Chapter 180: The Dose of Impact

Yin Feng blinked her dry eyes, easing the discomfort from the red light in the dark. At first she thought it was a lantern behind a glass cover, but the source was small and steady, resembling an eye embedded in the floor, casting a red gaze full of incomprehensible meaning upon what lay buried.

Leaning against the door, she did not rush to lock it; her hand behind her gripped the bolt. If the person inside truly lacked control over the growing mushroom zombies—as she suspected—opening the door could be a highly effective threat, as no one would wish to face them in a confined space.

But for now, there might be no need.

The red light flowed over every surface in the room, including the face of the man lying on the ground. His cheeks, long unwashed, were coated with a thin layer of scales, spreading from mouth and nose into slightly raised, moss-like rings. These were newly formed fungal patches, densely linked into a membrane covering his skin.

The raised hand had not reached its target, nor had it fallen limp; the curled fingers, wrist, and elbow struggled against some invisible force, motion frozen halfway. Wart-like mushrooms clustered between his fingers, fused with the tendons, extending into subcutaneous swellings like pockets of pus.

Unlike those outside who had lost life—or rather, become soil for another form of life—the faint ripple in his clothing showed his chest still rose and fell, sustaining a faint breath. His eyes were glazed and clouded, their consciousness impossible to discern. Without the glowing pendant, he looked more like one of the victims.

The professor did not appear capable of rising to pose a threat. Yin Feng locked the door, gripped the dagger beneath her skirt, and crept forward in small steps until she could reach the pendant with a bend of her waist. Bramer made no response. She drew her hand back, pinched the pendant through her sleeve.

It felt no different from a stone—unpolished, yet with rounded edges, as if it had been removed from somewhere already shaped that way.

Yin Feng lifted it slowly and gently, then yanked sharply, tearing the strange, unmistakably unusual object from Bramer's neck. As if sensing something, he emitted a rough, strained grunt; his eyelids strained open, but the white fungal veil over his pupils revealed nothing.

His breathing had sunk to the bare minimum needed to sustain life; his lips bore the familiar deep hue, incapable of uttering even a single coherent cry for help, yet his self-awareness remained unmistakable.

If there was anything Yin Feng still feared, it was this—losing all mobility, enduring a slow suffocation as if her throat were tightening, fully conscious of every moment. In this light, death seemed a great release.

It was hard to say whether the greater torment was helplessness in the face of it all, or the prolonged death.

Sensing someone nearby, he trembled violently, trying to move to beg for help. Yin Feng tried to pin him down, but found every muscle she touched was rigidly tensed; his body arched backward, rendering his limbs incapable of any motion except convulsions—the reason his hand remained frozen in midair.

Yet these convulsions produced noise, intensifying with his will to survive. Even if he retained some awareness, it was likely minimal—reduced to a simple, desperate urge to cry out to the unknown intruder for life, unaware that making noise would draw the wandering fungal shells.

She pressed her knee against the trembling body beneath the black robe, throwing her full weight upon him—but with a child's frame, controlling an adult male's convulsions was impossible; she nearly fell herself.

【Must control him immediately】

Within a very short time, she had to subdue someone far larger and stronger than herself. There was only one way. Yin Feng knew exactly what she must do; she had prepared herself mentally before coming, though her preparations had focused on surprise counterattacks. Reality was simpler than imagined—and far harder.

The thin, freshly sharpened and oiled blade slid smoothly from its sheath. The craftsman had not understood why a lady's dagger needed an edge, but his disciplined military mindset had compelled him to do it well.

The non-slip wrapping on the hilt was practical; her damp palm did not slip. Every inch of the dagger's movement came from her will. Following hearsay on its use, she guided it to the most lethal position she knew—the unprotected neck. The man writhing in fungal infection felt no trace of that slender coolness.

Time was short; she had no chance to look again at the face she had known for less than a day, already growing unfamiliar.

The face, distant from the light, was dark—like the servants she had met briefly, blurring in her vision and memory into a uniform, featureless template, receding into distance like the distant glimmers seen from a cliffside, unrelated…

【End point】

The blade slid in cleanly through the center; little fluid spilled out, its hue blending with the strange light, only darker.

Her hand pressed down on the hilt. The blade first entered a cavity, then struck something hard halfway through, meeting resistance. The convulsions did not cease—they grew stronger.

The dagger paused, then shifted direction, slicing sideways. At a certain angle, something spurted—a pulsing sensation transmitted faintly through metal and wood, then vanished. It worked. The troublesome tremors weakened, subsiding into stillness.

Kneeling half-bent, Yin Feng listened for a moment, then remembered the object in her hand. She pulled it out, wiped both sides on the nearest fabric, and slipped it back into its sheath. The relentless pacing footsteps outside passed by without stopping.

She was unsure what she had done. Logically, she should have felt sympathy, fear, or something else capable of overwhelming her emotions.

But in truth, beyond the instinctive revulsion at touching warm liquid, she felt nothing else. Even the notion that she "should" feel something came from hearsay, lacking any real weight—yet she understood fully the process and its outcome.

Objectively, it served her safety; subjectively, there was no need for sympathy or sorrow. She thought this was abnormal, yet also saw nothing unreasonable—it was merely an unrelated, even antagonistic stranger, experiencing a death that was not unfamiliar.

Objectively, she had spared him much suffering. Should this count as repaying ill with virtue? Though the Church preached this, Mr. Kraft did not advocate it.

She fiddled with the pendant, found no link to the fungi, then searched Bramer's personal belongings, seeking the object she needed—the key to touching the extraordinary.

In a hidden inner pocket of the robe, she found a delicate small vial—so tiny it held less than a sip, containing liquid that made almost no sound when shaken, unlike any liquor a sailor would carry.

Yin Feng pried off the stopper and peered through the narrow neck. She had not expected to see anything in this light; inside was indeed pitch black. Yet some inexplicable feeling arose, whispering that this darkness was the liquid's true color.

A liquid never seen before—like a being encased in chitin, or one parasitized by fungi—an irrational existence. The vial's mouth was a glimpse into that world.

Her hand unconsciously raised it to her face. A voice from deep within murmured, longing to touch it.

【This is that thing】

She forgot everything else and drank it all down.