rats, each stroke precise as if measured by a ruler.

In Karava’s hand was a slender bone knife, forged from the ribs of a bone-spine toad, harder and tougher than fine steel. He was refining the finger bones of the puppet’s right hand, one cut at a time, as if carving a delicate artifact.

His movements were light, steady. Each stroke shaved off a layer of bone as thin as a cicada’s wing.

But if you observed his fingertips closely, you’d see them trembling slightly—not from nervousness, but from muscle fatigue after extreme focus; he had stood before the platform for over ten hours.

Heavy footsteps approached from outside—not the skittering of goblinoids, but the thudding tread of ogrekin. And only one. Goblin laborers never moved alone; they always traveled in packs, like gray rats.

Karava did not turn. He shifted the bone knife’s angle and continued refining the finger joint sockets.

The door creaked open. The iron hinges shrieked, as if screaming.

A tall figure bent low to squeeze inside. The workshop door had been built for goblinoid height; for an ogrekin, it was too low. He had to duck and turn sideways to pass through. When he finally stood upright, his head was less than a fist’s width from the ceiling beam.

His left arm hung limp at his side, bent at an unnatural angle, like a branch broken and crudely tied back together.

Across his face ran an old scar, slanting from temple to jaw, the surrounding flesh a sickly gray-white, like the skin of rotting mushrooms.

He wore a battered iron-studded leather armor, caked with dried mud and blackened bloodstains—indistinguishable whether from demons or himself.

Carlog.

If Sakavi were present, he would recognize this ogrekin. Years ago, during training in the Abyss, Carlog had been a Battle Standard-Bearer of the Fang Legion.

His spiked mace had shattered the shoulders of a demon lord during the Infernal Arena, and he had fought his way from high-rank warrior to the threshold of Master rank. Back then, he was all corded muscle, his tusks gleaming, his roar enough to make lesser demons soil themselves.

Then, in the battle against the Infinite Rot-Nest, he was struck by the psychic corruption of an Abyssal Whisperer—not a fatal wound, his armor had absorbed most of the damage, only a gash torn open on his left forearm. But it was something far more vile than death.

Demon fungus. Mycelium seeped into his wound, spreading through his veins, corroding muscle and bone. By the time the medics discovered it, his entire forearm had turned gray-white, covered in a fine layer of mold like spoiled cheese.

The Regeneration Furnace could repair his flesh, but it could not purge the spores embedded in the fissures of his soul. The medics said it was the Abyssal Whisperer’s curse—not entirely physical, half of its effect acted on the soul.

The Regeneration Furnace could heal wounds and regrow bones, but it could not cure the soul. Every so often, gray-white mold would sprout on Carlog’s skin, driving him to roll on the ground, bashing his head against walls, howling like something neither human nor ogrekin.

Sakavi did not know he was here. Su Na did not know either. Carlog had found his way here himself—through Jisk, through the kuo-toa souls sent to Nolasieng Port, through the hidden channels beneath the Duke’s domain.

“Lord Karava,” Carlog’s voice was gravelly and low, like two stones grinding together. He pounded his right fist against his left chest; the armor emitted a dull thud.

The shipment arrived. Marshal Jisk asked me to inform you that the next batch of kuo-toa souls will take a month. The kuo-toa nests in the Black Marsh of the Dark Nest have been emptied; we must go deeper to capture more.

Karava did not turn. He set down the bone knife and picked up a fine-toothed file, beginning to smooth the edges of the finger bones. The file scraped against bone with a fine, whispering sound, like insects gnawing leaves.

“Where’s the goods?” His voice was quiet, almost lazy, but Carlog noticed his back had tensed.

Carlog stepped aside, revealing several wooden crates covered in canvas. The crates were made of swamp ironwood, coated with waterproof pitch, and bound with iron corners.

They rested on a flat cart pulled by a swamp giant-lizard, the beast lying on the ground, its long tongue dangling as if awaiting death.

Goblin laborers—Karava’s own creations, stitched together from fragmented souls—emerged silently from the shadows. Their movements were stiff and mechanical, as if pulled by invisible threads.

Two lifted each crate, stepping in perfect unison, their footfalls synchronized. They carried the crates to a storage chamber deep in the workshop, stacked them neatly, then retreated to the corner, motionless as machines awaiting charge.

Karava finally set down his tools. He turned and walked toward the storage chamber, his steps unhurried, silent on the stone floor.

Carlog followed behind; his boots thudded heavily on the stone, each step a dull echo that contrasted eerily with Karava’s silence.

In the corner of the storage chamber stood over a dozen such crates, some already opened, their crystal orbs removed, leaving only straw padding. Karava knelt and lifted the lid of one of the newly delivered crates.

Inside, neatly arranged, were fist-sized crystal orbs. Each contained a slow-moving, gray-white mist.

The souls of kuo-toa, stripped while still alive, intact and pure. The orbs glowed faintly in the dim light, the mists churning, struggling, colliding within—like fireflies trapped in a jar.

Karava picked one up, held it to the light. Within the mist, a twisted face was barely visible, mouth open as if screaming, yet no sound emerged. He nodded in satisfaction, placed it back, and closed the lid.

“Marshal Jisk said this batch is of good quality,” Carlog said from the doorway, his voice echoing in the cramped chamber.

“He led the expedition himself. Three brothers died—brain matter shattered by psychic shocks from kuo-toa priests. One was his longtime scout, Gray-Ear. When his skull burst, his brains splattered across Jisk’s face.”

Karava gave no reply. He stood, brushed the dust from his hands, passed Carlog, and returned to the platform, picking up the bone knife again.

Carlog followed him out and stood beside the platform, staring down at the dragon-humanoid puppet. His vertical pupils reflected the puppet’s hollow eye sockets and black scales.

He reached out, gently touching the puppet’s chestplate with his right index finger. The metal was cold, hard, like a true scale.

“You should return to rest and heal,” Karava said, the bone knife never pausing.

“I can’t heal,” Carlog glanced at his ruined left arm, lips twisting—not in laughter, but something more complex. His voice dropped to a whisper, as if speaking to himself.

“The Regeneration Furnace has been used three times. The medics say one more use will break my body. Organs will fail, marrow will rot. Even if the fungus doesn’t kill me, the Furnace will burn me to ash.”

He paused.

“But that thing—the fungus—it keeps growing. It doesn’t care whether I can endure it. It only knows it must grow.”

He pulled up his left sleeve with his right hand.

From elbow to wrist, his entire forearm had turned gray-white, covered in fine, moss-like mold. The flesh was blackened, emitting a cloying, sweet decay.

Some areas had ulcerated, exposing gray-white muscle tissue, fibers loose as boiled vermicelli. Worse still, the mold wasn’t still—it crept slowly, like countless tiny worms crawling beneath his skin.

Karava’s gray-white eyes fixed on the mold. No expression. No revulsion. No pity. Not even curiosity. As if staring at a piece of rotting wood.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

Carlog drew a deep breath. The air entering his lungs made a faint, wet, rasping sound—he too was infected.

“I heard you’re building a puppet. A dragon-humanoid, capable of housing a living soul.”

Karava’s hand stopped.

Not a sudden halt, but a slowing—his blade’s scrape across the bone slowed by a tenth of a beat. Only Carlog, watching closely, noticed.

“Who told you?” Karava’s voice remained unchanged.

“It doesn’t matter,” Carlog pulled his sleeve down, hiding the rotting arm. His vertical pupils locked onto the back of Karava’s skull.

“I just ask one thing: can you put my soul inside it? I don’t want to die. I don’t want to become a pile of moldy rot.”

Karava set down the bone knife and turned. His movements were slow, deliberate, as if making a carefully weighed decision. His gray-white eyes met Carlog’s vertical pupils; both irises, under the sickly green light, appeared equally cold.

“The Duke won’t approve.”

“The Duke doesn’t know,” Carlog said, without hesitation. “And he doesn’t need to.”

Karava stared at him for several breaths. Then he smiled.

It was not a friendly smile. More accurately, it was a confirmation—a realization of something he had long suspected.

His lips curved for only an instant before returning to stillness, but in that instant, Carlog saw something flash in his eyes—not greed, not excitement, but hunger.

Karava turned back to the platform, walking away from Carlog. He picked up the bone knife again and resumed refining the puppet’s finger bones, moving slower now, as if thinking.

“Do you understand what this means?” he finally spoke, voice low as if squeezed from deep in his throat.

“Once your soul is stripped from your body, it can never return. No vessel can hold a soul detached from its flesh for long. The puppet’s body is the only option. But if the puppet is shattered, disintegrated by magic, or its rune circuits collapse—”

He paused, turning the bone knife slightly within the finger joint socket.

“Your soul will vanish within moments. Not death. Not passage to Ferong’s temple. Total erasure. Not even the Eternal Chaos of the River Styx will retain your trace.”

Carlog fell silent for a long time.

Only the faint scrape of the bone knife on scales and the distant, heartbeat-like tremors from the swamp’s depths filled the workshop. The tremors came from deeper still—Karava knew what they were. Carlog knew too. Neither spoke of it.

“I know,” Carlog finally said, voice rasping like sandpaper.

“But I told you—I’m already half-dead. Better to gamble than wait for that thing to turn me into a gray-white mushroom, crawling on the ground, scraping against walls.”

He paused, his vertical pupils fixed on Karava’s back.

“What you’re doing in the Graywater Delta—the Duke doesn’t know either, does he?”

Karava’s hand froze.

This time, it stopped completely. The bone knife hung midair, a sliver of bone still clinging to its edge. Slowly, he turned, his gray-white eyes like two cold, lifeless stones fixed on Carlog’s ogrekin face.

The workshop’s temperature seemed to drop several degrees. The goblin laborers in the corner sensed something—they all lifted their heads, their clouded eyes turning toward Karava, then dropped back down in unison.

The captive kuo-toa in the iron cages fell silent, curling into corners, trembling.

“Your soul,” Karava said, each word deliberate, “is mine.”

Carlog’s pupils contracted sharply.

“But there’s a condition.”

“What condition?”

Karava placed the bone knife on the platform and withdrew a small badge from his belt.

The badge was no larger than a fingernail, cast in black metal, engraved with a spider—not Luo Si’s spider, but another, its abdomen bearing the silhouette of a human face. He spun it between his fingers, then offered it to Carlog.

“Go to the Silent Wasteland. Deliver this to the liaison of the Proverb Guild. She knows where to find you—or rather, she can find anyone. You only need to carry this badge and wait several days where she will be.”

“What do I tell her?”

“Tell her—the ‘root’ of the Graywater Delta has begun to rot.” Karava’s lips moved slightly, as if savoring the words. “She’ll understand.”

Carlog took the badge, thumb brushing the faint human face on the spider’s abdomen. He slipped it into his chest, pressing it against his heart.

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. Do this, return to me. The puppet’s body will be ready.”

Carlog nodded and turned toward the door. He took a few steps, then stopped, glancing back at Karava.

“Lord Karava—can you truly break through to Legend?”

Karava did not answer. He had picked up the bone knife again, his back to the door, continuing to carve the puppet’s finger bones. But for an instant, his spine stiffened—not from tension, but from some deeper, wounded reaction.

The soft scraping of bone against scales resumed.

Karolog did not ask again. He bent low and squeezed through the door, vanishing into the darkness outside. The rumbling of the swamp giant lizard’s cart wheels faded, mingling with the scuttling steps of the dog-headed laborers, until finally swallowed whole by the faint, heartbeat-like tremor deep within the swamp.

The workshop sank back into silence.

Karava stood before the stone platform, his gray-white eyes reflecting the hollow eye sockets of the puppet. His hand still moved, scraping the finger bones with precise strokes, but he was not looking at the bones—his gaze pierced through the puppet’s skull, falling upon something far deeper.

Long after, he set down the bone knife.

He walked to the storage room, opened the wooden crate Karolog had just delivered, and took out a crystal sphere containing the soul of a Kuo-toa.

He held the sphere beneath the lamp, watching the misty shape within—the twisted, silent screaming face. Then he let out a quiet breath—not a sigh, but something more like release.

He returned the crystal sphere to the crate, closed the lid, and walked to the row of iron cages in the corner.

The Kuo-toa sensed his approach and began whispering more frantically, like a nest of mice stepped on. Karava knelt and extended his pale hand into the cage, gripping one by the throat.

The Kuo-toa thrashed violently, limbs kicking, claws scraping against the iron bars with a shrill screech. Karava’s fingers tightened; the fish-man’s face darkened to purple, eyes bulging, foam streaked with blood spilling from his mouth.

The other Kuo-toa’s whispers turned to screams, but those screams bounced off the workshop’s stone walls, dissolving into a chaotic, meaningless hum.

Karava released his grip.

The Kuo-toa collapsed to the floor, gasping heavily, throat gurgling with wet, ragged breaths. Karava stood, wiped the slime from his hand, and turned back to the stone platform.

He picked up the bone knife again.

Karolog’s soul—a Master-tier warrior’s soul, whole, vivid, and brimming—was worth more than a hundred Kuo-toa souls combined.

But he did not say it. Some words lose their power once spoken.

The bone knife scraped across the finger bone, producing a long, sigh-like sound.