Chapter 163: Manifestation

"Braet!"

The companion on watch by the fire had been constantly watching this side; from the rear view, Braet had suddenly frozen in place, gazing relaxedly into the deep forest as if he had seen someone he knew.

Then he saw the other man remove his hatchet and hurl it with decisive, lethal intent toward the spot he was staring at, striking a body that emitted an odd muffled sound, before turning and sprinting back toward camp.

Beyond the edge of vision, in the area untouched by firelight, a mottled, silent form emerged—its movements stiff and unnatural, like a puppet on strings, yet briefly accelerating as it drew near.

By the time Braet realized this wasn't a nightmare mirroring what he'd seen during the day, he was already pinned to the ground; strange, heavy, smoke-like clouds of color burst from the darkness, cascading down like a spilled powder box, triggering a suffocating, hacking cough that left the victim gasping for breath.

The two entangled figures vanished quickly into the dark; an unthinkable yet unmistakably horrifying conclusion burned through his reason—it was those humanoid figures covered in ornate fungi, and they had moved.

"Attack!" the night watchman rasped, though it was already redundant; the camp, with its light sleepers, had long been jolted awake, metal clashing in chaotic disarray.

And the first to leave his tent was none other than the professor they had just been discussing—he thrust his sword through the tent flap first, swiftly and expertly surveying the surroundings, then crouched and darted out, standing in the shadow shielded by the tent.

It was hard to imagine what had forged such a cautious habit in him, instinctively placing himself in the assumption that threats lurked everywhere. He scanned the entire camp along the tent's edge, and on the lone remaining watchfire, he instantly spotted the problem.

"Where's Braet?"

The night guard instinctively looked again at the spot where Braet had vanished—the open woodland now seemed unnaturally crowded, with patches of color shifting faintly between the tree trunks dividing the night.

The underbrush swayed, obscuring the source of the continuous coughing—a cough like someone trying to vomit up their entire lungs, punctuated by brief, involuntary gasps like a rooster's crow, then quickly fading along with the weak, thrashing movements. The first person to emerge from the tent saw this, and recognized the voice's owner from its distorted tone.

This sight might have driven most witnesses into mad terror, but not everyone in the party. As the initial panic subsided, a starkly opposite realization dawned.

The entity or person who had attacked had failed to kill the sentry instantly—Braet was still struggling, still fighting back.

"Someone!" Even as Kraft dared not move, Knight Barro had already charged toward the target—this might be the last chance to pull Braet free before full combat erupted; he had not removed his armor before sleeping, and the backlit angle gave him the confidence to lift his visor for better vision.

The attendants, jolted from their stupor, sprang into action; those nearby followed Barro, while the rest observed the situation, drawing closer to their comrades to shield the archers carrying shortbows and crossbows, preparing to strike the first visible enemies and shatter their morale.

From experience, night combat presented equal difficulties for both sides, demanding considerable courage and military discipline—and these were precisely the areas where they felt most confident. Since they hadn't been crushed in one blow, if they held their ground, the enemy would gain little advantage; with proper response, the tide could still turn.

Deep in their hearts, even a sense of relief settled in—they preferred confronting something tangible and visible over an invisible, unknowable mystery. Whatever it was, as long as it appeared before them, as long as it had a physical form, it didn't matter.

Contrary to expectation, those things were by no means "fast." They arrived like guests at a banquet, dressed in finery, advancing in unison from the dark, open hall lined with wooden pillars and devoid of candles, as if welcoming a latecomer to a banquet laid out by some unseen presence.

At this moment, the bravest—and most reckless—member of the party had already cleared the underbrush and seen the thing entangled with Braet: it had only half a head, clinging to the victim like a close friend, pressing against the silent, lipless mouth; fine, slender, white threads, lighter and finer than hair, writhed like living things between them, covering most of the young man's face, weaving into a shimmering, fluttering veil over his eyes, drowning his dilated pupils.

He might still be alive—recognizing the approaching figure by familiar footsteps and his single remaining eye, he tried to cry out for help, but only exhaled a cloud of mist laced with iridescent phosphorescent powder.

Barro grabbed the thing at what he guessed was its neck, trying to tear it off his attendant, but the two were fused together like lacquer glue—his strength could not break the bond; the adhesion had penetrated beneath the skin, like plant roots gripping soil. Meanwhile, the vivid human wall was steadily advancing, close enough now to distinguish the loathsome fungal blotches.

A pungent, tickling dust filled Barro's nostrils—he knew exactly what he had to do.

"May the Heavenly Father save your soul." Raising his blade, he brought it down with force and decisiveness, stepping backward rapidly toward the approaching figures—but he stumbled in place, unable to retreat as planned, realizing his greaves had grown unnaturally heavy.

"Below!"

In fact, no warning was needed; Barro reflexively looked down and swung his sword downward again. The headless corpse, unaffected, clung tightly to his shin guards; the full-force strike severed the fungal mass along with the brittle radius and ulna.

A bolt pierced the air, striking the fungal host; the crossbow's kinetic energy only momentarily disrupted their motion, granting Barro the chance to retreat to safety. Once the risk of friendly fire was gone, several fully charged winch-crossbows fired into the fungal mass, their armor-piercing bolts directly toppling several bodies—and even pinning one to a tree trunk.

The winch-crossbows had fulfilled their purpose; the second wave of hand-crossbows arrived, piercing the fungal hosts, but caused no effect beyond minor movement obstruction.

There seemed to be some delay in their reaction—they responded to impacts a beat late, then accelerated toward the fully prepared formation.

Astonished by their near-total lack of vital points, the party gradually calmed down; Barro recalled the sensation of his strike and reached an optimistic conclusion.

"Spread out! Don't cluster together! As long as you don't get touched, they can't harm you!"

"Cut through every bone that moves! Even if it's the Devil himself, we'll send him back to hell today!"

The host, missing its head and half an arm, propped itself upright on its single limb and moved with the group, crossing the camp's boundary; the sharp, acrid dust filled the air.

But their most terrifying moment had passed—the invisible fear had collapsed into something tangible, touchable, and now proven vulnerable to destruction. Emboldened by Barro, the invisible courage returned to these elite mercenaries of the Duke; they broke into small groups of two or three, preparing for close combat.

【Is that all?】

For Kraft, who had never known fear, it was decidedly underwhelming.

Though these things were bizarre, their current behavior hardly matched the scale of their supposed infection of the entire forest—it was more like oral thrush: a mere superficial symptom of some greater illness, nothing more than a trivial skin irritation.