Chapter 185

On the way to his report, Kraft met Martin, who was also waiting; both had only time to change clothes, their hair tangled from days of dust, boots caked in mud.

But they did not step onto the inner keep's carpet.

They followed the attendant into the tower atop the sealed mountain pass, where a succession of coughs, swept in by the cold high-altitude wind, made one worry for the sufferer's condition; at the tower's uppermost level, the duke, clad in chainmail, gripped the parapet and gazed down at the building below, where people came and went intermittently.

After reporting the visitors' arrival, the attendant stepped back quickly but did not go far, standing a few paces away, closely monitoring the duke's condition.

"I'm glad to still see you," he turned, his face as cold and cracked as a cliffside, revealing no inner emotion, "but we have permanently lost some people."

"Including Chamberlain Wilbert—I thought I'd see him before dinner the last time we met, but the Father's fate for mortals is always cruel, though I've grown accustomed to it."

Kraft didn't need to look to know Martin's face must have turned pale.

"So tell me—did you find those responsible for all this?"

Anger burned in his slightly clouded eyes, yet he controlled his emotions well—this only made those facing him feel greater pressure.

"We found the heretics' nest and burned their evil creations and idol-worshiping relics to ashes," Martin presented a corner of the fresco taken from behind the church pulpit, its vivid, grotesque angelic limbs unfurling against a indigo background.

"And their leader received a fate befitting their crimes."

The duke examined the fresco; its twisted, vile forms stirred in him a visceral revulsion, and he waved his hand, signaling Martin to remove it.

"That's exactly what I wanted to hear. Take it down later and burn it clean with the rest—this time, leave nothing behind." His words implied the matter was closed, with no intention to investigate the earlier act of leaving heretic corpses inside the castle.

"Even those born and raised in war encounter things never imagined—no one should bear the cost for what cannot be foreseen… but I hope you've learned your lesson."

"Certainly," Martin nodded hastily in assent; Kraft thought that if it weren't too disrespectful, the knight might have thrown himself at the duke's knees, weeping and swearing oaths. Either way, it was a relief to see him spared blame.

He waited a moment, sensing they had no intention of performing the usual courtly pleasantries; now it was his turn to report.

Having rehearsed his speech on the journey, Kraft had prepared his words, including how to dissuade the duke if he asked whether these things could be applied to warfare.

"My lord, allow me to describe what I have observed from the perspective of my own profession."

"It is a unique pathological mechanism, similar to plague transmission, mediated by fungal spores. We encountered several husks driven like undead, all without exception covered in fungal growths; within the heretics' secret settlements, we also found unusually lush varieties of fungi."

"This matches the scene of Knight Diego's death; combining both, I believe the unusually dense fungal growth can serve as a distinctive diagnostic marker."

"Your illness may have originated from consuming raw white-belly mushrooms contaminated during your passage through the Hudson estate. The heretics' influence there had already reached the point of seizing the church—it's hard to say whether this was deliberate design or mere accident."

The duke listened in silence, then looked down at the building below, where masked soldiers were hauling out brightly colored objects, setting up open-air bonfires.

"I retract a previous statement, Knight Kraft: though you resemble none of your ancestors, you have indeed inherited the most important thing." He tightened the collar of his quilted underarmor, coughing repeatedly, turning away to spit something out, "The same here—and you may not guess how deeply these heretics have corroded Westmin."

"Brimmer, professor at Rivers University, disciple of Viscount Fernand, drowned in those loathsome mushrooms. Soldiers found a ring tattoo on his back."

"Poor Fernand—I don't know whether I should have concealed the truth from him; he might not have survived such a blow."

He shook his head with a sigh, the motion seeming to tug at his lungs, triggering more coughs. "I've wandered too far—please continue, Knight Kraft."

"As you see, this method that promotes rampant fungal growth ultimately transforms humans into undead husks. Since all heretic leaders with insider knowledge are dead, my understanding of the mechanism remains speculative—perhaps…"

"No, I don't want to know these things, and I advise you not to investigate further." The duke cut off Kraft's prepared excuse, showing not the slightest interest in exploiting it—even in understanding it, he had no desire.

"In an age when everyone seeks every means to kill the other, you'll see strange things if you live long enough. At such times, the church folk have nothing useful to say—but one phrase is an exception, and I agree with it."

"Heretics' tricks will eventually burn them alive."

"Of course, burning them clean would be best." Kraft exhaled in relief; some men live so long not by accident.

"So will I eventually become like those things? If so, I'd better start gathering wood now."

"Uh, your condition is probably not that severe—if you don't mind, may I return indoors to re-examine you? It's not wise for your health to remain exposed to this wind." The attendant's tension rose in direct proportion to the duke's coughing frequency; only the physician could reasonably speak up now.

"No, wait a little longer." The duke refused the suggestion, returning to the parapet to gaze down at the platform below.

The pyre had been stacked; soldiers holding torches looked up, clearly aware the castle's lord was watching. Upon receiving a hand signal, they lit the pile one by one.

The flames rose, black smoke swallowing the vivid objects; strange odors rose with the heat, and the portions not carried off by wind could be smelled even atop the tower—pungent, nauseating. The duke seemed not to smell it at all, standing for a moment at the wind's fiercest point.

"Farewell, Wilbert," he murmured, stepping away from the tower's edge and descending the stairs, all following behind.

…

In the inner keep's room, where the hearth burned continuously, Kraft received a second chance to examine the duke.

This time, no one was present to criticize his manners. As he performed the physical exam, he opened his spiritual senses and scanned the entire lung. Within the previous tuberculosis cavity, he found a sphere slightly smaller than the cavity's diameter.

Unlike Yin Feng's case, the duke's spiritual body remained in its normal invisible state, indicating he had not suffered deep contamination.

The sphere was no ethereal entity but a tangible substance: a spherical lesion formed by fungal infection, matching pathological descriptions of tuberculosis complicated by aspergillosis.

"My lord, I will attempt to stimulate your lesion for examination—it may trigger some symptoms."

"I am prepared," the duke replied, closing his eyes.

Kraft pressed against the cavity's location and tapped the skin lightly; the fungal ball remained unmoved. He struck harder the second time—a muffled sound echoed through the room; the vibration was sensed, and the fine fuzz on the sphere's surface trembled slightly, as if probing for changes around it.

The controller thus revealed himself: Kraft now clearly sensed the active fungal spirit within, and the mycelia arranged along the small bronchioles stirred together, triggering a cough reflex.

When he pressed his spirit toward the fungal spirit, attempting to influence it, the mycelia throughout the body activated simultaneously, triggering the familiar fever and convulsions—even the hypothalamus revealed trace filamentous anomalies, suggesting the sudden high fever might involve central temperature regulation being controlled.

A completely different parasitic pattern from Yin Feng's—but, I must say, this was more like the fungal spirit's true style, leaving Kraft even more baffled about Yin Feng's cause of illness.

Yet both—one ensnaring the spiritual body, one threatening the physical form—achieved the same goal: using the host to resist treatment, arriving at the same end by different paths.

【Need a new approach】

The spiritual body's infection on Yin Feng might be unsolvable, but the physical parasitism might not be without remedy.

Since this thing moves and migrates between tuberculosis cavities, is there a way to "persuade" it to emerge on its own—perhaps… by making the lung environment less hospitable?