Chapter 148: Forest Battle

The cries ahead spread through the forest, striking every ear in the column.

The group of more than twenty, composed of soldiers, city guards, and two knightly squires, stretched loosely through the trees, with head and tail thirty paces apart; slanting vegetation formed layered screens of obstruction, leaving only the nearest squire to clearly see what passed.

The city guards behind hadn't even clearly heard the screeching metallic sound; the word "ambush" circled several times in minds long unused to conflict before they realized something impossible had occurred—yet in the dense woods, they could not locate where the attackers had come from.

The warning failed to serve its purpose and instead caused greater chaos in the disorganized command environment; most who had trained but never faced battle frantically drew their weapons, then stood helplessly confused.

They had never imagined encountering resistance within Westmin territory—no armed force here should dare confront the ruling power.

Every direction was dense, emerald-green forest; twisted trees bearing fungal growths seemed to shift in the background, while tangled undergrowth and wild vines tripped those rushing to reach their comrades. Some fell to the ground; those nearby, already like birds startled by arrows, panicked and scattered, making the already ragged formation even more disordered.

Diego saw none of this; he instinctively scanned his surroundings, searching for the source of the arrows.

The second attack came: an arrow sliced past the squire rushing to shield him, struck the raised ridge of his shoulder pauldron, and the snapped wooden shaft whipped against his helmet, ringing his ears.

After a brief shock, he was consumed by unbearable rage—at the audacity of the attackers, at their cowardly ambush threatening a knight's life, and most infuriatingly, at how close they had come to succeeding.

This exposed their position and reminded Diego what he must do now: raise his arm, shield his face with his vambrace, and lower his visor, sealing his only vulnerability.

Then, through the slotted vision of his helm, he locked onto the direction the arrows had come from and charged toward it. The figure crouched in the distant undergrowth had not moved—still shifting, as if preparing another shot.

Many might feel a flicker of fear at this moment, but Diego was not among them. His armor was a symbol of his station, and the very reason he dared charge recklessly into any battle.

Judging by the force of the two prior hits, whether from bow or the unlikely crossbow, even at close range, the arrows could at most leave a dent on his armor.

The fully armored iron man ran forward, snapping thin branches, crushing undergrowth, and pulverizing clusters of fungi beneath his feet; the slippery sensation let him imagine those revolting things turning into nauseating, mottled puddles.

His flexible joints allowed him to sprint with nearly the agility of light infantry, while remaining unafraid of frontal assault. The prior two arrows' accuracy had relied on closing distance—he could now clearly see the shooter's weapon: an old-fashioned hand-crossbow. The man, facing the charging knight, was just completing the draw.

Diego couldn't fathom the man's confidence or purpose—risking death for one more meaningless shot?

The archer nocked an arrow and aimed; this time, Diego made no defensive move, drawing his sword and leaping over the final fallen log blocking his path. But the arrow did not fly toward him—it aimed elsewhere, shooting behind him.

A cry, unfamiliar and sharp—not from either squire—rose as Diego reached the archer. In the shadowed blind spot of his visor, two figures lunged from the side. This, then, was the attackers' secret: their reason for firing three shots in place.

The first man roared forward, slamming into the knight's side, trying to unbalance him.

But he grossly underestimated the weight difference; the armor, like a sack filled with sand, merely rocked backward a few steps before halting his charge—while the man himself was flung backward and fell, still dazed from the impact of his skull against a bare root, when a piercing stab to his abdomen sent a scream of terror from his lips.

Diego gave him no chance to struggle; he spun his sword half a circle and wrenched it free, even as he felt someone clamp a noose around his neck, shoving a thin iron blade into the gap between his helmet and breastplate, driving it in with savage force.

This unhesitating brutality was no amateur bandit's work—it belonged to a desperate killer, bold and seasoned in slaughter.

The blade scraped across the linked iron rings, its force utterly insufficient to pierce this unexpected layer of defense or the quilted cotton beneath; and he had no second chance. Diego's left elbow, armored in saddle-shaped plates, slammed into the man's side abdomen; a long, fragile bone, loosely suspended against the abdominal wall, snapped under the blow, its broken end driven deeper still.

The grip on his neck loosened; the knight broke free, spun, and thrust his blade upward from under his armpit, driving it with such force it pierced the weakened body.

It took Diego a moment to pull his sword free. The arrowhead striking his armpit plate revealed the archer's incomprehensible combat will—he had not retreated to gain distance, but instead closed in for a direct shot at an imagined weak point.

When he realized his crossbow was useless, he drew a short sword and screamed, his voice twisted like a martyr's prayer in flames, swinging wildly at the enemy who had easily slain two of his comrades.

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The voice, like something whispered from a fungal-stained tree hollow, recited words Diego vaguely recognized—but now, from this madman's mouth, they carried a different meaning: the grotesque distortion of beast speaking human tongue, of evil wearing a crown; as if some familiar shell had been forcibly stretched over another thing, mimicking yet utterly unlike the original.

Through the slotted vision of his visor, the face—twisted by fear yet propelled forward by some unknown force—paired with the off-key chanting, and for an instant, even the soul protected by thick plate armor felt a shudder of dread.

He parried the slashing short sword; in the violent clang of metal, a stray thought recalled the origin of the man's manic cries: a line from the Holy Scripture, once used to inspire warriors who died bravely, promising them passage into the afterlife.

This triggered a fear he refused to admit; his intended disarm move changed course—he slammed his gauntlet into the man's screaming mouth, then thrust his blade forward into the man's left chest.

Only when the fanatic—or madman—fell did Diego regain a sliver of peace; the meaningless shouts and clashing steel behind him left no time to ponder his sudden impulse—he had chosen to kill rather than take prisoner.

With the knight's reinforcements arriving, the attackers—already few in number and holding only fleeting advantage through surprise—quickly fell into disadvantage, and no additional ranged weapons appeared.

They were poorly equipped, dressed no differently from common folk, lacking armor altogether—roughly between thugs and low-grade caravan guards; their extraordinary combat will might terrify most underground gangs, but it could not bridge the gap in skill or equipment.

Not all possessed the will to die together; after Diego struck down another man who chanted distorted scripture lines, the remaining few quickly followed the standard routine of untrained and semi-trained fighters: they broke and fled, inadvertently guiding their pursuers.

"Where's the other one?" Diego realized everyone had joined the melee—including the squire who should have been dragging the guide prisoner—now kicking down a foe trying to rise and driving his sword through him.

"Dead. Shot dead." The squire wiped blood from his blade, smearing the last drops onto the corpse's clothing.

"These damn vermin even know to silence witnesses!" With no time to regroup his scattered forces, Diego led his squire and the soldiers still able to rally in pursuit of the fleeing enemies.

He was certain something lay behind this—a secret that could free him from his current state, even if unrelated to the missing person case. But only if he caught the remnants, not lost the guide while losing the trail right before him.

Without hesitation, the recent victory had given them full confidence; the target was right ahead, and the soldiers believed their generous commander would reward them handsomely afterward—the victory bonus awaited them.

The entire force, Diego included, surged forward in high spirits, chasing the fleeing figures ahead. The fugitives seemed utterly unaware of what their actions truly meant—only running in unison toward a specific direction, their familiarity with the terrain preventing them from being slowed by the slippery fungal mats on the ground, maintaining steady distance.

Diego gasped for breath; the armor that saved his life now weighed him down. The humid weather had soaked his quilted undergarments in sweat; one link in his chainmail had broken open during the fight, its jagged edge scraping his neck skin; inside his helmet, he smelled the salt of sweat, stinging the raw patches.

There was also an indescribable odor, itching his nasal passages, forcing him to sneeze—breaking his breathing rhythm, leaving his throat sweet.

He had to admit: there was a scent, similar to… dust, like when he first placed this long-unused helmet on his head, filled with tiny particles drifting everywhere.

Breathless, oxygen-starved, his head reeling; sweat he couldn't wipe crossed his eyelashes, blurring his vision with jagged, painful edges; the lush, colorful fungi carpeting the ground swam and shimmered around his eyes, reminding him of past training sessions—when he'd endured such discomfort while sparring, knowing a blink could cost him, and he was usually the one caught off-guard.

But now no one was there to torment Knight Diego; he dodged a tree trunk, blinked, squeezed the sweat from his eyes, and his vision cleared slightly.

Yet the spreading colors did not fade—they now filled his vision in vast patches, countless varieties of vibrant fungi, many rarely seen before, clustered densely above, below, and all around, far denser than before, yet showing no trace of cultivation.

The thought made even him feel absurd: how could humans cultivate mushrooms like wheat? And yet these fungi had already surpassed imagination; Diego even feared that if they grew further, they might fill the entire forest, occupying every inch, squeezing into his armor.

The bizarre, nauseating image lasted only a moment—but left a foul taste on his tongue, as if he had truly inhaled the fungi choking the world.

"Damn rats, sewer slugs!" Diego roared as he ran, redirecting his fury onto the amateur armed criminals who had brought him to this wretched place—this mental shift let him focus.

Ahead, the fungal forest finally ended; on a dark harbor waterscape dotted with oily, floating patches of light, they finally cornered the fugitives.

The pursued fled toward a crude dock built of blackened driftwood, thick with fungal clusters, where only a waterlogged skiff waited—and a figure in a hooded robe, his front stained with dirty white paint, forming a rigid, out-of-place circle.