Chapter 234: The Non-Human

Without undue modesty, Kraft rarely expected to encounter surprises in close combat—though this assumption excluded entities with significantly disproportionate size or physical capability.

Beyond unconventional methods, he was also one of the seasoned practitioners with his own understanding—though he did not rule out the possibility of illusions arising from overstimulated spiritual senses.

Judging an opponent's general posture and predicting their next move from partial motions had, for those with sufficient knowledge and reflexes, become a complex and advanced conditioned reflex system.

This was the basis for Kraft's willingness to close in and attempt to control his opponent. Based on the opponent's prior performance, calling it a sparring match was already too generous.

Similar to the stereotypes formed from previous encounters, those who could produce unnatural phenomena through various means often displayed heavy dependence on such abilities, neglecting more practical tools—like tripwires combined with additional crossbows being no less lethal, or the fact that "magic" could not withstand a well-placed punch at close range.

Yet precisely because of this, upon sensing movements that defied both combat experience and anatomy, Kraft's first reaction was to release his grip.

The unfamiliar meant danger, meant potentially paying a price for new experience.

As he gripped the arm, he felt it to be emaciated and elongated, like a severely malnourished human—no subcutaneous fat could be felt, as if all stored energy had been diverted elsewhere, burned away literally.

Initially, Kraft believed he had grasped the forearm, since multiple bones moved in parallel within the muscle bundles—roughly the ulna and radius.

He had prepared for the possibility of dislocating the elbow joint, but the rotation showed no sign of reaching its limit; it twisted further, flexing half a full circle beyond anatomical extremes. Then, between the elbow and wrist—where no bone should be capable of bending—there appeared an impossible curvature.

There was no indication that the man killed by the sword had any guards nearby; in fact, they had scattered in the chaos and were now engaged with arriving cultivators.

When he realized he had, in fact, bought himself enough time to use this lethal "spell" again, under the gradually brightening pallid light, he saw the final scene of the night.

After several deep breaths, he confirmed no suspicious struggles were transmitted along the blade's length, and declared the opponent definitively dead by medical standards.

This had taken far longer than the actual fight; no one knew how many of their own still lived scattered across that stormy night, nor how many of the enemy remained.

Roughly a dagger or short blade—long weapons offered little advantage to the untrained, and might even be a liability.

It was a deep enough incision: half the muscle severed, the limb tilting toward the healthy side under the unbalanced pull, twisting away from Kraft, then pain erupted a beat late, stripping away any capacity to exert force.

This rendered the limb's appearance unimaginable, deviating entirely from mental expectations, assuming a grotesque, almost multi-jointed creature's contortion.

The force felt unnatural; the pressure only "engaged" the blade's edge at the final instant, making the cut direction imperfect. But it was enough—no tissue behind the steel had yet exceeded human physical limits.

"Take the corpse back with you. Your people… already have one like this; it might help Green explain and gain more support."

And the thing raised its bony lower limbs, one elongated palm embedded with a stone-like luminous object.

"We must return to Higuo Manor—at least there you can treat me." Kraft wanted to wipe the water from his face, then remembered there was not a single dry spot on his entire body, and lowered his hand.

They gathered eight people, and found one still breathing beside the fallen horses shot with arrows.

In a sliver of sharp reflection, he saw the fleeting image: sunken eyes sensitive to light, cheeks sunken and wrinkled, left shoulder garment intact, the exposed torso emaciated, ribbed, serpentine. A shallow, still-bleeding wound ran smoothly from the left arm to the back.

Then a question arose.

In his open, hanging palm, the bright light extinguished with his will; a patch of important weeds was severed at the stem and swept away.

The final voice, the unfinished last words, belief, resentment, simple emotions—all came to an end. Perhaps these were the most human aspects of the display.

"No..."

He raised his hand to resist the thing reflected beneath the blade—a being neither human nor not-human—more terrifying than the blade itself.

Thus, no one noticed here; they let him lie from the start until the end.

Damp, stifling winds swirled around, thick enough to choke.

The steel sword cleanly severed the primary conduits supplying the brain.

The remaining greatest challenge became how to find everyone.

The horses were dead or fled; only two remained. They were trapped in this awkward spot—no village behind, no inn ahead—and tonight they would not make it back to Dunling.

Not everyone could endure such pain; he made a rational but fatal response—shouting aloud to vent his agony, and dropped the weapon somewhere unknown.

But the matter was not yet fully over.

The central figure of the attack, the culprit responsible for the martyrdom of several Inquisitorial cultivators, had already fallen.

Then, relying on their physiological advantage, the creatures would charge themselves.

Temporarily freed from restraint, the creature regained confidence, raised its empty dagger again, and swung it toward the face, aiming to eliminate the greatest obstacle blocking its escape.

Since posture could not be predicted, treat it as a limb without angular limits—respond to its whip-like strikes by avoiding direct confrontation, leaving the blade exposed to its sweeping arc.

He swiftly withdrew the sword, identified the direction of continuing combat sounds, and rushed toward the main battlefield clustered in the tall grass.

This unfortunate soul had not managed to mount his horse; his leg was pinned, likely with a fractured upper limb and possible cranial trauma—he lost consciousness without a sound.

The "spell" had still completed part of its effect; fortunately, no one remained to control it.

The only certainty was that when all was nearly over and no more standing attackers could be found, the rain had already intensified.

The long sword, stained with mud and blood, shone only along its edge—polished bright by repeated swings and cuts.

Kraft internally assessed the situation, immediately adjusted his mindset, abandoned his plan to preserve the "shattered" state, and swung his blade to meet the attack.

The cultivators, superior in both quality and equipment, could barely hold their ground despite being outnumbered—until Kraft arrived and delivered the decisive blow.

【Blind】

Several men together moved the horse aside; Kraft improvised, using two scabbards as splints to immobilize the injured man. For now, conditions were limited to this—further treatment would have to wait for a better environment.

The high visibility fragmented the battle into disconnected segments.

The hasty guard intercepted the strike on the spine of the blade; the force was strong, but not overwhelming. The true lethal blow came from the short blade that slipped past the defense via the limb's abnormal curvature, slicing across the neck.

Following the slash, Kraft reversed his blade, severing the opponent's wrist, then delivered a final thrust downward, pinning the fallen body to the ground.