Chapter 165

The minor discord during the battle was quickly interrupted by new waves of enemies.

Before Martin could fully grasp the possible consequences, he had to focus on the immediate threat—otherwise, these things would send him to the Lord's embrace for ample reflection.

Kraft's tactics were simple to describe but extremely difficult to execute.

The main difficulty in dealing with these things lay in their unpredictability; even the most experienced were easily misled, and only a handful could dodge while landing precise counterstrikes through reflex alone.

Precisely because of this, he noticed Kraft's sword technique.

Unlike some flashy moves that had long since abandoned practicality, these were plain, straightforward motions—commonly seen among the newly ennobled families of the past two generations with no deep tradition, more widespread than breastplates.

Lacking refined design or technique, they emphasized maximizing force, likely derived from low-cost slashing weapon techniques for beginners, later refined with a few practical tricks to better channel power through lighter, more agile swords, becoming an unclassified style.

Martin had encountered similar fighters; their methods varied wildly depending on the instructor's unorthodox background, but all shared a brute, direct approach—forcing opponents into a contest of speed and ferocity, where even skilled techniques struggled to take effect.

This newly appointed honorary professor from Rivers University clearly drew his sword foundation from this tradition, and his overall style was profoundly… "Chimera"-like—he could think of no other word to describe it.

He had stitched together various personal elements, favoring evasion maneuvers that looked dangerously precise yet retained margin, as if constantly prepared for attacks from multiple directions.

His strikes were more conservative than most veterans', yet intensely focused on power. It was impossible to imagine what need had birthed such a style—like a chimera with a lion's head, a goat's body, and a serpent's tail, a grotesque fusion of conflicting elements, fighting something with no counterpart in reality.

Yet it proved remarkably effective against these inhuman things.

They cooperated to control seven or eight husks, pinning them to the ground with abandoned weapons. The unknown force controlling them seemed rigid in behavior—so long as limbs remained functional, it would "frugally" continue manipulating the husks' struggles.

This eliminated one of Kraft's worst hypotheses: that a highly intelligent mastermind was orchestrating them; or if one existed, it could not replace thought or troubleshoot.

With few unclaimed weapons exhausted, the attendants began tearing open tents, pulling out the wooden frames as substitutes. These stakes, sharpened at one end and nearly like short spears, were perfect for emergency use, while the torn canvas was thrown into the fire to fuel the flames.

Overturning half the tent and using up the supports cleared the field, revealing over a dozen relatively intact humanoid fungal masses on the ground. This strange strategy genuinely controlled their numbers—the group's pressure eased gradually, the advantage of manpower tilting toward the defenders, making tactical coordination even more efficient.

The last intact host husk collapsed under coordinated assault, several wooden stakes driven through its torso, turning it into a target dummy.

They watched the forest warily until no more colorful figures emerged. A fully armored knight knelt in the dust, lifted his helmet visor, and gasped for breath, choking out sounds that were half-sobs, half-curses, half-laughter—pure, meaningless outbursts of extreme emotion. Soon, this behavior spread through the camp; one by one, they collapsed to their knees, silent or emitting shapeless cries and laughter, drowned beneath horrific coughing that drowned even the boiling oil of hell.

Martin did not stop them. Given they had just survived an unimaginable assault, such reactions were understandable. Even if threats still lingered, they needed timely, appropriate release to avoid total collapse.

In truth, he too wanted to roar or smash something—to expel the oppressive, choking weight that made him want to tear open his trachea and rip out his heart and lungs—but that had to come after his duty as commander of this force.

After inspecting the perimeter and reinforcing loose husks with additional stakes, Martin approached Kraft, who stood in thought. He cleared his throat to gain attention. "I've thought it over—I don't think we need to worry so much."

"What?"

"About what you mentioned earlier—the bodies left behind." He glanced at the still-twitching husks, leaning on his sword. "A few scattered ones—I'm confident Westminster Castle can handle them themselves. Provided they can escape their locked doors."

"Martin, do you understand coughing?" Kraft neither affirmed nor denied his words, instead bringing up something unrelated.

"Of course."

"No, you don't."

It was baffling—and perfectly fitting for a professor. Those scholars at universities, either bald or ancient, always spoke in circles like this, pretending it was "stimulating thought." He never expected Kraft, after only a short time among them, had caught the same habit.

"Then what is coughing?"

"Uh… your throat itches, so you cough." The question was simple, yet impossible to answer properly—Martin instinctively felt an itch on his scalp, but his hand scratched only his helmet. "Coughing is just coughing."

"Coughing is a symptom," Kraft said, switching terms for clarity. "Or rather, a 'manifestation.' Something that doesn't belong in the respiratory tract has appeared there, triggering coughing. These factors are extremely complex: infections, mucus leakage, food aspiration, intrathoracic tumors, even gastric acid reflux. Some are mild, some fatal—but all can manifest as coughing."

"Do you understand?"

"I think I do." Martin vaguely realized Kraft was not speaking about something unrelated to their current situation.

After a moment's thought, Kraft continued. "Some doctors prescribe syrups of sugar, hawthorn, mint—things that soothe the throat, offering immediate relief, stopping the cough and moistening the mouth. But this only treats the cough, not the underlying cause. Worse, it may mask the symptoms, allowing the illness to progress unnoticed."

"These fungal husks? They're the cough. A symptom abnormal to the normal, healthy world—and symptoms never appear without cause. What we're doing now is drinking mint-hawthorn cough syrup. Controlling the fungal husks, preparing to burn the village—it's all the same."

Martin looked toward the village, where only a thin trail led to the fungal-guarded pagan church. "You mean we must find the 'cause'?"

"If we want to eliminate this completely, we must learn more. At the very least, more 'symptoms'—to help us reverse-engineer the pathology."

"But what I'm most worried about now is another matter: the same pathogenic factor can manifest differently in different organs." Kraft made no effort to hide his concern—conventional defenses were questionable against deep-seated infection.

"I hope Westminster Castle is an organ with high resistance and minimal damage. After all, it's the most vital organ—and half my student is still there."