Chapter 232

To be honest, Kraft was even a little grateful to the person who called him out.

Judging by the serving order, the portion of "Pursuit of Truth" delivered to his plate would certainly not be small.

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

At this moment when he was caught between two unsatisfactory options, it was as if heaven itself had sent someone willing to offer an excuse to leave—pure divine providence.

Had the visitor not been draped in a soaking wet hooded robe, looking like a Ringwraith who'd just finished a shift 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 College had never been on good terms.

Had the newcomers not repeatedly insisted they meant no harm and adopted an unusually forceful demeanor, she might never have allowed these dripping wet creatures to set foot on the house's carpet.

In an era 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.

With the intention of avoiding trouble, the estate's master decided to let them speak their piece, but 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 his shadow suddenly elongating onto the opposite wall.

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

The exchange lasted only a short while; the Inquisition members showed no intention to leave, instead standing in place and waiting.

"Thank you for today's hospitality. If convenient, we can discuss cooperation in detail next week." Kraft hurried back to Frances, offering an apologetic but irrevocable explanation: "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to look after my people tonight."

"Of course." Frances blinked, paused to recheck for ambiguity, then confirmed the professor intended to ride out into the torrential rain: "You must know this is extremely dangerous—you'd be better off waiting until morning."

"I once had an uncle who loved hunting; he broke his leg falling off his horse in the rain, and has walked with difficulty 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 grand 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 handle an emergency concerning someone's life." Kraft began checking his belongings—he hadn't anticipated any sudden situation at the Higo estate.

Fortunately, he still kept the habit of carrying his sword, and wasn't dressed in any banquet attire that hindered 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 accompany 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 skills were learned only after becoming a retainer—barely "able to 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 a brief explanation, then took the outer cloak and headed for the stables to take charge of the estate's supposedly most steady 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 spread apart to clear a position in the center of the formation, lit their lanterns, and plunged into the endless rain with their new companion.

The countryside at night was utterly different from its daytime impression—indeed, it seemed completely inverted.

Those inviting, serene greens now revealed a cold, mysterious side; the planted forests merged into indistinguishable, solid darkness, pressing against the road and forcing sharp, sudden bends—miss one turn, and you'd nearly collide.

The riders guiding Kraft were clearly seasoned horsemen; they deliberately controlled their speed, the 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 urgent, no one chose to ride out at such a time; even if he trusted his own skill, he couldn't guarantee his horse wouldn't slip.

After enduring several sudden, inhumanly steep 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 and even chest-high, swayed violently in the chaotic, rain-laden air currents.

They seemed to gain mobility, thrashing wildly toward the horses and riders, blurring the road's boundaries.

He felt wet, sharp-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 was never 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, briefly illuminating their surroundings and revealing a scene that stirred dread.

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

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

The scattered formation struggled forward against nature's might.

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

Kraft, relying on experience, turned his gaze to the side-front of the formation. 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 person sensed something wrong, the lightning would have vanished, and the horses would have surged far ahead.

But to one deliberately watching, it was an undeniable anomaly.

A colorless, unearthly glow, held in the palm of a crouched, jagged silhouette.

Simultaneously, that malice and an indescribable, piercing danger manifested and stretched across the front of the formation.

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

His voice pierced 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 a few more paces before he finally halted, then froze in place, motionless.

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

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

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