Chapter 156

"Actually, I left out one thing." During dinner, Kraft lifted a lettuce leaf with his fork but didn't eat it yet, bringing up another matter: "What happened to Professor Petry's belongings?"

Martin sipped a small amount of the slightly sour red wine in his cup, frowning as he recalled: "It was probably sealed along with his temporary room, to be received by someone appropriate after the news reached Dunling, or we could deliver it ourselves. Why ask this?"

"Logically, every invitee to the gathering is required to submit an academic report on their primary research progress. Professor Petry was no exception." Kraft put down his knife and continued, "The report wasn't improvised on the spot—it should have been written in advance."

"Hmm, I suppose no one thought to check that back then, but as you say, it should still be in our possession."

"Yes, I'd like to see that manuscript." Though he didn't expect much, even indirect insight into Petry's recent research might offer a lead.

The small bottle, seized from the heretic and containing a scant amount of black liquid, still lay in his pack; once seen, one wouldn't forget that subtle, lurking sense of inducement.

His will, hardened through so many trials, was no longer what it had been; before this substance, the incessant false whispers in his mind could no longer move him, yet certain thoughts he'd once dismissed as irrelevant associations now grew clearer. That pure black surface resembled a bottomless wellhead, leading into dark, lightless depths.

【Black Liquid】

Seeing another vial of black liquid wasn't surprising, but knowing that Westmin bordered Dunling, and that a heretic here had been found with such a vial, the most suspicious origin was obvious.

Add to that Petry's affiliation with Dunling University, and the possible connections were countless—it was hard not to suspect something.

"It really won't leave me alone." Kraft lifted the lettuce into his mouth—it had grown cold, but the taste was still good. He finished dinner hastily and rose from the table.

Outside, the twilight had fully faded; from this distance across the estate, he could clearly see the Lin Wall beyond the open meadow.

They were wooden barriers erected like palisades across the water-rich plains, or winding fortifications, with tree trunks as skeletons and branches and leaves as walls, filled with shrubs, vines, parasitic ferns, and other attachments—all blocking every gaze.

Fungal hyphae in the ancient humus beneath them digested the remnants of this vast living system, nourishing a dazzling array of mushrooms.

If needed, Kraft thought, these things could spread on a far larger scale—fed and concealed by the dense forest—until they carpeted the entire ground and even the underground, feeding on dead bark and rotting wood, eventually forming the omnipresent "fungal forest" Martin had described.

To someone who'd never seen it, it was hard to imagine the mental image conveyed by words alone; one could only compare it to standing inside the dissected corpse of an infected body, feet crushing swollen, collapsed lungs like open umbrellas, above the ribcage dome studded with fungal gills, and the solid organs beneath the diaphragm woven through with hyphal nets.

But now it was a larger living thing—forest infected by rampant fungi—its death would be longer, more magnificent.

But the clues in hand pointed here; stepping into the forest might be inevitable.

In the endless sea of trees, he didn't expect his small supply of oil to make any impact in the damp season; besides, he hadn't brought it to burn down the woods and sit in prison for life—he'd brought it as a precaution against a certain old acquaintance who particularly liked to lurk in the depths.

"Hmm, this is a headache."

But this time it was better—they were a professional armed group of thirty-odd men, not scholars or logistics workers pretending to be soldiers; the threat they faced could be confirmed as human, with known kill records.

"Professor?" Martin approached from behind, curiously following his gaze; the night sky rolled in like a tide, swallowing the Lin Wall, the meadow, and them beneath a starry canopy alive with insect song.

"Are you worried our progress won't go smoothly?"

"You could say that." Kraft stopped gazing at the now invisible Lin Wall and turned back toward the warm light at the door; a moment ago his thoughts had roamed boundless skies, now only the few steps around him held meaning: "What we can directly see is very limited—too little."

"Indeed, searching in the Lin Zili is a miserable chore. In the past, we hired local hunters or others familiar with the terrain."

"Oh? You've gone into the forest to search for things before?"

"More accurately, it was hunting. When the Duke was still in good health, we did it frequently." Martin leaned against the doorframe, holding his cup, and took a disgusted sip: "After all, a tour couldn't just be about eating and drinking—there's little of decent taste out there."

"But hunting was different. Nobles under our jurisdiction all joined in—it was a fun activity, and a chance to show ability. The Duke's favorite furs came from game he hunted himself. Don't you have such activities where you're from?"

"..." There probably were, but the Wood family had always kept distance from such social circles, and due to their remote location, Old Wood never believed that a group of armed men driving and surrounding beasts demonstrated any Wu De, so they never joined the tradition.

Kraft had only participated in practical hunting; when dealing with carnivores, he relied heavily on un-Wu-De traps and bait.

But he understood—it was like an alien soul playing virtual-world war games in spare time, valuing immersion, and the worse you were, the more you loved it.

"Track them down, trap them, then deliver the killing blow. Similar to hunting—depends on whether they have the nerve to fight back like a dying beast, or find a chance to escape." Martin raised his cup to Kraft, drained the sour grape-juice-like wine in one gulp: "To our success."

He seemed slightly drunk, more relaxed: "The wine here is mediocre. When we return to the port, I suggest we try the honey beer near Rivers University—I'll treat you."

"Thank you, but I don't drink much." Kraft declined the invitation—drinking at gatherings was his least favorite part. "By the way, where do we start tomorrow?"

"Along the river to the sawmill. They're not just active on the edges—they sometimes go deep to find specific timber. The steward needs them to supply the estate, so they know the people."

"That's perfect." This entry point was thoughtfully chosen; Kraft fully agreed. "But I've had a question for a while—just personal curiosity. If it's inconvenient to answer, no problem."

"Have you or the Church ever encountered anything like this before? I mean, clearly abnormal, inexplicable by normal logic, involving heretics or other groups or organizations?"

"During my service to the Duke, the answer is no." Martin answered openly, without hesitation. "But I've heard many similar stories—probably not true, and mostly turned out to be tricks or scams; the few that remained unexplained ended mysteriously on their own, without needing much effort. Probably like those who trade souls with demons—they eventually reap what they sow?"

"Indeed, they eventually reap what they sow." Kraft nodded in agreement. "You should get some rest. Tonight, let me and Kup take turns on watch. Don't worry—I'm always full of energy."