Chapter 361: Seizing the Knife

The first to notice the incident was Benny, his paternal instinct immediately drawing his gaze to Lucian, noticing the short knife in the boy's hand.

This was a utility knife meant for cutting ropes, carving wood, and close-quarters self-defense in dire circumstances—it should not have appeared in the plan, especially not while they held the advantage.

No, they no longer held the advantage.

His concern for his child made him hesitate for an instant, but like most knightly families who had not lost Wu De, the training given to heirs went beyond physical strength and technique—it included proper responses in crisis:

"Watch out for Lucian!"

He shouted the warning, prioritizing tightening the rope net; Dominic, like a fly caught in a spiderweb, struggled harder and became more entangled—the mesh and wooden hooks interlocked and tightened, dragging him into an even worse predicament.

The rope was thrown through the air to Field, "Don't make eye contact with them!"

Dense, heavy, icy dots struck the back of his skull, forcing his neck lower, his vision restricted to just above ground level.

It stirred memories long buried—the first time he had prayed, as a child, silently following the crowd into church, head bowed, eyes fixed only on countless pairs of feet facing the altar.

Drops of water rained down from above; only much later did he learn it was holy water, blessed and representing the Father's will, in which every child had been bathed at birth to signify their life was bound to the Divine and under His watch.

The rain intensified, silver threads weaving through his dim vision, dissolving the salt crusted by sweat, stinging his eyes like needlepoints.

He forced himself to glance sideways and saw Benny's boot blocking Lucian's charge.

The sudden turn of events made him want to shout a question, but he couldn't hear his own voice—then came a sharp pain deep in his ear canal.

A voice, a colossal voice, swept over them, as if the reflection of the mountain peak had shattered in the sky—but it was more enduring than such a fleeting sound, a continuous, resonant vibration.

Long, coarse, like some scaled mountain-dwelling creature crawling and grinding against thunderclouds, vast and filling every gap from earth to sky, vibrating straight into his throat and lungs.

He fought hard not to look up. Yet even without raising his head, he could guess the vortex was churning, the wind suddenly strengthening, hurling rotting moss and rain against his face.

His soles nearly lifted from the ground, hurtling toward the sky; a faint weightlessness trembled through his tendons, making his palms spasm and go limp.

But Dominic, still struggling, fared worse—he was flipped instantly by the airflow, tumbling like a straw man across the ground in a comical roll.

If the wind grew any stronger, he might truly be swept away, carried into the air, vanishing without a trace.

【Vanishing without a trace…】

Field thought of something—the recurring rumors of disappearances. It gave his hands temporary strength against trembling; he seized the rope again, coiled it twice around his waist, and tied a dead knot.

The crow's omen came true—the chaotic winds intensified, and the pull on his waist robbed him of balance; he rolled to the ground alongside Dominic.

On the other side, Benny faced Lucian, short knife in hand.

The boy's movements were stiff, dazed as if waking from a dream, unsteady in the wind—he seemed to want to cut the net binding Dominic, but after being blocked, he shifted to the simplest method of removing the obstacle.

Yet he didn't seem entirely devoid of awareness; he was driven by a set of knowledge forcibly implanted in his mind, acting in ways others couldn't comprehend, lacking the courage or reason to raise blades against his father.

Thus, those eyes ignited by phantom flames fixed only on his blood relative, silently pleading for understanding of what could not be spoken.

Benny avoided his gaze, keeping his vision below shoulder level, standing his ground.

The emergency exceeded his understanding; previous cases of madness he'd handled involved farmers and craftsmen—following ancestral experience, things rarely spiraled beyond control.

At least he had never imagined someone afflicted with madness would suddenly shout the name of a stranger, luring them into eye contact.

As if the source of madness drew unnervingly close, whispering into the ear knowledge gained through incomprehensible means, revealing in the mad behavior a strange grasp of logic and exploitation of information gaps.

"Lucian…" Benny called the boy's given name, but the word was snatched away by the wind—he wondered if he'd truly spoken, or merely murmured unconsciously.

"Put down the knife and come to me!"

After a brief pause, the boy stepped forward again, lowering his knife-hand to waist level—as if relaxing his hostility—but his forward-leaning posture and taut muscles beneath his clothes betrayed the prelude to a strike.

Benny didn't draw his sword; he silently stepped half a pace sideways, waiting for the boy to charge into close range, desperate to thrust the blade forward.

In two breaths, the father's hesitation vanished, replaced by effortless control over an inexperienced opponent.

As if he'd practiced it a thousand times—perhaps he had—Benny shifted from stillness to motion, his left hand snapping up to press against Lucian's wrist, angling the blade toward the upper right.

Clearly, the invasive cognition had not improved his close combat skills—it even caused some clumsiness. Lucian couldn't recover from his father's speed, far faster than usual; the second hand was already gripping the back of his wrist from below.

Benny sidestepped, passing Lucian's body, twisting the knife arm, applying slight downward pressure—the pain forced the boy's fingers to loosen their grip on the hilt.

Without pausing, his foot moved in sync. His right foot hooked behind Lucian's ankle, his shoulder slammed into the boy's sternum—with a dull thud, his breath visibly hitched.

Lucian lost his footing, his body flung sideways; the short knife was now in Benny's hand.

The entire sequence flowed like water; before Dominic could be restrained, the rope meant for him was now tied around Lucian.

All four were soaked through, rain lashed by the wind stinging their faces, droplets blinding Field.

Facing the storm's center—the invisible but certain vortex—he found courage he didn't know he had, making a crude gesture learned from the alleys of Dunling New District, one he'd never used before.

He waited, trembling with dread, for several seconds—no thunder, no lightning, nothing descended from the clouds; it seemed all that had transpired here had no effect on it—the link between madmen and natural disaster was merely a delusion.

They had succeeded; now came the harder task: taking the man down the mountain.

But a new, unanswered question followed.

"Will they heal themselves?"

"No."

"Then is there any cure?" Field asked anxiously. "How did you handle them before?"

Benny answered with silence.

Field reflexively wanted to apologize, but any words felt hollow and powerless. He stood dazed in the rain for a moment, realizing the man before him needed neither apology nor promises of compensation.

"Sir Benny, I don't know if it'll help, but I know of a very famous physician—rumor says he specializes in problems within the mind. If you're willing, you may return with me."

(End of Chapter)