Chapter 237: The Iron-Shell Egg

Amidst strange patterns, something extremely mottled and decayed knelt with its back to them, red-brown moss-like rust proliferating on every inch, giving it a softened, loose texture.

Judging by its shape, it was a full suit of armor, and one of considerable value.

Its former face was long unrecognizable; patterns and ornaments had become blurred, raised bands beneath the red-brown rust, leaving only an inverted sword-shaped emblem squeezed and twisted by the corrosion.

It should have been kept in the hands of a once-high-status family, cleaned and maintained daily as a symbol of ancestral martial merit. Its significance far exceeded practical utility, and it would not be worn or used except under special circumstances.

Yet the fact was, it simply appeared in the center of the waterway, before the intruders.

The helmet bore tumor-like protrusions of unknown origin, hanging low, emitting a faint sound like a clamshell opening and closing, or paste being stirred.

They noticed beneath the armor's feet something they had initially mistaken for settled silt. It was a cultivator's robe, thoroughly soaked by water, wrapping a shriveled, contracted form emitting a pungent, rust-like fishy odor.

Kraft made no sound, held his breath, drew his sword, and approached slowly.

Its crouching posture made it look like a giant snail shell, stranded here after its contents died. Soon, some parasitic organisms would occupy the space within, making it part of themselves.

When it moved, it created the illusion for an instant that the original owner still existed.

Without fasteners or hinges, the armor plates shifted and rubbed against each other in a way once impossible. As they drew closer, the strange rustling sound beneath the rust became more distinct, mixed with lip-and-tongue smacking sounds, resembling the faint, slurred cries for help of someone on their deathbed.

They heard an accent somewhat familiar, yet it did not come from the human form wrapped in the robe, but from within the barrel-like, semi-enclosed cavity, buzzing loudly.

Before the cultivators could feel the impulse to rush forward and rescue, the sound resembling a human voice vanished completely.

In its place came layers upon layers of chewing and writhing, evoking the image of a toothed, long tongue licking and scraping the armor's inner walls.

That suit of armor, or rather the parasitic thing occupying it, moved in an indescribable manner.

There was no sign of movement restriction on its body; the armor's joints hyperextended, even twisted backward, supporting it as it stood. The helmet, missing half its visor, turned toward the living, casting a chilling, staring sensation.

The broken window grille snapped and interlaced into a jagged shape, with some shadow that could not be fully illuminated surging and fluctuating where a face should have been.

"Devil..."

Kraft heard the cultivator murmur. Even using the most evil descriptions, it could not express the feeling of extreme discomfort it provoked.

After experiencing all this, it was hard not to suspect that the light of the Heavenly Father had abandoned this place, and they were now in hell, with fear and confusion piercing through the protection of the holy scriptures, whipping their nearly broken minds.

They did not even immediately draw their weapons, watching helplessly as that thing approached step by step with anthropomorphic movements, raising its long upper limbs.

But not everyone needed the Heavenly Father by their side to have the courage to act.

"Blasphemous thing!" As the roar exploded, a long sword pierced through the splashing water of the stride, thrusting toward the driven armor.

It did not dodge, allowing the blade to pass through the missing half of the visor and pierce into the helmet. A thrust with sufficient force stabbed straight through something unknown, reaching the back of the helmet's head, forcing the entire head to tilt backward.

Kraft felt as though he had stabbed into a mixture of flesh and bone, which constricted and tried to coil the sword into itself.

The upper limb grabbed without pause; its form made it hard to associate with normal fingers and palms, looking more like a new thing fused and elongated, with the original arm armor adhering to its surface, intermediate between the segmented body of some long shrimp and a soft-bodied creature.

There were no weapons, no patterns, only predatory logic, hoping to seize new components and incorporate them into itself.

In a trance, the patterns on the stone walls twisted and moved, breaking free from the honeycomb grid, swarming from below, above, and every direction, hooking onto his soul and dragging it toward darkness far removed from reason, just as the deformed limbs before him sought to grasp his body.

Kraft strained to pull the blade to one side, trying to shake these things off.

The feel was far heavier than imagined. The armor was filled with a filler substance leaving no gaps; facing full force, it only tilted slightly before continuing to close in and entangle.

The helmet, still held against the breastplate by the sword blade, was pulled away, transmitting a nauseating sensation of tendons being stripped from bone, or suckers being pulled out.

"Help!"

The cultivator, as if waking from a dream, hurried forward to support, chopping at the upper limb about to contact Kraft.

The reinforcement's attack shook loose large patches of loose rust, buying Kraft, whose weapon was trapped, a moment to withdraw his sword, but it caused no effective damage.

Even though it was rotten and decayed, it was still a suit of plate armor, the most difficult entity to deal with on the battlefield. Apart from heavy weapons, one could only attack the gaps and weak points, or control the joint movements.

Realizing the attack was ineffective, a cultivator slashed at the exposed gap between the helmet and the breastplate.

With Kraft drawing attention, this strike cut in more than halfway, hindered from full success by the gorget. Successfully landing the blow gave him slight relief, and he prepared to expand the cutting range to separate the opponent's head from the body.

However, an inexplicable pain robbed him of the ability to move further.

Looking down, the "arm" he had just knocked off reversed itself without regard for angles; the slender, multi-jointed palm passed through the defensive gap and bit onto his waist.

【Bite】

Only this word could describe that sensation; something like barbs seemed hidden on the palm side of the gauntlet, tearing open the skin the instant it made contact and fixing itself on a part with no leverage.

And what was even more terrifying was that the pain spread deeper, with the rough texture of rust flakes and sharp objects churning the abdominal cavity, accompanied by several changing pain points resembling grasping, biting, and tearing.

He tried to draw his sword to cut it off, but encountered the same difficulty as Kraft; the blade was constricted and clamped, making it hard to withdraw.

The armor lunged forward entirely along the force of the sword withdrawal; fear and pain destroyed his ability to resist first, and massive blood loss dulled his consciousness, so that even after falling to the ground, he could make no further effective resistance.

The sound of weapons striking the iron armor forcefully could be heard, but it remained unmoved, gripping the victim tightly like a leech biting into skin.

The hateful helmet, filled with the scent of rust and blood, lowered itself; flowing shadows brewed within, then poured out from the visor gap as if vomiting in reverse.

This time, Kraft saw the source of that chewing and licking sound from the front.

Some amorphous substance containing complex features, like a semi-solid embryo breaking its own shell, used premature grooved teeth and dissolving parts to crush and decompose whatever it touched, incorporating it into itself for reconstruction.

Upon realizing its method of feeding, the courage that had just mustered and the little calm remaining quickly crumbled, leaving only the final thought of turning and fleeing.

Few people realize this is also the best opportunity—but Kraft was exactly such a person.

He took out spare lamp oil and splashed it onto that amorphous mass that swords and blades could not harm.