Chapter 151

"What?" Martin heard Kraft's exclamation—the man had uttered a word he'd never heard before, but he wasn't surprised; it was perfectly normal for a professor of the Faxue Academy to spout something no one else knew.

More than an unfamiliar word, he cared about what this discovery implied—what could explain this bizarre situation.

"I mean, a rare type of infectious disease." Kraft glanced around but found no yellow trash bin, so he discarded the tongue depressor inside the coffin.

Literally speaking, fungal infection is indeed rare. Even though many people have the habit of sniffing the flexible fabric sleeve between their feet and shoes, cases of fungal pneumonia from this are still newsworthy for their extreme rarity. As organisms mostly unrelated to humans, fungal infections don't spread as readily as other pathogens.

When mentioned at all, they usually appear secondary to underlying diseases, signaling compromised immunity—like Candida albicans in the mouths of AIDS patients, or Aspergillus as a complication of tuberculosis, invading when conditions turn dire.

This made the situation even more incomprehensible. If the Duke had contracted Aspergillus, that might be understandable—but could all these heretics possibly be HIV-positive?

【Not necessarily. Hard to say.】

Kraft quickly pulled his thoughts back—could something so absurd really be true? But Candida shouldn't grow like this; compared to normal cases, it was like comparing a primeval forest to a manicured lawn.

And even if this strange intuition were correct, fungi are a broad category—the difference between human-infecting fungi and mushrooms might be greater than that between humans and pigs. Why group them together?

Just because they're all so… "lush"?

Yes. Kraft felt he'd grasped a key point. The issue wasn't fungi themselves, nor merely their frequent appearance in recent events—but their abnormal, rampant vitality, growing with unstoppable force.

"Close all the lids. Carry them inside. Start with the one in the robe."

Though reluctant, the soldiers moved under orders, resealing the lids and carrying the bodies inside, then fleeing the room as if ghosts were breathing down their necks.

Martin handed the tools he'd brought to Kraft, then sealed the door. Together, they lifted the corpse—apparently the heretic leader—along with its coffin onto the low table, lighting a circle of candles around it. The light illuminated the makeshift dissection table while making the scene even more indescribable.

Compared to the corpse lying there, they themselves now seemed more like some vicious heretics performing a bloody, dark ritual.

Kraft removed his instruments and arranged them neatly to one side, donned his specialized gown, and checked his gloves one final time. "I need to confirm—is this act merely a personal favor, or does it extend beyond our own intentions?"

"Our investigation has been authorized. Even if anyone objects, they must yield before an event threatening the stability of Westmin." Martin made no move to leave, standing beside the coffin, staring at the corpse, his facial muscles taut as he forced himself to confront the source of his fear.

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Kraft noticed this but couldn't relate. To him, Martin wasn't someone untouched by blood—he shouldn't be so sensitive to death. Once numb to life and death, little remained to fear.

"One person is enough for the rest of this work. If you find it boring, feel free to attend to other matters." Out of habit, Kraft offered a gentle suggestion to spare him self-torture: "Honestly, to laypeople, this is just a boring mess of fluid—even if you watch, you'll need to explain it afterward."

"If it doesn't disturb you, let me observe. I might be able to lend a small hand if needed." Martin refused his inner urge to leave and stayed.

"Then I'll begin." Kraft picked up the scalpel and cut downward from the collar, preparing to slice through the tangled clothing. He wasn't performing a full autopsy—just a quick inspection—no need for strict protocol.

With tweezers, he lifted the fabric. The sharp blade sliced across the chest, splitting the circular emblem in two. The robe slid open on either side, revealing a rough chest covered in dense, grain-like elevations beneath the skin—like something was trying to separate the skin from the subcutaneous tissue, creating strange folds during transport, twisting the circular tattoo at the center into a crooked, irregular shape.

Gloved fingers pressed against a patch of skin, testing lateral movement. The mobility was high, with a sensation like two layers of rubber rubbing together. It reminded Kraft of first touching a subcutaneous emphysema patient's skin—the "crepitus" feeling—but more sluggish.

It didn't feel like flesh fused to flesh. Instead, a fine fibrous mesh seemed to glue them together—loose, even fluffy.

"It feels unusually fluffy underneath, but not hollow. I'm not certain." Kraft lifted his finger and pressed again. This time, he confirmed the change extended widely across the entire torso.

He swept aside the cut-open clothing; the two halves of the robe slid down the corpse's loose body and landed in the coffin's bottom, producing faint clinks of hard objects. "Wait—you didn't search him?"

"No…" Martin shook his head. "We thought we'd do it later. No rush."

Probably no one wanted to search such a bizarre creature. Clearly, something was hidden in the robe. Kraft followed the sound and soon found two hidden pockets with no openings.

He didn't want to be distracted now, so he simply cut open the bags and pulled out a common metal vial and a string-mounted ornament of unknown purpose, placing them on the nearby table to examine after the autopsy.

Martin circled the coffin, inspecting the heretic's personal items. He'd expected some symbol of fanatic devotion, but the ornament—supposedly the emblem—lacked any circular design. It merely held a semi-translucent mineral stone inside a metal frame, unpolished, strung directly as a pendant.

If this was the heretic leader, his life was astonishingly plain—no money found on him at all, contradicting the initial impression that this sect had been founded for greed.

On the other side, Kraft had carefully cut a small triangular opening and, with tweezers, gently peeled back the edge. Surprisingly easy—no need for the careful depth control or precise separation of tough epidermis from subcutaneous tissue required in anatomy class. He merely applied slight wrist pressure and lifted the flaccid, wrinkled skin.

In an inapt metaphor, he felt like peeling off an alien orange peel. With a faint hiss as it separated, the skin lifted evenly, revealing a white, three-dimensional web beneath—this was the loose tissue he'd felt earlier. Within the mesh, he could see tiny specks clinging to partially undecomposed remnants of tissue.

Beneath the dead skin lay astonishing, terrifyingly vigorous life—an unprecedented, unimaginably lush network of mycelium, like a miniature city of scavengers carved inside a hollowed mountain.

Before Kraft could recover from the horror of this one corner, a sound of shifting objects came from the table beside him.

"Professor Kraft, look at this—it seems to be glowing inside?"