Chapter 232

To be honest, Kraft was almost grateful to the person who called him out.

Judging by the serving order, the portion of "Pursuit of Truth" on his plate would surely be substantial.

As a person under special attention, refusing to eat would insult his host's hospitality, but taking even one bite would betray his own digestive tract.

At this moment of being trapped between two unsatisfactory options, it was as if heaven itself had sent someone willing to offer an excuse to leave—divine providence.

Had the visitor not been draped in a soaking wet hooded robe, looking like a Ringwraith who'd just clocked out from Mordor, the professor would have been far happier to see them.

Frances watched uneasily as both sides exchanged quiet, private words, fearing they might come to blows—after all, the Inquisition and the Medical Academy had never been on friendly terms.

Had the newcomers not repeatedly insisted they meant no harm and displayed an unusually firm demeanor, she might never have allowed these dripping wet figures to set foot on her carpets.

In an age when religious inquisition had long fallen out of fashion, even if they were certain the host had committed heresy, they rarely demanded entry into noble private lands unless absolutely necessary.

This could easily be mistaken as an act of provocation against the entire group—though it might not be a misunderstanding at all.

Out of a desire to avoid trouble, the estate's master decided to let them speak their piece, but he would separate them at the first sign of trouble.

Yet the situation turned out surprisingly harmonious: the professor stood beside the half-open corridor window, conversed briefly with them, seemed to receive some vital information, and nodded in understanding.

Outside, wind and rain raged; flashes of lightning from the clouds illuminated the half of his body near the window in blinding white, casting shadows that suddenly stretched long across the opposite wall.

The thunder that followed drowned out their words—no one could hear what they were saying.

The exchange lasted only a moment; the Inquisition members made no move to leave, instead standing in place, waiting.

"Thank you for tonight's hospitality. If convenient, we may discuss cooperation next week," Kraft hurried back to Frances, explaining with apology but no room for reversal, "I'm afraid I must ask you to look after my men tonight."

"Of course," Frances blinked, then rechecked for ambiguity before realizing the professor intended to ride out into the storm—"You must know this is extremely dangerous. You should wait until morning."

"I once had an uncle who loved hunting—he broke his leg falling off his horse in the rain, and has limped ever since. Those roads are never friendly when wet, especially at night."

"If you're facing difficulties, we can help resolve them."

She might as well have written on her face: "We'll just drive these plague-bringers away right now." It wasn't as if some high archbishop would die tonight without treatment—what could possibly be so urgent?

"A personal matter. It can't wait until morning. If anyone asks, tell them I've gone to deal with an emergency concerning someone's life." Kraft began checking his belongings—he hadn't anticipated any sudden developments at the Xiguo estate.

Fortunately, he still had his sword at his side and wasn't wearing any banquet attire that would hinder his movement.

"I need a rain cloak, a lantern, and a horse that knows the way."

"If you insist, that's fine—but won't your attendant come with you?" Frances blinked, asking.

"Certainly not. With his riding skills, he'd only add a broken-bone patient to my burden. Better to leave him here to watch over Yin Feng—they get along well enough."

Kup's riding ability had only been learned after becoming a retainer—barely beyond "can ride." In a rain-soaked night with zero visibility and terrible terrain, bringing him along would endanger everyone's safety.

While servants prepared the gear, Kraft dashed back to the hall to give brief instructions, then took the cloak and headed for the stable to take charge of the estate's most reliable horse.

At the estate's main gate, the "Ringwraith" team waited—uniformly draped in black hooded robes, radiating an unmistakable aura of hostility that kept the guards at a distance.

Seeing him arrive, they parted to open a space in the center of their formation, lit their lanterns, and plunged into the endless rain with their new companion.

The countryside at night was utterly unlike its daytime impression—it might as well have been its complete inversion.

The once inviting, tranquil greens now revealed a cold, mysterious side; the artificial forests merged into indistinguishable dark masses, pressing in on the road, twisting it sharply, nearly causing collisions with every turn.

The riders guiding Kraft were clearly seasoned horsemen; they deliberately controlled their pace, their lead lanterns swaying precariously in the storm, always providing a general directional guide for those behind.

The distance between riders was wider than usual, leaving ample buffer space to prevent one mistake from dooming the entire group.

This situation was difficult even for Kraft—unless absolutely desperate, no one chose to ride out at such a time. Even trusting one's own skill couldn't guarantee the horse wouldn't stumble.

After enduring several sudden, inhumanly difficult turns he'd never noticed during the day, the annoying trees were left behind.

Just as he sighed in relief, he realized he now faced a rolling road.

With the trees gone, the wind's force intensified; the tall grass, waist-high or even chest-high, swayed violently in the chaotic, rain-laden air currents.

They seemed to gain mobility, thrashing wildly against horse and rider, blurring the road's boundaries.

He felt wet, razor-edged things lashing and entangling through his clothing, rising and falling in waves, surging between the galloping hooves.

Rain blurred his vision—or rather, his vision had never been wide to begin with. He could see only the limited stretch of road lit by his lantern, and the lights of those ahead, filling in the rest with imagination.

Far in the distance, lightning flared suddenly across the sky, vanishing instantly, outlining the irregular edges of thick clouds and briefly illuminating the scene—a sight that chilled the soul.

An endless, writhing sea of tall grass, merging with a curtain of rain from low-hanging clouds, and the jagged, scar-like ravines crisscrossing the wilderness.

Thunder boomed as the afterimage of lightning faded from his retinas. Beneath the rumbling, he heard faint whinnies—their four-legged mounts trembling from fear or hypothermia, their manes soaked and flattened.

The scattered group struggled forward against nature's might.

In another flash of lightning from clashing atmospheric charges, a targeted malice revealed itself to the sharply perceptive: an anomaly in one direction.

Kraft, relying on instinct, turned his gaze to the side-front of the group. Amid the sudden brightness, a tiny, pale glow flickered within the surging grass.

Logically, such a faint, narrow light should have been impossible to notice—by the time even the most alert observer sensed something wrong, the lightning would have vanished and the horses would have surged far ahead.

But to one who was deliberately watching, it was an unmistakable wrongness.

A colorless, otherworldly radiance, held in the palm of a crouched, jagged silhouette.

Simultaneously, that malice and an indescribable, piercing danger manifested, stretching across the front of the entire group.

"Stop!" Experience crushed any lingering hesitation in Kraft—he roared a warning, yanking the reins to slow down.

His voice cut through the rain, reaching every ear; thunder drowned out the questions from ahead and behind.

But what they saw answered their current situation:

The foremost rider—the one least likely to hear the warning—reacted a beat too late; the slick road and momentum carried him forward before he finally halted, then froze in place, motionless.

His lantern fell into mud and water, and in the instant before it went out, those behind caught sight of an utterly bizarre back.

At chest-abdomen height, along an invisible diagonal line, the rider's body displayed a grotesquely unnatural, flat misalignment.

Like a block of ice cleanly sliced by an impossibly sharp blade, the upper half detached and slid sideways under gravity.