Chapter 162: Do Not Leave Your Post During Night Watch

Everyone silently avoided mentioning the purpose of their visit, counted heads on the spot, and quickly retreated along their path to a location where the vibrant corpses were no longer visible, beginning to unload supplies from the horses tied in place.

At least half the weight had already been carried on their bodies; the remainder consisted mainly of tent frames, coverings, and the least-used burden along the way—kerosene.

The attendants carefully removed the small jars wrapped in rope nets and placed them in batches at a distance from the campfire.

They still didn't understand why they'd brought these troublesome items in the first place, but it didn't prevent them from seeing now that it had been the wisest decision—greatly reducing the effort needed to gather fuel and meaning they could burn the place faster and more thoroughly, preventing it from becoming a recurring nightmare.

After setting up their overnight shelter, the attendants began felling trees to collect firewood, splitting it roughly and trimming away most of the damp, diseased core.

Starting a fire is an art: first, clear open ground around the village as a firebreak. Most of the prepared wood was intended for the central church, ensuring the structural beams and pillars would be destroyed; homes, with their high wood content and thatched roofs, would burn adequately on their own.

Progress was unsatisfactory; after half a day of frantic work, the collected firewood still fell far short of the required amount—perhaps they wouldn't be able to set the fire until noon tomorrow.

The rested group huddled around the fire, warming their hard rations, filling their stomachs amid minimal, awkward small talk that avoided everything they'd seen, while the night watch kept guard over the flames, and the others returned to their tents, weapons in hand, lying down.

Logically, the more difficult the situation, the more crucial it is to seize every moment of rest, ensuring they have extra strength—perhaps life-saving—when they must wake again.

But Brecht knew they weren't resting; those wide, unblinking eyes were surely staring into the darkness, watching the flickering shadows cast by the fire on the tent canvas, terrified that the next time they opened their eyes, they'd see that place—that road they might never forget.

He was the same. He couldn't say whether Martin's assignment of night watch was punishment or convenient favoritism—it involved Barro. For such a sleepless night, at least for him, standing guard by the fire was better than tossing and turning inside the tent.

But I must clarify: though he said nothing, he still believed his swift throw of the throwing axe was no mistake. After crossing the path lined with mushroom "arches," seeing a twisted humanoid silhouette with its back turned—how could anyone suppress the urge to strike first?

Even if that axe had been in Barro's hand at the time, it would've flown just as surely—and struck even more accurately.

"Hmph." Brecht shook his head, dismissing the disrespectful thought. Humility was a knight's virtue; as a squire, he should accept Martin's criticism, not harbor resentment.

As the second son of his family, assigned to train under a knight, he sometimes felt he'd only learned two sides of the same coin: courage and recklessness, never absorbing the unexpected sharpness Barro occasionally showed beneath his coarse exterior.

He added another log to the fire; the crackling flames wrapped around his ears, monotonous enough to make him unable to stop imagining those dazzling, mesmerizing images—the mushroom arches, the grotesque silhouettes—appearing before him as if seated across the fire.

A startled gasp escaped his lips; Brecht suddenly sat upright, alert. The companion across the fire stirred, looked up, and met his gaze—both saw the same thing in each other's eyes.

"You know that man Martin called 'Professor'—why did he bring so much kerosene?" Brecht whispered to the only person he could speak to, glancing toward the edge of camp to confirm it was just fatigue-induced hallucinations.

He didn't expect an answer; he just wanted to talk, though it was genuinely puzzling.

"Who knows? But I noticed calluses on his hands—he's clearly someone who wields a sword." The companion picked up the thread. "He doesn't look like a professor at all. Have you ever seen scholars from the academies? Usually, they're either old or bald—or both."

"Or both." In this forbidden topic, they found a fleeting, awkward chuckle.

The fire flared brightly as fresh wood was added, flames swelling, warmth radiating to their limbs, lifting their spirits. The shadows behind them stretched and swayed longer.

After chatting awhile, Brecht's lips grew dry. He picked up his water bag and drank two mouthfuls. A growing, restless urge became unmistakable. He tried to endure it, but the night was long and far from over—he'd have to deal with it eventually.

Rubbing his numb legs, he rose from the fire, scanning the camp. The rustling of shifting bodies had gradually faded; exhaustion had claimed sleep.

"I need to take care of a personal matter—right over there. I'll be back soon."

"Hurry up. When you're done, I'll take over." Such matters always tempted people to go together, but duty forbade them from leaving their posts simultaneously—they had to take turns.

Brecht walked toward the camp's edge; the light shifted from front to back. As he neared the trees whose shapes subtly deviated from the normal, tension seeped again through the walls of language and fire that had held it at bay—he couldn't help wondering what lurked in this forest.

He glanced back at the fire; his companion waved impatiently, urging him to hurry. The tension made the physical need even more urgent—finally, biological necessity overruled fear. He had to relieve himself.

No matter how terrifying or horrifying those things were, they were already dead—less dangerous than a child with a dagger. He tried to reassure himself.

Humming a tune he'd once heard to steady his nerves, he stepped beyond the dim border of light and shadow, walked a few paces into the woods—far enough to avoid morning complaints about odor, yet close enough to still see the fire—and found a tree he liked, ready to finish quickly.

As he emptied himself, his tense mind relaxed. He began wondering how knights in full armor managed such emergencies.

Sure, they could handle it beforehand—but life is unpredictable. What if a sudden crisis struck and they couldn't quickly remove their armor? As a squire, he felt it was worth considering.

The strange question vanished with the stream. Brecht tightened his belt, his thoughts leaping ahead: when he became a full knight with his own fief, could he, like in the tales, fall in love with a lady—and even marry her?

He'd seen such women during outdoor activities, standing at a safe distance, watching young noble heirs return from the hunt with their varied prey, whispering elegant comments, their laughter like flutes and harps drifting through the air scented with perfume.

Their gowns were cut from richly dyed silks and fabrics, vibrant, lavish, and full-bodied.

Like forest spirits, once seen, their exquisite silhouettes were impossible to look away from; the faint, sweet powder drifted into his nose. In this lonely night, he felt compelled to recite the fragment of a minstrel's song he'd once heard.

【She is a star, a full moon, a…】

Brecht reached for his newly fastened belt, loosening the clasp.

A stately figure approached—its asymmetrical, non-uniform coloration surpassing all tailor's masterpieces, radiating extraordinary beauty…

"What the hell is that?!"

The clasp released. He drew his other throwing axe and hurled it with all his strength, embedding it deep into the creature's multi-layered, crown-like head. A strange, indescribably colored mist erupted from it, the dust scent suddenly overpowering.

Brecht retreated toward camp—but in the moment he was distracted, another multicolored figure had silently emerged from the shadows beside the trees and tackled him to the ground.