Chapter 318: Beyond Visual Range Combat

A terrible thought was cast by consciousness into the spiritual body, stirring up rhythmic waves.

Those were waves once triggered by digoxin injections on deep biological samples; when needed, they were recalled from memory and converted into a concrete rhythm.

Mimicking its sensation was like playing countless keys with hundreds of fingers, yet the mind did not understand the meaning of the "score," merely reproducing it rigidly according to the record, as if an illiterate person copying symbols from a model book without comprehending them at all.

The actual operation was far more difficult than imagined, no less than lifting a container with no weight feedback, its overflowing liquid surface held together solely by tension, still rippling with danger.

Consciousness did its utmost to confine it to a small portion on the periphery of the spiritual body, something far more terrifying than the most concentrated acid or the most lethal toxin.

Reality wrinkled slightly under its seepage, becoming hazy and obscure in certain aspects, defying common sense.

It was a pathogen invading reality; once it contacted the target, it would exert a specific effect, twisting physiological laws in a particular direction.

No living body would wish to encounter such a thing; even if skeptical of its effects, Kraft did not wish to try it personally.

What was needed now was an opportunity; he had to make contact with that spiritual body again at a moderate distance, preferably a surprise, proactive contact, injecting this wave "spell" into it while the opponent was unprepared, like every fatal cold arrow shot from behind.

But for the side suffering disadvantages in mobility and information, this was too difficult.

He had to spend a great deal of time groping and maneuvering in this maze before a counterattack opportunity lacking initiative would arise.

Both the physical and mental states indicated that time was not abundant. Maintaining the "spell" while attending to other matters was no less difficult than performing surgery and playing the harmonica simultaneously after running a one-kilometer fitness test, and his talent for music and rhythm had always been poor.

【Someone must lend a hand】

Almost the moment this thought arose, he noticed a metallic clanging sound not far away.

It was someone moving among the rocks, the noise of weapons hanging at their waist occasionally striking the stone walls, as abrupt as a coin jumping on a street, attracting every ear that heard it involuntarily.

Including Kraft.

He captured this signal in time and reached a consensus with the sender that required no communication.

Only one person would have the courage and capacity for thought to act this way in such a situation, completing the part promised, and not caring whether the other party could read or cooperate.

A firm will does only what it deems most reasonable, unswayed by anything else.

"Honestly, one must admit that sometimes the Church's standard is far above average." Kraft moved, drawing on his newly accumulated strength to approach the metallic sound.

Even in the most absurd and ridiculous dreams of the past, it would be hard to dream of such a thing: perfect coordination between a medical school professor and an Inquisition priest.

His torso arched, trying to hide himself where the rock wall's angle could shield him, controlling his pace, like a large feline placing its paws precisely on the quietest, most treacherous landing spots.

The advantage of wearing armor did not manifest; as long as he wished, he could become a silent shadow.

The clanging metallic sound came intermittently, becoming the light of a lighthouse appearing and disappearing amidst the rock waves, offering a choice to the blindly prowling consciousness, a vortex-like attraction impossible to refuse.

This had nothing to do with intelligence or logic; if there was a single button before one, a person would press it, even without knowing the result.

Movement and choice are instincts of life; perhaps only death could make them reject this instinct.

The spiritual body swept over the intricate corridors, which wrapped around layer upon layer, spiraling in long arcs; the darkness overhead curled and rotated with the movement, creating the illusion of walking within a fingerprint, with some vast, distant will looking down upon the desperate performance of tiny things at the fingertips.

Perception of gravity was fading, blurring the boundaries between up and down; feet seemed not to be his own, moving in a crouching, marionette-like fashion.

He was unsure if this was caused by excessive fatigue; everything was receding, like sinking in clear water; senses beyond spiritual touch became blurred; soft darkness embraced him from behind, covering both ears; the crisp sound of metal colliding was kneaded like dough into a coarse, muddled tune.

The burning pain in the trachea turned into heavy numbness, isolating the sensation of airflow from breathing; if not for the chest still rising and falling, consciousness could not even confirm he was still breathing.

The spiritual body, conversely, unfolded and expanded, accommodating that dangerous wave while reaching outward.

Green appeared in perception, tapping the rock wall with the metal cap at the tip of his sword scabbard, murmuring something.

It should be a prayer, for the mouth movements showed no hesitation; it was that kind of practiced fluency honed over thousands of repetitions, something requiring no deliberate recitation, natural as breathing.

His arm trembled slightly uncontrollably; the knuckles of his palm, welded to the weapon, bulged; fear flowed over his taut skin, surging from the darkness and unknown of every angle.

Kraft knew where he was, but he did not know Kraft's position, nor could he confirm whether the plan was still being executed.

The high pressure synthesized from the unknown, distortion, fear, and death could turn a veteran battle-hardened soldier into a shivering quail, transform a firm believer into a mad heretic; reason was fragile and powerless before such power, less sturdy than rotten wood.

But not this person, not at this moment.

Green took another step forward, a step that brought him fully within the range of perception; the sword scabbard struck the rock wall again, the sound crossing the high walls.

Kraft almost felt he saw the sound waves formed by air vibration and compression, rippling and spreading.

So that thing came.

The sound of galloping horses trampling, as if four gates had swung open, with strange-shaped envoys emerging from within, bearing symbols of death and end.

It made no concealment; perhaps the fragility of these mortals just now was no different from that previous group, granting it enough confidence; after all, extending a finger to crush a few small insects required no disguise.

Green slowed his pace, fumbling inside his collar for a while, searching for some object, but found nothing; helplessly shaking his head, he traced a circle in the air before his chest, then drew his sword and planted it on the ground. What he had to do was already finished.

A phantom sensation invaded the spiritual body's perceptual field from the direction of the galloping hooves; waves brewed within it, poised to strike.

Clearly, the opponent also sensed the contact; after a brief pause, it immediately shifted its target, invading the perceptual field, and that wave rapidly wove itself into form.

It was a step too late, nor did it realize it had touched not a still pool, but a dangerous shoal surging with unfamiliar undercurrents.

While still hesitating whether to withdraw or seize this opportunity, that undercurrent coiled around its "fingertip"; the pure, clear wave was fully reflected back through the contact, spreading and approaching like an ink drop.

It was surprised; it should be surprised. That was a spell shaped by such profound cognition, far surpassing those primitive, crude usages, nearly a revelation of life's deepest mysteries, an extraordinary art that the era would deem the delusion of a madman.

How many people had delved so deep just to catch a glimpse? It would rather believe the wave within the spiritual body was merely a hollow imitation by the other in desperation, after all, that wave caused no pain when contacting the body.

So it hesitated for an instant.

An eternal instant.

The galloping and trampling of the horses stopped; before the heavy thud of landing, Kraft heard a roar cut off midway, which, compared to those things, seemed closer to a terrified human.