Chapter 163: Manifestation

"Braet!"

The companion keeping watch by the fire had been constantly monitoring this side; from the rear view, Braet had suddenly frozen in place, gazing relaxedly into the deep forest as if seeing an acquaintance.

Then he saw the other man remove his axe 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 the camp.

Beyond the reach of the firelight, a mottled, silent form emerged from outside the field of vision—its movements stiff and awkward like a marionette's, irrational in their rigidity, yet briefly accelerating as it drew near.

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

The two entangled figures vanished quickly into the darkness; an unbelievable yet unmistakably terrifying deduction burned through his reason like hot charcoal—it was those humanoid figures covered in lavish fungi, and they had moved.

"Attack!" the night watchman rasped, though it was already somewhat 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 forward to part the tent flap, swiftly and expertly assessing the situation outside, 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, keenly detecting the problem at the lone remaining guard's fire.

"Where's Braet?"

The watching retainer instinctively looked again at the spot where Braet had vanished—the open woodland now seemed densely packed; amid the night sky divided by tree trunks, faint traces of moving color were visible.

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

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

The attacker—whether person or thing—had failed to kill the sentry instantly; Braet was still struggling against it.

"Someone!" While Kraft still dared not move, Knight Barro had already charged toward the target—this might be the last chance to pull Braet back 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 retinues, jolted from their daze, sprang into action; those nearby followed Barro, while the rest observed the situation, drawing closer to their comrades to protect the archers carrying shortbows and crossbows, preparing to strike first at any exposed enemy and break their morale.

From experience, nighttime combat presented difficulties for both sides, demanding equal courage and military discipline—and this was precisely 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 might yet 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 what.

Contrary to expectation, those things were by no means "fast." They arrived like guests at a banquet, dressed in finery, arriving in unison from the dark, spacious hall lined with wooden pillars and devoid of candles, as if welcoming the newcomer who had just arrived and would soon join them, inviting him to partake in a banquet laid out by some unseen presence.

At this moment, the bravest—and most reckless—member of the party had swept aside the underbrush and seen the thing entangled with Braet: it had only half a head, hugging the victim like a close friend, pressed tightly against him, its lips silently opening and closing; finer and lighter than hair, white filaments spread like living things between them, covering most of the young man's face, weaving into a veiled, fluttering membrane like a cataract, 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 infused with iridescent phosphorescent powder.

Barro seized the thing at what he guessed was its neck, attempting to wrench it off his retainer, but the viscous, glue-like adhesion between them prevented any force—he could not pull; this clinging sensation 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 stung 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 powerful, decisive force, stepping backward rapidly toward the approaching shambling forms—but he stumbled in place, unable to retreat as planned, realizing his leg armor had become 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 armor; his full-force strike severed the fungal mass along with the brittle radius and ulna.

A bolt whistled through the air, piercing a fungal host; the kinetic force of the crossbow merely 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, 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, causing no effect beyond minor movement obstruction.

It seemed there was some signal delay—they reacted to impacts a beat late, then accelerated toward the fully prepared formation.

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

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

"Cut through every movable bone—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 forward with the group, crossing the camp boundary; the sharp, acrid dust scent spread thickly.

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

【Is that all?】

For Kraft, who had never known fear, it was truly below expectations.

Though these things were bizarre, their current behavior hardly matched the scale of an infection spreading across the entire forest—it was more like oral thrush, merely a superficial rash revealing itself on the surface of some far greater illness.