Chapter 320: The Impact Point

In earlier years, before Old Wood had grown weary of reminiscing about his youth, he often spoke of the ferocity of battle, recounting how he had once slept with his head on the corpse beside him, only to wake the next morning to a pale, rigid face.

The eyewitness would vividly describe such scenes in a chilling tone, and when the mood struck, he would even mention which part of the experience had taught him the valuable lesson of never getting a stiff neck, completely unaware of whether such content was suitable for children's enlightenment.

Grandfather's story collection once became a childhood shadow for Kraft and his cousin Ryan, to the extent that every night after lights out, they had to toss their pillows off the bed before they could fall asleep.

But in the long run, this desensitization therapy proved highly beneficial, at least reducing the cardiac strain on Kraft when he woke to see several twisted, pupil-less faces.

"Father of Heaven, why didn't you move this thing farther away?"

"In fact, we originally intended to burn it." Green leaned against the stone wall, a small handful of dry fire illuminating their recent achievement and the cultivators huddled around for warmth. "Considering our remaining fuel, I think it's better to save it for more important places."

"How much is left?"

"Brother Wading kept four cans; I threw away all my miscellaneous items." Father Green's gaze swept over the other two cultivators, who, still shaken, lowered their heads in some shame. "They still have some, but not much."

Objectively speaking, Kraft felt they had no need to feel ashamed for this; maintaining the rationality to preserve some supplies under such circumstances had already demonstrated commendable courage and character.

He envied Green. A group of individuals with adequate physical fitness, relatively stable psyches, willingness to obey orders, and educational backgrounds was almost the foundation any organization dreamed of.

"What about the others?"

"They got separated. I wasn't far away; I came after hearing the noise." Brother Wading added half a broken torch handle to the fire. "To be honest, I had already imagined who would attend my funeral, never expecting you to... resolve it so quickly?"

It was evident that everything had happened very quickly. He glanced at the terrifying perfect creature, searching for the characteristic smooth cross-section of a "spell," but only saw several deep puncture wounds.

It did not seem to have been killed by the means witnessed earlier, yet Wading could not think of any way to get close enough to kill such a thing.

Even if it were willing to come down and engage its prey in close combat, its size was not something easily overcome with a sword.

How did you do it? The priest's deputy was quite curious, but his understanding of Green allowed him to glean some information from his old partner's silence, wisely choosing not to press further.

"So what is this, a Dunling sewer specialty giant spider?" He improvised with the few dark jokes remaining in his repertoire.

The effect was clearly not good; no one was amused. They glimpsed a rather unfavorable answer among the faces nested and fused within the monster's thorax and abdomen.

Even the just-awakened Kraft stared at this alternative mosaic composed of mixed facial features, discerning something within it.

Wading wondered why the professor also recognized an old acquaintance of the Inquisition, but then realized the reason. "You find it familiar too? Of course, you must have seen his portrait."

"You mean Mo Lisen?" Kraft indeed recognized some elements within it, not only from the latest portrait in the Dunling Medical School gallery but also from memories of a remote medical school in the northern ice port of the kingdom, though they were now difficult to distinguish clearly.

He confirmed his hypothesis regarding the creature's identity: "Yes, I believe this is him, but not only him."

"I hope he repents for his deeds in the flames of hell, but I highly doubt any devil down there would accept such a thing." Wading disgustedly averted his gaze; staring at this thing for too long always evoked a nauseating attraction, like looking into a vortex, being pulled in to become part of the distortion.

The priest's peripheral vision lingered on Kraft, seemingly trying to discern the young professor's attitude toward this, or perhaps confirming whether the one who had awakened was still the person he knew.

"A pitiful fellow." He remarked, without grinding his teeth, even without much emotion, as if all such feelings had been exhausted in the long, terrible darkness. "Dying in that great fire would have been ten thousand times better than this."

"Indeed, a pitiful fellow." Kraft surprisingly agreed. "He could have done much more meaningful things, saving many lives."

"He betrayed his vocation, betrayed his oaths and principles, betrayed the pursuits of his first half of life, hollowed out from within by a blind pursuit placed above morality and ethics."

Deep whispers crept into the gaps of the mind, killing from the inside out a professor who had dedicated his life to medical research, shaping another thing with paranoia and craving, just as the Moon Corpse had shaped this monster using human bodies.

This was tragic; Professor Mo Lisen had indeed died, a thorough death.

"But there is one thing I envy him for."

"What?" Across the fire, the priest subtly straightened his posture, adjusting his position.

"He had an outstanding disciple." Kraft swayed as he stood up, steadying himself against the rock wall. "I do not mean academically, of course, that disciple's academic achievements were not poor either."

"His disciple possessed the ability to make correct choices independently; even amidst the absolute authority's errors, he would attempt to correct them. Had it not been so, our progress would have been delayed countless times over."

"Having such a disciple is a fortune; I hope my disciples can achieve the same in the future."

"Do you think you will make a mistake one day?" Green confirmed that the person he faced was sober, but the possibility within those words made him feel uneasy.

It was like hearing the sound of a thin shell cracking in extreme silence, new cracks intertwining with old fissures to form a web, held together only by a layer of egg membrane, undulating with the activity of the things inside.

"Who knows? Everyone makes mistakes; even saints have moments of straying." Kraft moved his joints, getting his damp, cold, rusted body running again. "This is not a possibility, but an inevitability; it is only a matter of scale."

Kraft hesitated before taking a long pair of tweezers and two small bottles from the best-protected bundle on his person. Using his long sword to pry open the puncture wound, he probed deep inside, tore off several pieces of tissue, and sealed them in the bottles.

This action made Green's eye twitch; he wanted to speak but held back.

"Let's go; looking at these faces makes me uncomfortable." He had seen too many faces deeply distorted, some even more bizarre and abnormal, but encountering one within human relationships was a different experience entirely.

That feeling was like waking in the dead of night, seeing oneself in a floor-length mirror, with inexplicable dread surging into the heart.

Some say people see themselves in others; perhaps that is what this is.

Kraft reached out and pulled Green up from the ground, ending the short rest; he had stayed there long enough.

The group left the burning fire behind and pressed deeper.

Beyond a certain boundary, those layered stone walls began to gradually grow lower, and the gravel paving the ground seemed to become thinner, until they revealed the things buried beneath them.

It was an endless expanse of pale, gloomy color, stretching continuously beneath their feet, with lightless black intermingled and fused within, soaked and embedded together, like a swarm of snakes entangled and gnawing at each other, indistinguishable from one another.