Chapter 161: Reaping What They Sowed

Something's off. Earlier, the lack of sentries was understandable, but now they stood close enough to see the dried food strings hanging by the windows—and still not a single living soul in sight. Not even a hidden patrol, let alone someone openly posted on high ground to keep watch.

This completely contradicts their understanding of how the heretics operate. After all, this was an organization that could set ambushes even at illicit river crossings. Given the scale of this forest village—estimated to have taken years to build and requiring regular imports of irreplaceable supplies—it was the perfect isolated environment for proselytizing.

Like a hunter lost in the woods stumbling into a mirage, a complete village suddenly emerged from the dense forest backdrop, appearing right before them.

An ominous stillness settled between the buildings, and after the team instinctively fell silent, it merged with the forest's atmosphere, hardening into a deathly silence that pressed against them, accompanied by an intense sensation of being watched from all sides.

The extreme quiet made movement unthinkable, as if trapped in an invisible bog, frozen in place, breath held, hearing only their own faint breathing and the thudding of their hearts.

Until someone could no longer bear it and sneezed, shattering the tension. Though he tried to suppress it, the rush of air through his teeth carried far through the forest—far enough that anyone inside the village might have heard.

Nothing happened.

Everyone turned toward the sound, glaring angrily at the man clutching his mouth in terror.

Yet the oppressive feeling had lessened somewhat. Perhaps the only explanation was that there were no ambushes here at all—perhaps the heretics had simply abandoned this outpost?

"Sorry, my nose suddenly itched," the culprit pinched his nostrils, hands pressed over his mouth to stifle the reflex—but the itch on his mucous membrane was too intense to control. His throat convulsed as a second sneeze erupted, blasting whatever was irritating his nerves into the air.

"Keep it down. We move in slowly," Martin ordered, gesturing for the team to advance.

"A-choo!"

Before he could finish speaking, another sneeze rang out. He was about to rebuke the fool for sneezing at the worst possible moment—then realized it wasn't coming from the same spot.

He turned to see Kraft pulling a black square cloth over his nose and mouth, tying it behind his neck and head. He had more than one—he casually handed another to Kup to wear.

Seeing Martin glance his way, Kraft waved dismissively. "My nose's a bit uncomfortable."

It was more than that. He felt the pervasive, undulating atmosphere constantly brushing against his mind, leaving his brain in a faint, drunken haze for days—now manifesting as a physical sensation of heaviness and dizziness, like a mild fever.

Just now, an unexpected itch in his nasal passage triggered a violent reflex to expel foreign matter—as if dusty wind had blown straight into his nostrils.

【Dust】

The empty, silent space, the overwhelming scent of dust—his memory snapped back to the corridor of the Rivers University gala night, standing again before that door that had blocked nothing.

The lingering undulation in his mind still swayed, like ripples of blurred concepts that had grown sharper since arriving here—specifically, since that sneeze.

Now he thought it resembled… a wheat field stirred by wind, rippling in short, dense waves, like a velvet carpet of fine hairs laid across every surface the air could touch.

"Something's wrong. Stay where others can see you. Don't wander off alone."

Kraft drew his sword and moved closer to Martin. As the team advanced, Kup followed behind him, covering the flank.

The shield-bearers marched ahead of the knights, crouching low behind their shields. Crossbowmen stationed themselves at the forest's edge, ready to retaliate against any emerging enemy.

Once clear of the trees, they accelerated, sprinting across a short stretch of open ground, reaching the outer ring of village buildings. They scaled the fence, pressed against the walls, and took position at the blind spots beneath the small windows, listening for movement inside.

Most untrained civilians would have been paralyzed by such a setup—unable to aim, firing arrows blindly or dropping their weapons to flee, let alone face close combat.

Yet their tense, disciplined movements became a solitary silent play—no arrows flew from the shadows to match their dramatic advance.

No sounds stirred within the houses. No ragged breathing. After they halted, the thick silence returned naturally, the village remaining silent, indifferent to the intruders.

Barro broke from the guard's protection. Before Martin could stop him, he kicked open the nearest door—a flimsy thing, barely better than a wooden plank—which flew clean off its hinges and crashed into the dusty interior.

Sunlight streamed in, illuminating a faint human shape seated at the table, its back turned to the door, utterly defenseless.

The attendants rushed forward, reflexively raising their shields and hurling their axes, then drawing short swords to guard the shadowed corners of the room.

The figure remained motionless as the thrown weapon struck—passing cleanly through the shoulder blades, shattering bone and cartilage, the impact toppling the chair backward, kicking up another cloud of dust.

"What happened?" Martin and Kraft hurried forward, assuming they'd found resistance.

"Cough! Cough!" Barro lifted his visor, coughing as he stepped back. "Nothing. Look for yourselves. If they're all like this, I'd say we won't need to lift a finger here."

A seated "flower stand," covered in vibrant mushrooms, lay in the dust. A cluster of smooth, crown-like fungal masses, caked in dirt, with a well-aimed throwing axe embedded in its shoulder.

"Looks like your man's good at this?" Martin lowered his longsword, exhaling deeply. He'd almost thought the room held some brand-new trap—new traps usually meant costly trial and error.

As the dust settled, the attendant who had thrown the axe carefully scanned the small room, trying to mask his embarrassment at his hasty action.

"Better to act fast than slow—but don't use that axe again." Martin clapped his shoulder. "What's your name?"

"Braet. Braet Ry. Barro's attendant."

"Good. Braet. You're on night watch tonight. Hope the night wind cools you down—once something leaves your hand, it doesn't care if it's friend or foe."

A false alarm. Nothing serious. Considering he was Barro's man, and had a surname, Martin chose not to press further—just issued a symbolic reprimand: night watch as penance. "Open a few more doors. See if you find anything. Don't go alone."

"Professor, what are you looking at?"

"Nothing." Kraft shook his head, turning his gaze away from the corpse. Its posture was unusual—not a normal seated position, but reversed, hands resting on the back of the chair, head lifted as if gasping for air. Yellow mushroom stalks, shaped like clawed fingers, grew from its hollow eye sockets and open mouth, supporting layered, umbrella-like caps like a mask.

The fungi had fused completely with the chair—so much so that even after falling, it retained the same pose.

A seated position, common among patients with heart failure or chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, adopted to ease breathing difficulties.

Kraft tried to reconstruct the scene. At the time, it had been experiencing an attack—likely awakened during sleep by suffocation, sitting up to relieve the sensation, accidentally discovering this posture.

Usually, that would make sense.

But since it was found here, it clearly hadn't worked. Something else killed it—not respiratory illness or heart failure, which wouldn't have killed so quickly while preserving this posture. It was frozen mid-suffocation, too fast to change position.

"Terrible. Let's check the others." He couldn't bring himself to say "rest in peace"—this death was anything but peaceful. Kraft scanned the room and, unsurprisingly, spotted the circular emblem on the wall—without wings.

One by one, the houses were opened. Inside were varied fungal growth substrates. Their original clothing had vanished; in death, each wore a bizarre, colorful exterior beyond human aesthetics—offering every observer a unique, unsettling, or even awe-inspiring experience on each corpse.

The grotesque beauty assaulted the living mind, blurring the line between horror and wonder, causing some to momentarily forget their nature—as if stepping into an unprecedented grand celebration, where all guests wore extravagant, daring new attire.

Many doors stood open, their owners gone. Kraft moved through narrow alleys between low cottages, finding them along the main path leading straight to the church's front entrance.

A magnificent road.

Barro and his attendant stood frozen in dazzling color—like stained-glass rose windows multiplied tenfold, shattered into fragments that melted into the ground, or scripture painted with mineral pigments rising from the soil, stretching all the way to the church's stone steps beneath the suspended circular symbol.

The colorful human forms had merged into thriving fungal colonies, indistinguishable whether the faithful were journeying toward the road's end in pilgrimage, or heading together to a feast. Thick, crown-like fungal folds grew upward, shaped like grooved coronets.

For those stunned, it was beyond mere disgust or fear—it was terror that they didn't find the scene repulsive, as if this were the natural order, the manifestation of some worshipable force.

"Lord…" Barro's sword dropped to his side. The knight, brave to the point of recklessness, retreated for the first time.

Martin, having seen autopsy scenes, fared better—only stunned for a moment before recovering.

"You were right, Professor. Those who touch these things eventually swallow the bitter fruit they planted." He stepped back into the alley, brushing fungal fragments from his boots. "Since they've already reaped what they sowed, we shouldn't stay here."

His intent to withdraw was clear.

He understood the sentiment. The scene was too overwhelming for normal people. The fact that order had been maintained this far was already a mark of elite discipline.

"But…" Kraft glanced at the church. The circular emblem was fixed on a wall with deliberate cracks—undoubtedly the heretics' core. Perhaps inside lay clues to unravel their mystery.

But now was not the time. Even Barro and Martin were shaken. The others were on the verge of emotional collapse. Forcing entry now would likely end in disaster.

"Fall back and set up camp. Gather firewood." Night was falling. Kraft didn't think entering alone now was wise. "If we must, we'll burn it all clean."