Chapter 294: Chaos March

Everyone in the formation began to run, closely following that escaping light source through a series of stone gates.

After chasing a short distance, Kraft belatedly realized the problem with this behavior—they were in an unfamiliar environment, being led entirely by the other party, with no time to attend to their surroundings.

Even without encountering any preset traps, a momentary lapse could cause stragglers to become lost here.

He believed Green understood the dangers better, but they could not stop; allowing the consequences of the other party's warning might be worse. The best course was to catch that person as soon as possible and end this pursuit filled with potential risks.

They vaulted over coffins blocking the path, leaped up and down steps, and the continuous sharp stops and changes of direction made their knees ache.

The winding distance proved harder to close than imagined; though both sides seemed close, they remained elusive, unable to catch a glimpse of the fleeing figure's back.

The pursued maintained their advantage through familiarity with the route, leaving behind only rapidly fading dim yellow light and elongated shadows cast on the walls, slithering like snakes into doorways and around corners.

The most difficult part of the chase fell to the trainee; her stride was not long enough, often requiring three steps to match others' two, but fortunately her physical stamina prevented her from falling behind.

This further divided Kraft's attention; he had to take responsibility for monitoring the front and rear, staying alert for any sudden disappearance of someone from the formation.

Shouts echoed from ahead, layered and reverberating through the complex, interconnected stone chamber space, indicating the other party believed they had reached a distance audible to their companions.

The breath consumed by the shouting disrupted the sentry's running rhythm; Green launched a burst of acceleration to close the gap and stabbed his left leg with a sword.

The heretic stumbled and fell, tumbling down the stone steps ahead and crashing against the side of a sarcophagus in the center of the arena, emitting a low moan. Green approached, turned his shoulder, and saw a featureless face dominated by fanatic emotion.

The latter twisted his facial muscles, revealing extreme excitement; this excitement even briefly allowed him to overcome physical pain and fear of the blade at his neck.

"What place is this?"

A burst of laughter, so intense it caused his lips to spasm, sprayed from the other's throat onto the priest's face; he laughed until he coughed and convulsed, unable to stop even as his skin was cut, as if the question had triggered the only remaining black humor in his corroded brain, causing some extraordinarily extreme mental mode to dominate his body like a demon possessing him.

"What place?" the heretic repeated the question, that smile frozen motionless on his face, exaggerated and stiff like a skin mask.

In a whisper, with the same rigid mouth shape, he spat out a single word, seemingly unconcerned whether the newcomer learned anything. Kraft read that lip shape:

【Door】

"What door?"

The other laughed exaggeratedly again; this time he choked on something, and after coughing, carelessly spat out half a shattered tooth, "Heaven... the Gate of Heaven."

The priest interpreted this as a provocation and responded by pressing the sword deeper, but with little effect.

Some normal pain and fear surfaced on that face, but were quickly drowned by the fixed smile, "You came a bit late; it has already taken them away, cough... but it doesn't matter, everyone has a chance."

The consciousness within the body drained away far faster than the visible injuries suggested; after just a few disjointed words, the abnormal excited mental state quickly weakened, leaving only a gray, frozen expression mask and a sense of relief.

The delusion of some firmly believed beautiful vision anesthetized him, squeezing out the last bit of spirit from his shell.

This side was temporarily over, but it was already meaningless. The warning had received a response; footsteps could be felt approaching from different directions and distances, making it difficult to judge specific locations.

They had expected this moment, but triggering a full defensive reaction still tightened their nerves. The formation lit torches and drew closer, preparing for combat.

Wild light and shadow danced in the cramped, winding space, surging in from all directions, one doorway after another, reaching right before them, wielding lethal weapons and malice with no order and no restraint.

The first to arrive was an axe, its blade rusted into a serrated edge paired with a newly replaced handle.

A long sword pierced the attacker's body before it could be raised to its highest point; pain failed to completely halt his action, and his distorted movements still desperately tried to bring the weapon toward the target.

The monk narrowly avoided a strike that might have dislocated his shoulder, withdrew his sword and stepped back into the protective range of his teammates, letting others deliver the disabling blow to completely incapacitate the opponent.

Wearing a stereotypical, exaggerated smile molded from the same template, he fell before everyone.

The psychological damage caused by this level of fanaticism far exceeded the near-miss with the axe blade; there was not a trace of normal attachment to life, only an inexplicable sense of relief.

More enemies surged in from all sides, and the surrounding space quickly became noisy and bustling.

The heretics' attacks, characterized by reckless disregard for death, once caused considerable chaos; the Inquisition rarely encountered such opponents among gangs or profit-seeking cults, as most enemies would shrink and collapse after being injured, but this time there was no sign of such fear on the enemies.

Intense emotions were triggered to a pathological degree, dragging along nearly blind consciousness and bodies to attack the fully armed professional warriors before them.

Even though their equipment was extremely poor, almost crude, the danger level was quite high; even Kraft felt some discomfort during the initial clash, as this was a completely different style from previous encounters.

These people charging the formation's ranks cared nothing for efficiency, did not mind trading their lives for a slight injury to the opponent, and were indifferent to whether it had any effect.

It seemed they were the crest of the tide, the vanguard of the dark ocean, stirred up to batter the embankment again and again.

But limited space was not a disadvantage for disciplined personnel; the monks possessed sufficient courage and excellent leaders, which effectively stabilized the front line.

After the initial shock passed, the mutually coordinated Inquisition team quickly adapted to the situation, using the terrain to block the enemy in narrow passages, limiting the area of engagement, and leveraging the length advantage of their long swords for thrusting.

Green and Kraft roamed various areas, appearing exactly where needed, maintaining a delicate balance.

Perhaps reckless bravery could create suppression at a low level, but in the eyes of those with skills reaching a considerable level, this merely provided more opportunities.

More opportunities to be left for dead.

By luck, one or two fish slipped through the net, crashing into the trainee members who could not participate in coordination due to their short reach.

After a long trek through sewers and labyrinths, Kraft felt unusually clear-headed, his body light, as if a mudfish hibernating in the dry season had finally breathed in the moisture of the rainy season.

Thoughts once granted and self-summarized presented themselves at the right moment when needed; guided by excellent spatial awareness, the nervous system dispatched them to the correct muscles and bones, converting faint bio-electric signals into actions that efficiently terminated another life system.

Efficient, precise, and a kind of aloofness from above, causing the consciousness to feel a slight horror.

【Something is wrong】

He failed to carefully trace the source of the feeling; in the moment of distraction, the waves surging from all directions of the tomb labyrinth had mostly fallen at their feet.

Supported effectively, the monks did not collapse under the heavy pressure; the front line was stabilized.

They had no time to rejoice; they only felt the surroundings had become too quiet too fast, as if at the very instant the scale of the situation tipped in their favor, the sounds in those corridors scattered like birds and beasts.

Unattended torches burned silently on the ground; the tide seemed to have receded.

No, that was merely the crest; when the true cold current rises, it is calm, silently and gloomily advancing from the sea level, irresistible.

After the noise and clamor faded, at a time no one noticed, a strange sound mixed into the background of heavy breathing.

It was a concentrated metallic friction and clanging sound, the sound of an army trudging through a swamp, gradually sinking; unsheathed weapons contacting armor and shields produced a grating scrape that bubbled in the mud.

But it was too dense, so dense it seemed as if they were all blended together, poured into this narrow space in a paste-like state, crawling forward.

Green took out a small iron bottle and shook it hard by his ear; the sound coming from inside was dull and viscous.