Chapter 112

Krap’s palm pressed against the door gate—a plain, shaved wooden bar loosely lodged in the wooden latch, a door meant only to alert the owner if breached easily, a symbolic gesture of “No Entry Without Invitation.”

That meant there was no such thing as defending the door, because this door had nothing to do with “solidity.”

His feet felt like they’d just been pulled from water and left to freeze all day in a winter sea breeze, encased in thick ice, each step a laborious burden. The delay gave him no time to devise a better plan—opening the door was inevitable, only a matter of active or passive choice.

A middle-aged woman’s voice called from outside, lacking the polish of someone experienced in masking emotion. Even as she tried to feign a routine return for firewood, to Krap’s tense, preconceived mind, her urgency rang unnaturally false.

But truly, disturbing someone at midnight just to fetch firewood? What was “normal” about that?

He leaned against the wall, out of the door’s swing range, ensuring he wouldn’t be struck by a forceful push from outside, then pulled the bolt free. “Come in.”

He deliberately leaned the bolt against the wall, letting it clatter loudly enough for whoever was outside to hear.

The person outside moved—the sound of straw sandals scraping dust—slightly relaxing him; at least he couldn’t imagine any non-human entity would bother wearing woven artificial objects and respond to speech.

The landlady made no reply. If she stood before the door, she should have pushed it open immediately, not taken several more steps.

“What’s wrong?” His fingers touched the doorknob, pulling the door open just enough to let the room’s light form a sharp line at the threshold, signaling “No Defense Here.”

The effect… was striking.

Almost instantly, a different, heavier footstep—rapid, closing in from a few paces away—belonged to a man of substantial weight.

【He’s sprinting.】

No need to think—he recoiled his hand as if burned.

The next instant, the door slammed open as a figure crashed inside.

His shirt, little better than a burlap sack, revealed shoulders still locked in the impact posture; beneath matted, dirt-caked hair lay a coarse, wrinkled local face, its grimace etched deep into the skin, as ravaged by cave life as the pickaxe in his hand.

In his imagination, the person behind the door was an unprepared victim, about to be crushed into a bloody pulp—he’d used maximum force.

But the blow only shoved open the unsupported door; momentum robbed him of balance, sending him stumbling forward, face-first, his expression shifting from ferocity to dazed confusion as he crashed onto the stony floor.

Sharp pebbles scraped his skin, blood mingled with sand, stinging exposed wounds; the man rolled over, howling, reaching for his dropped pickaxe.

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His answer was the falling page hammer.

Following his training, Krap swung the page hammer down at the man still dazed on the ground. No time to hesitate—he knew this was a signal, like Kraft’s command, hardened into reflex through repetition, striking instantly once the enemy was located.

Who in the middle of the night comes to smash a door with a pickaxe? Surely not to chip stone?

In panic, he used more force than usual; he felt not as if he controlled the weapon, but as if the metal head moved him.

His steps matched the swing, his foot crushing the bloody, mangled upper arm; the agony sent his breath out of control, the latter half of his cry stuck like a chunk of broken rock in his spasming throat, his eyes bulging with bloodshot veins.

Yet even then, the man reached with his other hand toward Krap’s trampled calf, trying to drag him down. But he had no chance left—a dark shadow filled his vision, the cold gleam of a serrated metal blade pressing against his eyes.

The winged design reduced the impact surface, concentrating force along a single hammer edge, turning what should’ve been a blunt weapon into something partially sharp—especially since the metal blade bore a pointed tip, its malice obvious.

Soft tissue offered no resistance; the metal slid through skin without hindrance, ignoring its negligible elasticity, striking the bone beneath before the user even registered where he’d hit.

A muffled, brittle crack traveled up the metal and handle, recognized by the gripping knuckles as the echo of a similar destruction—instinctively repulsive.

But the brutality didn’t stop. After the bone plate—designed by the Creator never to bear force—shattered and pierced the cheek, something like a water balloon was squeezed flat, translucent gelatinous fluid oozing from the rupture.

That sphere had once been exquisitely structured, layered with membranes of different functions and appendages, enabling a chain of transformations from light into things Krap couldn’t comprehend, as Kraft had once described.

Now it was not. It had become something too grotesque to look at, shattered and mixed with the complex bony labyrinth behind it, forming a viscous, visible death.

Half the man’s face caved inward, a mixture of colors dripping from the hollow, smearing the other half—features twisted, displaced. The thirsty, stony floor sucked up the released fluids.

The one who caused this felt himself boiling—unexplained emotions heated every sensation: fear, guilt, loathing, churning like a stew on a hot pot. The association made him nauseous; he wrenched his gaze from his own handiwork.

【That guy is dead.】

Krap realized he’d completed the first step—no one could survive such wounds. What now?

Turn around. Yes—he must turn, execute the next step. Kraft’s lesson, drawn from the experience of a baron he’d never met, hardened by repetition. When no enemy faced him, he must immediately turn and check.

How perfect—this was the natural escape from the unbearable sight before him.

He lifted the page hammer and turned toward the door. The knocking woman was pinned aside; shadows beyond the threshold swarmed with figures, torchlight revealing faces twisted between fury and terror, and glinting iron.

From opening the door to losing one companion—only two breaths. Their reaction was slower than Krap, the amateur hastily trained—even giving him time to adjust. After a few seconds of eye contact, emboldened by their numbers, they surged forward as one.

The lead man charged head-on, swinging his pickaxe straight at the hammer, forcing Krap to parry with the shaft; the long, pointed head danced before his eyes.

The narrow doorway prevented them from using their numbers. The man pressed harder, trying to shove Krap back inside, opening space. But years of mining had given him not just strength, but worsening lung disease.

In the struggle, Krap unexpectedly gained the upper hand. For such a situation, the Wood family always had a way to break through.

The attackers focused all force and attention on the pickaxe, delighted to feel resistance lessen. Just as they thought victory near, a cold breeze brushed their pant leg—then searing pain.

The hardest part of the lower limb struck the most vulnerable spot; fire erupted there, spreading instantly along the groin, flooding the lower abdomen. Will shattered, limbs went limp, and he collapsed to his knees.

The page hammer came down again—this time better. In chaos, Krap saw nothing clearly; he only felt something else break. His mind numbed, executing only the simple motions drilled into him—these men weren’t as fast as Kraft’s wooden sword.

Before he could kick the man aside, a second attacker lunged. The hammer hadn’t been raised enough to generate force—but this weapon’s uses were far richer than a pickaxe.

The hammerhead drove straight forward, the metal tip slamming into the ribs, interrupting the opponent’s slow, heavy swing, followed by a kick that robbed him—temporarily, perhaps permanently—of all combat capability.

The third attacker hadn’t expected this. After a brief pause, his reaction was to turn his head and shout a name thick with dialect.

Only then did Krap notice another small figure wrapped in a cloak, lagging behind, not moving with the others.

He seized the opening—swung the hammer into the distracted man’s side; several ribs snapped, the softened ribcage rose and fell like a flail, each breath tearing at the chest wall.

The wounded man staggered back a few steps, then collapsed, powerless.

Only one enemy remained, slow to react—completely unaware of his companions’ fate. Now called by name, he stirred as if waking from a dream.

Like a puppet without self-awareness, he stepped over the fallen bodies with an unnaturally awkward gait, entering the light.

His frame was noticeably shorter than average, due to a grotesque hunch. His clothing wasn’t a cloak at all, but stitched patches of different fabrics, covering every inch of his head, face, and back—even the lower half of his face wrapped in cloth strips.

Like the end-stage of some childhood illness, his joints had contracted, movement restricted—he maintained a permanently hunched back and bent limbs, holding a smaller iron tool unlike the others’.

Krap stared as the man moved—could it even be called movement? His legs, unable to straighten, moved in opposition to normal gait: contracting, then snapping back. Like a pathological posture forced into motion.

The strange motion wasn’t slow—he closed the distance to the killer who’d felled his comrades, and now Krap could see the iron tool in his hand: a rusted dagger.

Poorly maintained, yet the only true weapon among them.

Krap grew wary, masking his movements carefully. As the man neared, he reversed his usual tactic—feinted, pulling back his strike. He’d never fooled Kraft, and he’d always used it poorly—but here, maybe it could work.

The hammer swept upward from below; the hunched figure didn’t dodge or evade, merely twisted his bent wrist slightly. Considering weapon and arm length, Krap was certain this odd man couldn’t wound him before dying.

He added force—the hammer would strike his shoulder or side. Without incident, his first battle would end.

Nothing. Nothing at all. The blow that should’ve landed met only emptiness; Krap didn’t even brush a scrap of fabric. In the scene split between fire and shadow, something went wrong.

That wrongness spread from the hunched figure, like tearing a canvas, replacing one section with another layer of blankness.

A familiar yet alien sensation—dislocation, transformation—the target vanished from sight, sharp pain stabbed his lower back.