Chapter 160

As they advanced deeper into the increasingly sparse forest, the opening of space gradually compressed the subconscious sense of safety. Though no one spoke it aloud, many clearly began to miss the once tangled, lush woodland that had once slowed their steps.

The attendants walking at the perimeter frequently scanned their surroundings, casting ambiguous glances toward the bare, gnarled tree trunks, as if something might emerge from the forest's misty light now unshielded by green curtains.

They engaged in dull small talk, exchanging various rumors, but the monotonous life within the castle had never offered much fertile ground for gossip; even this last scrap of conversation was quickly digested and regurgitated, forcing them to pick meaningless fragments from their unchanging food and training to sustain their tasteless exchanges.

The sporadic, meaningless chatter had lost its original purpose, existing only to fill their ears with sound and prevent the column from sinking into the void of silence.

This forest had hidden its other face, waiting for visitors to notice it in stillness—here, nothing existed except themselves to make a sound. The nighttime symphony of insects had vanished entirely, and even a single birdcall was hard to hear.

It was like drinking at a banquet's noisy gathering, then suddenly realizing the clink of your own glass against the table had become the last sound in the entire hall, triggering an instinctive sense that within the still, empty void around you, some transformative force was watching.

With every additional moment spent marching through this lifeless forest, the feeling of being watched intensified; some began complaining that the sparse vegetation made the column too visible, and soon reacted to distant, indistinct tree shadows, perceiving them as something else the instant their gaze passed over.

At first, this impulse could still be restrained—just a sudden halt by one attendant, a sentence cut short mid-speech—but after a day, it escalated into occasional low cries of alarm, prolonged stares at certain spots in the forest, and shaken heads of denial.

Later, it was proven these were merely visual errors: partially rotted tree trunks warped under their own weight, bearing knobby growths that resembled skulls from afar; or slender clumps of shrubbery whose details were blurred by diffraction.

Those sensitive to emotional intuition could sense the taut nerves of most, slowly and steadily amplified by the environment's constant suggestions, finding only brief respite during deep sleep.

But after more than two days on this journey, even the combined weight of exhaustion and sturdy armor could no longer allow quick sleep. They needed to keep talking, fabricating a human atmosphere to soothe their spirits.

Collective emotion spread like mycelium beneath bark, hidden beneath knightly honor, training accomplishments, and personal dignity—never surfacing openly, yet the column still maintained order.

They longed more than ever to encounter any animal other than themselves—even an attack by heretics would be welcome.

This wish was fulfilled on the morning of the third day—or rather, half fulfilled.

Their decent visibility revealed a path that didn't resemble an animal trail: patches of exposed earth, like inevitable bald spots, appeared in the forest. Judging from Martin's hunting experience, this more closely resembled a path worn by frequent human passage.

The column's mood lifted; suppressed cheers broke out, quickly stifled by Barrow's not-unkind command. They no longer cared about concealing their trail—only wanted to find the heretics' stronghold and end this prolonged, silent riddle.

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Saving time previously spent searching, the column's speed increased significantly. Following this path, they soon encountered the first unusual thing found here.

Amid the dark green, a sharp-eyed attendant spotted, far ahead, a colored object leaning against the base of a thick tree. Suspecting another optical illusion, he suppressed the urge to shout, walked closer, and realized it was a dense cluster of fungi.

This was the first time they had seen such a thing in the forest: colorful caps bloomed atop a structure resembling a small flower stand, including some varieties with delicate, lace-trimmed skirts like those worn by Young Ladies.

He knelt beside it, reaching out to touch this dreamlike masterpiece.

"I advise you to keep your distance from that thing."

A cold, hard voice cut in from behind, halting his hand before the fungal "stand," dousing his eager impulse.

The voice's owner seized his shoulder, yanking him back, forcing his gaze to re-focus from several paces away. The "stand's" outline, unseen at first, now grew familiar as his perspective shifted.

It indeed leaned in a "resting" posture: half resting on the ground, half pressed against the trunk, its cage-like top fused with the bark via a thick, stalk-like base, its mouth open and stretched to fill a hemispherical soft cap.

【Mouth?】

The thought slid into his collar like ice, sending a shiver through him. He re-examined the exquisite fungal structure; a terrifying hypothesis rapidly solidified into fact, reaching its peak when the thing was pried from the trunk.

It adhered tightly to the trunk; Kraft exerted effort to cut through the partially woody connection, using a levering motion with his broad-bladed axe to pry up what appeared to be the head—its texture resembled peeling off a very sticky tape, pulling out a network of fine filaments.

Before full separation, the brittle structure shattered first; half of the cage-like outline cracked into fragments, tumbling to the ground along with the fungal clusters clinging to it, revealing a pale yellow interior where nasal sinuses could faintly be distinguished, filled with fluffy, ball-like filaments.

"Looks like we're on the right track."

The blade's back struck the remaining outline; the framework collapsed into a pile of broken bone and fungus, still retaining vivid, uncommonly rich colors for this era.

The more vivid the object, the more it chilled those who saw it—as if the unseen watcher in the forest had revealed a corner of itself, a corner too alien to name. For several seconds, conversation in the column ceased; minds struggled to process, unable to accept the existence of such a thing.

"Stay alert." Martin stared at the thing deeply, steadying his breath. "Take off the full plate armors from the horses. It looks like we're almost there."

The attendants forced themselves not to look at it, splitting off a portion to help the knights don their armor swiftly.

Excluding the earlier shock, the process unfolded with unbelievable smoothness. They had successfully reached the outskirts of the heretics' stronghold without encountering even a single obstacle—not a single outpost, not a single hidden arrow.

Not even Martin, but even Kraft felt this ease was unnatural. In their expectations, they'd most likely be forced into a defensive stance, never getting the chance to wear full plate armor—yet now they were advancing calmly toward their destination.

After passing several more fungal "stands," the path ended, revealing before them a clearing deliberately carved from the forest: centered on a building with a visible spire, scattered cottages stood in orderly arrangement—just like any devout village in the Westmin region.

But it shouldn't be here.