Chapter 175

"Wait, can you read those names again?" Some of those clichéd names had triggered something in Martin, catching his attention—"Just the ones you just read, starting from the one called… called Lona."

"Lona? What Lona?" Kraft, still reeling from the unexpected reunion, had his eyes locked onto the cervical symbol behind the fungal blotch—a smile—and paid no attention to the names.

He'd assumed it was someone Martin knew, but then reconsidered: this female name was far too common, with numerous near-homophones—something you could shout on the street and get seven or eight replies. There were already two recognizable "Lonas" on this single sheet.

Martin stepped closer to the pulpit, attempting to read the content he'd just heard, but the paper's condition was abysmal—there was no time to chase the fleeting source of inspiration.

"That last Lona! Start from there!" he urged. Not everyone had perfect recall; if he waited much longer, he might never remember again.

Kraft located that "Lona" in sequence and, as requested, recited it more slowly and clearly. By the time he reached the fifth name, Martin reached a firm conclusion.

"I've heard these names before. Let me think—I'm sure I've seen them somewhere." He paced back and forth, pressing his palm to his forehead, straining to recall.

"These are all common names. If I remember right, we've got one just like it in our squad—no difference except for the surname."

"But these few—I've seen these names listed together."

Kraft glanced down at the paper. "There's actually one name in between that's illegible. Could you be mistaken?"

"Six. Matched." A sharp metallic clang rang out—Martin had excitedly slapped his thigh, striking his leg armor. "I remember where I've seen them—those ledgers."

"Ledgers?"

"I may not have mentioned it, but how Diego found these people. He ransacked a gang outpost and found a ledger recording transactions. These parasites in the cities forced the Duke's subjects into debt—when they couldn't pay further, they were taken. It was inevitable."

"That became one of their illegal 'supplies.' The biggest buyer took six people at once."

"You mean the buyer is right here?" Kraft pressed his hand against the names—they were positioned toward the middle, at least a handspan away from the end. "Even if you added up all the mold-covered ones outside, you wouldn't reach that number."

"I don't know what he was thinking—maybe he truly believed it was urgent. More likely, he wanted to claim all the credit to make up for his mistake. He just went with his men. The rest is common knowledge."

The names were common, yes—but the quantity and placement aligned too precisely. The odds of coincidence were minuscule.

The hand flipping through pages paused for a long moment. "Why didn't you say this sooner?!"

"The process doesn't matter. We only need the result," Martin replied.

"No, this matters immensely." Kraft scraped the edge of the paper, trying to find a corner to peel it up and check what might be on the back—hopefully not another continuation of the list.

Previously, he'd thought this might be a list of village residents. But now, that made no sense: household lists weren't written with such solemnity on paper that clearly held special significance—especially when the paper originated from the enigmatic anatomist Edward.

The time gap between the two scripts was too vast; the original text had become nearly illegible beneath erosion, leaving only heavily religious, scripture-copying marginalia and vast stretches of names.

【What exactly did he read?】

Turning those "purchased" individuals into believers made no sense—it was neither economical nor likely to produce true devotees.

What had the owner of this holy text discovered in Edward's manuscript fragment? Why bring in so many people, make them vanish, and leave only memorial names preserved on this uniquely significant paper?

"Let's keep searching inside," Kraft abandoned trying to peel the page. At this level of decay, even if something existed on the back, it was beyond any possibility of identification.

The attendants had cleared the surrounding houses and now cautiously entered the church hall, surprised to find it unexpectedly clean. They set down their oil, began breaking apart the pews, and stacked the fragments beneath the load-bearing structures.

With questions in mind, Kraft and Kup continued their search, Martin following them through the prayer chamber, confession booths, a small storeroom, and a half-basement that seemed strangely mysterious.

The most suspicious finds were only wooden barrels. After prying open the lids and disturbing the surface fungal film, all that lay beneath was spoiled homebrew beer.

The space here was small, yet they still hadn't found any trace of those who might have been brought here—no matter what form they took. As unsearched areas dwindled, Martin's focus shifted increasingly from seeking possible clues to this very mystery.

Martin believed Kraft was doing the same—he only opened large containers and cabinets, paying little attention to small objects. Yet everything inside was unexceptionally normal.

The village couldn't possibly hide many people, and there were no signs of disturbed earth for burial. This reminded him of the question raised last night: those missing after the brawl, still gone at sunrise. And he'd never seen anything dragging away corpses.

Unsearched space vanished quickly. They were nearing the answer—and the smaller the space containing it, the more incomprehensible it became, filling Martin with a dread no blade or armor could resolve.

Before the last sunlit room, Kraft raised his hand to halt the two, standing alone at the door for a moment, drawing his sword and loading his crossbow.

"Kup, handle the door."

The latter raised his hammer and slammed it hard against the bolt, then stepped back. A swift kick burst the door open. Martin drew his sword into guard stance, crossbow aimed into the room.

A clean study. Sunlight streamed through a rare large window behind the desk, illuminating the spines of books lined on shelves and table.

Not mere display pieces—the visible edges showed uniform thickness and coloration; all were original bound volumes. The varied styles and materials of the spines silently testified to their wide-ranging origins—and their value surpassed even the indigo-painted wall above.

The hand holding the crossbow trembled slightly. The combined book collection of his grandfather and Master Anderson might not equal two shelves of this room.

And on that desk, they saw the first—and last—person they'd encountered since entering the church. Or rather, the remains.

A humanoid shell lay half-collapsed on the desk. Gorgeous, filamentous, and plate-like fungi had devoured every inch of skin, growing upward from the cervical spine into a coral-like, branching horn structure.

The desk was empty. The corpse's left arm bent to support its weight; its right hand extended, frozen three finger-widths from its intended target.

It was a beautiful box. Silver base, gold filigree edging, inlaid with red and blue gems—so lavishly overstocked it ruined the elegance, radiating an aura of "I want everyone who sees this to know I'm rich."

Typically, such a box was used to signify status—perhaps for some significant relic or heirloom symbol. Or, more likely, a church reliquary.

The three entered the room in turn. The knight lowered his visor, approached the box, and nudged it open slightly with his sword's scabbard.

Nothing happened.

He carefully lifted it, turned the opening toward the window, waited through several deep breaths, then turned it toward himself.

"Huh?" A puzzled voice emerged from beneath the visor. Martin lifted the visor, confirmed again. "Empty?"

"How is that possible?" Kraft holstered his crossbow and stepped closer. Kup also leaned in curiously as Martin peeled away the velvet lining inside. The luxurious box held nothing.

Amidst the glitter of jewels and gold, Martin's peripheral vision caught a faint red gleam on the desk—unchanged even as the box's red gem moved away. It remained fixed beneath the corpse's shoulder.

A closer look revealed something odd about the corpse: though lying on the desk, its body wasn't fused or adhered to the wood by fungal threads. Instead, it rested atop several mushroom caps.

The faint red light, previously masked by sunlight, was growing brighter—clearly emanating from something pressed beneath the corpse's chest.

Slowly, the shoulder lifted, revealing the source. The light spilled like flowing blood, rapidly spreading across the desk.

"Get back!"

Kraft shoved the two aside, raised his sword in readiness. He'd rehearsed this scenario upon entering—no matter how the corpse moved, it couldn't escape his blade's arc.

The thing lifted its head, revealing its face: still bearing recognizable features, its chest cavity expanded and contracted with air-tight rhythm. Multicolored mist and indiscernible, chant-like, curse-like murmurs poured from its mouth.

Lan