Chapter 160

As they advanced deeper into the increasingly sparse forest, the opening space gradually compressed the subconscious sense of safety. Though no one spoke of it, many had begun to miss the once-thick woods that had once slowed their steps.

The attendants walking at the perimeter frequently scanned their surroundings, casting ambiguous glances toward the gnarled tree trunks with no foliage to shield them, as if something might emerge from the forest's misty light now uncurtained by green.

They exchanged dull small talk, sharing gossip of every kind, but the monotonous life within the castle had never offered much fertile ground for rumors; 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 intermittent chatter had lost its meaning, existing only to maintain sound in their ears and prevent the column from sinking into the emptiness 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 nightly symphony of insects had vanished entirely, and even a single birdcall was hard to hear.

It was like drinking at a banquet's noisy feast, suddenly realizing your set-down cup's clink against the table had become the last sound in the entire hall, triggering an instinctive sense that in the surrounding stillness—as if all things had halted—something had turned its gaze upon them.

The longer they marched through this lifeless forest, the stronger the feeling of being watched grew; some began complaining that the sparse vegetation made the column too conspicuous, and soon reacted to distant, indistinct tree shadows, mistaking them for other objects the instant their eyes passed over them.

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

Later, it proved to be nothing but visual errors: half-rotted tree trunks warped under their own weight, bearing knotholes that resembled skulls from afar; or slender clumps of shrubs whose details were blurred by diffraction.

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

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

Group emotion spread like mycelium beneath bark, concealed beneath knightly honor, training achievements, and personal dignity—never brought to light, yet the column still maintained order.

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

That wish was fulfilled on the third morning—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. From Ma Ding's hunting experience, this looked more like a path worn by frequent human passage.

The column's mood lifted; suppressed cheers broke out, quickly stifled by Barro with only mild reprimand. They no longer cared about concealing their trail—only wanted to find the pagans' stronghold and end this prolonged, silent riddle.

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Saving time spent searching, the column's pace increased sharply. Following this path, they soon encountered the first unusual thing they had 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 fringes like ladies' ruffled skirts.

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

"I advise you to keep away from that."

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

The speaker seized his shoulder, yanking him back, forcing his gaze to re-focus from a few steps away. As his viewpoint shifted, the outline of the "stand" he'd missed at first now seemed familiar.

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

【Mouth?】

That thought slid down his neck like an ice cube, sending a shiver through him. He re-examined the exquisite fungal stand—and a terrifying suspicion swiftly became fact, reaching its peak as the thing was pried from the trunk.

It adhered tightly to the trunk. Kraft exerted effort to sever part of the wood-like connection, then used a levering motion with his broad-bladed axe to pry up what appeared to be the head. The sensation was like tearing off a strip of extremely sticky tape, pulling out a network of fine filaments.

Before full separation, the brittle structure shattered first: half the cage-like outline cracked into fragments, tumbling to the ground with the fungal clusters clinging to it, revealing a pale yellow interior—barely distinguishable as nasal sinuses, filled with fluffy, ball-like filaments.

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

The blade's back struck the remaining outline; the framework collapsed into a pile of broken bone and fungus, still retaining vivid colors rare in this age.

The more vibrant 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 died; thoughts labored, struggling to comprehend or accept such a thing's existence.

"Stay alert," Ma Ding said, staring long at the thing, then steadying his breath. "Take off the full plate armor from the horses. It looks like we're nearly there."

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

Excluding the earlier shock, the process had been improbably smooth. They had reached the outskirts of the pagans' stronghold without a single obstacle—not a single outpost, not a single hidden arrow.

Even Ma Ding felt this was unnaturally smooth. In their expectations, they'd most likely be forced into a defensive posture, never getting the chance to wear full armor—yet now, they marched calmly toward their destination.

After passing several more fungal "stands," the path ended, revealing before them a clearing artificially 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 Vestermin region.

But it shouldn't be here.