Chapter 165: Symptoms and Pathology

The discordant little interlude in the battle was quickly interrupted by a fresh wave of enemies.

Before he could think through the possible consequences, Martin had to focus his energy on the immediate difficulties, or 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; indeed, the more experienced a person was, the more easily they were misled. One had to rely on reflexes to dodge while simultaneously launching an accurate counterattack, and only a handful of people here could manage that.

Precisely because of this, he had noticed the characteristics of Kraft's swordsmanship.

Unlike some flashy techniques that had gradually become impractical, these were merely simple, straightforward movements, often seen in the hands of newly risen nobles in places that had been enfeoffed only two generations ago and lacked deep tradition. Their prevalence was even higher than that of breastplates.

Lacking fine design or technique, they prioritized ensuring the full delivery of power. They likely evolved from low-cost, beginner-oriented swinging weapon methods, absorbing some practical tricks to facilitate force application on lighter, more agile swords, thus becoming a style without a formal school.

Martin had encountered similar people. While the differences were bizarre and varied depending on the individual's unorthodox instructor, the common thread was brute force and directness, forcing the opponent into a contest of speed and ruthlessness where even any existing techniques were difficult to deploy in such a fight.

This newly appointed honorary professor at River University clearly drew his swordsmanship foundation from such sources, yet his overall style was very... "Chimera"-like—he could think of no other word to describe it.

Stitched onto this foundation were various elements with strong personal characteristics, leaning toward evasion maneuvers that looked extremely dangerous, precise yet with room to spare, as if constantly guarding against attacks from several possible directions.

His strikes were more conservative than those of most veterans, yet he placed great emphasis on power. It was impossible to imagine what need had produced such a style; like the lion-headed, goat-bodied, serpent-tailed Chimera, it was an unrealistic patchwork of conflicting elements, fighting against something with no real-world counterpart.

However, it proved very effective against these inhuman things.

They cooperated to control seven or eight shells, impaling and fixing them to the ground with discarded weapons. The unknown force controlling their movements seemed to behave somewhat rigidly; as long as the limbs were functional, it would continue to control the shell to struggle in a rather "thrifty" manner.

This allowed Kraft to rule out a particularly grim hypothesis: that a shadowy mastermind possessing high intelligence was controlling them; or that such a mastermind existed but could not substitute for thought or troubleshoot.

With the few ownerless weapons exhausted, the squires began tearing open tents and pulling out the frames to use as substitutes. These wooden poles, sharpened at one end for insertion into the ground, resembled short spears and were perfect for emergency use, while the torn canvas was thrown into the fire to stoke the flames.

Having overturned nearly half a tent and used up its supports, their vision cleared, revealing over a dozen relatively intact humanoid fungal clusters on the ground. This strange strategy had indeed effectively controlled their numbers; the pressure on the group gradually eased, the scale of numerical advantage tilted toward the defenders, which in turn made tactical coordination progress even more easily and efficiently.

The last intact host shell fell under the assault of several men; several wooden poles were thrust into its torso, turning it into a target practice dummy.

They watched the forest with trepidation and vigilance until they were certain no more mottled figures emerged. A knight in full plate armor knelt in the dust, opened his helmet visor, and gasped for air, choking out sounds of wailing, cursing, or laughter—some extreme emotional release containing no meaning whatsoever. Subsequently, this behavior spread through the camp; they fell to their knees or collapsed one after another, silent or emitting incoherent sounds of crying and laughing, their noise amidst terrible coughing and wheezing more raucous than a hellish oil cauldron.

Martin did not stop them; considering they had just survived an unimaginable attack, such a reaction was understandable. Even if threats might still exist, they needed timely and appropriate release to ensure they did not collapse on the spot.

In fact, he too wanted to roar or smash something, to release a gloomy, oppressive feeling lodged in his throat like a fish bone, making one want to tear out the windpipe and rip out the heart and lungs to remove it, but that had to come after his duty as the commander of his group.

After patrolling the area and thoughtfully adding wooden poles to the loosely fixed shells, Martin approached Kraft, who stood in a thinking pose, and cleared his throat to gain attention. "I have thought it over carefully; actually, there is no need to worry too much."

"What?"

"Regarding what you mentioned just now, the corpses left behind." Leaning on his sword, he glanced at the still-struggling shells and affirmed, "Scattered as they are, I believe Westminster Castle can handle them on its own. Provided, of course, that they can escape from the locked doors."

"Martin, do you understand coughing?" Kraft did not commit to his words, instead bringing up something unrelated.

"Of course."

"No, you do not."

Confusing, yet very fitting for a professor's speech; those scholars in the universities, whether bald or old, spoke in such roundabout ways, calling it "stimulating thought." He hadn't expected Kraft to have picked up this bad habit after only a short time mixing with them.

"So, what exactly is a cough?"

"Uh... the throat itches, and then you cough." The question was indeed concise, yet oddly impossible to answer, making Martin instinctively feel an itch on top of his head, though his hand scratched his helmet. "A cough is just a cough."

"A cough is a symptom." To facilitate understanding, Kraft switched terms. "Or rather, a 'manifestation.' Something that should not be in the respiratory tract appears within it, triggering a cough. These factors are extremely complex; they can be epidemics, dripping mucus, food choking, chest tumors, or even gastric acid reflux. Some are very mild, others can be fatal, yet they can all manifest as a cough."

"Do you understand now?"

"I think I do." Martin vaguely realized that what Kraft was talking about was not unrelated to the current situation.

Pausing briefly to organize his thoughts, Kraft continued, "Some doctors will prescribe you syrups, hawthorn, mint, and the like, beneficial for the mouth and throat. After taking them, the effect is immediate: the cough stops and fluids are generated. This merely resolves the cough; it has no meaning for many underlying causes and may even, due to self-righteous symptom suppression, allow the illness to progress unnoticed."

"These fungus-infested things are the cough. A symptom alien to a normal, healthy world, and symptoms never appear without cause." His eyes reflected the shells illuminated by the firelight; their struggling forms, viewed for too long, took on a dull, farcical comedic effect. "What we are doing now is drinking mint-and-hawthorn cough syrup. Controlling the fungus-hosted corpses and preparing to burn the village are all part of that."

Martin looked toward the village; from here, only a thread-like trail was visible, leading to the heretical church guarded by the fungus. "You mean we must find the 'cause'?"

"If we are to handle this thoroughly, we must learn more. At the very least, more 'symptoms' that can help us work backward to deduce the pathology."

"And what worries me most right now is another matter: the manifestation of a pathogenic factor can differ across various organs in the body." Kraft made no attempt to hide his concern; conventional defenses were doubtful against deep infiltration.

"I hope Westminster Castle is an organ with high resistance and relatively little damage. After all, it is the most important organ, and half of my students are there."