Chapter 119

“William, I have an idea—a somewhat risky one.” Kraft tore his gaze from the boulders blocking the path, drew a torch from his belt, and handed it to William. “Don’t put down that stone yet—it’ll be useful soon.”

“This isn’t Wenxue Academy. You don’t have to be so circumspect. You can drop the ‘somewhat’ too.” William pressed the fuel-wrapped end of the torch to the flame, lit it, and hefted the long stone in his hand.

It was too heavy for one-handed use—could only swing it a few times—but they wouldn’t get the chance to fight it for dozens or hundreds of rounds anyway.

“The good news is, we don’t have to dig through the rock ourselves.”

“How so?”

“There’s just the right expert here to dig tunnels. I’m certain that, under the right conditions, it won’t begrudge us a small favor.” He drew his sword; its silver glow flowed over unknown stubborn stains—likely not human blood.

“First, those monsters that plaster themselves with human faces are everywhere—and the sounds they make are tied to whatever built these tunnels.”

“In a way, this guidance is quite precise. I don’t fully understand the mechanism, but that doesn’t stop me from using it. Just pass through this spot, and it’ll easily turn these stones into rubble.”

“So how do we guarantee we don’t become rubble ourselves?” The plan sounded brutally simple. William had no doubt that, before that thing, rock was no different from burnt, brittle black bread.

“We can go down to the next level. Wait until it finishes this small favor, then come back up.”

“You said it needs time—and the right environment.” William pointed out the flaw. The timing Kraft needed was too delicate.

Suppose that thing was a dumb bull. To make it knock over a low wall behind it, you had to time your move perfectly—not too early, not too late. Stand before the obstacle, wait until the last second to dodge—and you might just get crushed yourself.

“And we can’t count on those faces to cooperate. Why should they help us?”

“That’s the risk.” Kraft flexed his wrist, spun a sword flourish. “Luckily, I have an excellent way to persuade—even when they don’t understand Nors speech.”

“I assume you don’t mean persuasion.”

“Broadly speaking, it’s still about making them act according to our needs—just not necessarily through verbal tricks.”

There was logic to it, but William still found it unreliable. Inflicting damage and surviving a prolonged battle were two entirely different things. “How exactly?”

…

【First, actively seek them out】

Not difficult. As they advanced deeper into the cave, they didn’t have to go far—before the cracks faded entirely, they heard the sound of hard shells striking rock.

“Mutual attraction?”

A drumbeat rhythm rose from the endless dark. A blade-like limb supported the body, perhaps something like a centipede to accommodate so many limbs.

Like a winter nightmare, the patter of icy rain on tiles hovered between dream and reality—cold dread and insects drawn by body heat crawled into clothes, skin itching uncomfortably. You stared at the circular opening, like an open door, inviting something to enter.

And so it—or they—arrived as promised. The drumming of shell against rock swelled, drew closer, paused at its peak, then gradually halted before the circle of light.

White emerged from the dark: a clean, aged local face, untouched by dust or skin pigment, sagging and barely held together. Like an old cloth, repeatedly washed and faded, stretched taut over a wooden frame too large for it—barely retaining human form.

Yet on that face, Kraft still found a match to his memory—a resemblance to the boy who once fetched water alone, now aged by decades of wear and toil.

Beside it was a foreigner’s face: a burn scar stretching from the lower left jaw to beneath the eye had utterly destroyed what little scholarly air remained. Some liquid had been splashed, burned, corroded; improper healing had pulled the brow, eyes, and nose downward-left. No matter how it twisted, it could only reveal a more horrifying, grinning distortion.

【Then, don’t wait for them to strike first】

Kraft twisted the flesh at William’s spine. The sharp, pressing pain broke the influence even before William was mentally prepared—he swung the stone with full force.

“Damn thing, go to hell!”

The stone embedded with green crystals was swung by a thick arm—a natural warclub, perfectly suited to combat. Not ideal, but its lethality matched its weight.

Behind the faces, the darkness stirred. It seemed prepared. A sharp shadow detached from the deep black, becoming tangible—a cluster of hairlike filaments coiled behind the face, unremarkable.

It excelled at this: the face was the lure, the distraction, the decoy shielding its vicious strike.

A sharp, dull-lustered limb shot out, hooking toward William’s eye. Only someone in a frenzy might notice it—still bewildered by how a shadow could move on its own.

A sword tip pierced between them, intercepting the strike. The attack meant to pierce the orbital wall and penetrate the frontal lobe before William swung the stone now struck the sword’s spine—steel met chitin.

Sharp barbs scraped the metal surface, a grating noise seeping into consciousness, making teeth ache as if rotting.

But one weapon had already gained momentum—its swing followed inertia. The other, held by an expert, withdrew after the block, swung sideways, and chopped into the spike rising from below, carving a notch into it.

Meanwhile, the captain’s fury descended upon the most repulsive face—the one scarred by chemical burns.

The massive blunt weapon’s impact was devastating. The support beneath the broad, flat face shattered and collapsed. The follow-through swept aside the nearby local face, hurling it back into darkness.

The sword thrust out again, deflecting the counterattack now nearing William’s side.

“How did you see that?” Sweat dripped. William hadn’t expected to dance between life and death with just one swing—yet Kraft hadn’t even glanced his way. The ghostly blade seemed to have eyes, single-handedly intercepting attacks faster than a thrusting sword from the dark.

“I don’t need to see.” The swordsman thrust at empty air. His dilated pupils, in the flickering light, had no focus. His movements had no discernible origin.

Instantly, three faces surfaced side by side, colliding with the steel blade already waiting—perfect timing, like a staged play where the minor villain precisely stepped into the hero’s predetermined move. The faces split cleanly, peeling off their porous, dome-like surfaces.

Tiny things stirred within the hollows sinking back into darkness. More could be seen in the carved sword marks: hooked, jointed limbs—structures replacing facial muscles to control the rigid, frozen grins.

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The sight—sufficient to make a person with dense phobia tear out their own eyes—deepened his revulsion toward the dark. He swung the stone again—missed entirely.

Kraft pivoted, using precise swordsmanship to fill the gap, striking down the limb and carving another face into ruin.

Beyond sword technique, this was pure, irrational prophecy—the darkness cleared before his eyes, motion preceding sight. Something inexplicable guided the blade.

“Wait until you see clearly before you strike—don’t mess things up!” Criticizing a teammate mid-battle was a skill mastered by an otherworldly soul. Kraft’s sharp command carried irritation and instruction—delivered perfectly.

His actual situation wasn’t as effortless as it appeared. Within the range of his spiritual senses, the glimpse he caught was only the tip of the iceberg—barely enough for basic prediction.

The things beyond the light kept shifting. Some interference prevented their outlines from ever becoming clear. All he knew was that before them rose multiple protrusions—like skulls crowding together.

Some surfaces were covered in thin layers. At least a dozen faces, roughly counted. Compared to the first encounter, the size disparity within the swarm far exceeded imagination. Different faces took turns appearing, trying every variation to find one they recognized.

Limbs drifted across amorphous bodies, as if emerging directly from solidified darkness—sprouting like buds, dynamically growing.

The most troubling part: those limbs were converging toward them. At first, he only had to deal with two or three. If he delayed longer, even with six arms and three heads, he’d die here today.

But fortunately, Kraft didn’t need to fight to the death.

“William, front-right!” Seizing the moment when several faces surged forward, Kraft tossed aside the torch, gripped his sword with both hands, and slashed a limb. As it writhed back in pain, he shouted to William.

The stone smashed into the invisible realm, carving a gap between the faces. The flexible chitin offered limited protection. The sword plunged straight through, bypassing the honeycomb protrusions, sinking halfway into the body.

The mass of faces and limbs shuddered. After a moment’s buildup, a colossal horn blast erupted. The limbs, which had begun to retreat, thrashed wildly.

Kraft tried to pull his sword free for defense—but tightened tissues and chitin slowed the motion.

The correct choice would’ve been to let go immediately—save the man, lose the sword. But that option had never been rehearsed in his mind. His emotional bond with the weapon for years made such a decision unthinkable in an instant.

In the first instant, he reflexively kicked out—following training for combat with humans or beasts—to use his leg to break the obstruction, kick away a wounded or dead target, and reclaim his weapon.

One foot left the ground. Reason reasserted itself. Kraft realized, in that instant, he’d been swayed by emotion and reflex—committing a mistake that was unforgivable, yet utterly logical: his opponent wasn’t a normal creature. No one knew what risk this action carried.

The horn blast echoed through the space. Vibrations followed. William saw the maimed limbs thrashing frantically in the surging shadows, the pale, broad faces twisting into shriveled, monstrous distortions as Kraft wrenched his sword from the dark and retreated.