Chapter 170

【Am I really the last person here?】

The night in Westminster Castle differed from Comfort Harbor; there was nothing worth strolling around, and after dark, the only thing you'd encounter by wandering was a night patrol asking the three great philosophical questions. Visitors who wished to move about always returned to their lodgings—where beds and meals were provided—before nightfall.

Due to delays on the road, Yin Feng was among the last to return, and upon arriving, she unexpectedly encountered Mr. Wilbert. He was waiting for Professor Bulimo—for someone who had come here solely for Kraft's manuscript materials.

Since that brief conversation at noon, Yin Feng had been fairly certain the man's purpose was clear; boldly, she could even deduce that Bulimo had deliberately chosen to come when "my lord was away." How he learned the schedule and why he timed it this way remained full of doubts.

He had never imagined being turned away by a little girl, and had no choice but to stay on-site—clearly an unforeseen development, with no possibility of prior planning.

Then, is there a possibility that Bulimo is nowhere at all?

【Right inside the room】

A highly unreasonable guess: someone staying in a dark room, refusing dinner, ignoring calls from outside, silent, producing not a single sound.

Or perhaps Wilbert had already noticed this—he loudly scolded himself for assigning Bulimo an unsuitable room. Was he speaking to the servants? Could this be a subtle way of warning the room's occupant?

Through the keyhole, a patch of shadowed color passed before her eyes. Yin Feng pulled the velvet ornament on her chest over her nose and mouth to block the stench of rotting dust. They still wandered outside, like scavenger birds refusing to leave a beach saturated with fishy odor, waiting for the tide to wash out the carcasses buried beneath the sand.

Fortunately, she thought, once filtered, the remaining scent wasn't too unbearable.

Her mind stirred: if one event was coincidence, a combination of them might not be. Today, Bulimo arrived, and coincidentally encountered these fungal corpses—and coincidentally lingered in his own lodging.

He's controlling them? Following common story tropes, Yin Feng immediately formed this thought: using evil means to manipulate corpses was nothing new.

But that seemed unlikely—if true, she never would have escaped. Bulimo, inside the room, could hear the conversations outside and knew exactly where she was.

So, the answer is no?

Everything seemed to confirm her firmly held principle: nothing comes without cost. In memory, the strange figures who vanished and reappeared at will, their limbs contracted, bodies encased in bony shells, hunched in agony—such things, beyond intellect and strength, possessing extraordinary abilities, also carried equal costs and limitations.

It was a simple truth: he couldn't even step out to confront Yin Feng, even if he was very likely the source of it all.

Though she didn't understand how this situation arose, she seemed safe. Staying here, someone would come by morning—or the sun would naturally drive away those creatures afraid of light.

Yin Feng heard a comforting whisper in her heart: she had earned the reward of clever action. If she stayed silent, everything would pass. She could continue living a comfort she'd never imagined, and under the guidance of a teacher so lofty she couldn't comprehend him, become a literate "high-level talent."

Yet her eye still pressed against the keyhole; her suppressed breathing had unconsciously quickened. She counted the tenth fungal humanoid passing the door.

No, actually only nine—she had seen this one before. At waist level, aligned with the keyhole, was a cluster of blue-scale mushrooms.

The interval between this passage was longer than before. The number of these blind corpses was fewer than imagined, and they were dispersing throughout this sizable building.

From here, she couldn't see their eyes—likely entirely covered in fungal blotches, or replaced outright by new growths. Whatever they used to "see," none of them detected her just beyond the door.

In her pocket, Yin Feng felt something cold—the key.

She held her breath, waiting for the next corpse to pass and its footsteps to fade. With the steady hand she'd practiced for writing, she slid the key into the lock, blocking the light.

Complete darkness enveloped her. She closed her eyes, listening for the faintest metallic click, confirming it hadn't masked the softened, fungal footsteps. In her other hand, she gripped the stolen dagger—craftsmen had polished it well.

If Bulimo won't come to her, then she'll go to Bulimo.

Yin Feng pulled open the door, swiftly scanning both sides. A vividly colored silhouette slowly turned the corner, oblivious to the watching eyes behind. She took her first careful step, toe touching the corridor floor.

Lighter than expected. Her movements quickened; her mind flowed clear and smooth as melting snow. She left the door ajar, moved like a cat along the wall, silent and swift. Her gaze locked on the corridor's end, watching the bloated, pale shadow appear at the corner, then crouching into the shadows of the spiral stairs.

In fewer than twenty steps, she realized she'd been holding her breath. Her heart trembled—not pure fear, but something closer to thrill, even... a hint of exhilaration. She was walking the path she desired, though it was likely no wider than a single log.

Like her heartbeat, once begun, it couldn't stop. After a few seconds to adjust her breathing, Yin Feng peered out from the first-floor exit, then instantly pulled back.

Two figures with peculiar appearances, their heads crowned with towering, layered fungal caps, walked slowly across the long hall, its floor dusted with a gauze-like layer of colored powder, stepping over the fallen servants. At the center of the dust cloud, a human form was tightly entangled by a bursting, canopy-like shell—these had "truly died" after releasing vast amounts of dust, having fulfilled some purpose, no longer driven irrationally like the others.

Setting aside the meaning of this scene, and the fact that Wilbert was among the dead—or perhaps the one entangled—Yin Feng felt, with guilty pleasure, an immediate, unlearned sense of "beauty": pure, dazzling splendor, far surpassing the banquet decorations at Rivers University.

She bit her lip hard, suppressing the feeling—and the worsening coughing urge now that she was downstairs—forcing herself to focus on her goal.

Bulimo's door was locked, meaning she had to approach the butler's corpse, evade the wandering shells, and retrieve the keychain.

Difficult, but not impossible. The furniture and debris along the way would shield her, and the gleaming little metal keychain lay just beyond the corpse, near the edge of a long table.

Without hesitation, as the two shells moved away, she crouched and crawled forward, crossing the bodies of the servants—and noticed the count didn't add up; at the dust's edge was a half-human-shaped gap.