Chapter 380: Scales of Thought

Krap felt he must be insane to have undertaken such a stunt as climbing the mountain at night.

On a trail where even locals frequently lose their footing and fall, stumbling forward by torchlight, no one could say whether the shadows at the edge of the glow were the next foothold—or a bottomless cliff.

But the priest was right: on such a path, rain made ascent utterly impossible.

If he waited until the storm began and the trail became completely impassable, letting an active anomaly source roam free for days—or even half a month—sparking unpredictable changes, then he’d truly be insane.

Though he didn’t know why the blacksmith had insisted on bringing that thing up the mountain, he now had to find it—at least confirm it was temporarily harmless.

If conditions allowed, he might even bring it back and persuade Kraft to transfer him from the hospital post to a specialized field duty.

As for the risks, he had certainly considered them.

He seemed able to vaguely sense the presence of anomalies, giving him a moment to react if things turned bad; Benny was half-experienced and unlikely to get caught off guard; the priest was the only weak link, but anyone could swiftly subdue him.

If a real fight broke out, Yvon would cover them—he could handle minor troubles easily.

Besides, he’d heard Dominic and Field’s accounts: the threat was mostly internal, not external; the real concern was the mental state of their companions, not any bizarre creatures.

Could it really be worse than Westmin? Thinking this, Krap pressed himself against the rock face and shuffled forward.

The priest led the way ahead, two body-lengths in front, within arm’s reach. Benny was in the middle; Yvon brought up the rear.

Daylight was swallowed by clouds and mountains. As they climbed higher, village rooftops and autumn wheat fields vanished from view; the undulating tree line blurred, then the path behind them was gradually erased by the encroaching dusk.

The leaf-strewn path felt soft and unreal, like walking on an unfastened ribbon, swaying left and right in the mountain wind.

It was hard to tell if they were still ascending—or if they had already severed all contact with the ground, merely floating slowly through darkness.

The visual sensation of floating disrupted his judgment. Krap stopped, breathing lightly, trying to convince himself not to be deceived by his eyes: the village slept peacefully below, the earth remained steady and unshaken, its existence unchanged by perception.

The effect was limited, but he did gain a sliver of solidity, regaining his balance.

They passed narrow winding paths, climbed slopes choked with loose rocks, and pushed forward through tangled thorns and wild vines.

Wind howled through the gap between two peaks, tugging at limbs and clothing, the deep chasm always lingering beside them. Occasionally, loose stones tumbled down; footsteps later, faint echoes returned.

If they’d once had the mental bandwidth to think of anything else, by the halfway point all they could focus on was where to place their next step.

Even the priest, familiar with the route, walked with trembling caution, his heavy breathing clearly audible.

Beyond a stretch of bare rock, the vague silhouettes ahead suddenly vanished.

“We’re here?”

Someone asked hesitantly, receiving an affirmative reply from the priest.

Krap straightened his bent back, vertebrae cracking. He looked up: pure, bottomless darkness, save for the faint flutter of bird wings.

Guided by instinct, he walked upward. The closer he got, the stronger the presence became—as if an invisible flame burned fiercely, its heat radiating even from ten paces away.

On a flat-topped rock, he found it.

A white, coin-sized flake, semi-translucent like a mineral gem, its surface covered in scorch marks, as if pulled from extreme heat.

Its shape had been deliberately shaped: leaf-like, with both edges ground to a blade, small notches from repeated use, and a stem-like base designed to be inserted and fixed into something.

Far from the image of a pagan artifact—it looked like an arrowhead forged from mineralized bone.

Direct contact was impossible. Krap pulled out the sampling kit from the monastery, used forceps to lift the object—it felt much lighter than expected, perhaps light enough to float in water.

One side bore intricate carvings: a totem or coat of arms, blurred by repeated scorching, barely legible—a weapon piercing a creature both serpentine and draconic.

Its body supple and elongated, bearing wings, limbs agile, carved as if a dying human, twisted in agony, grasping the blade that pierced it.

In the flickering firelight, the image gained an uncanny illusion of motion: the body slowly writhed, the raised and recessed scales opening and closing, profoundly strange. Krap quickly averted his gaze, stuffed the object into a lead box, and fastened it with a leather strap.

“We leave now.”

The wind grew stronger, heavy with moisture; his shout dissolved before it could be heard clearly.

The goal was achieved. He couldn’t stay another second. He raised his voice and repeated it. The four gathered close, bundled their clothes, and prepared to depart quickly.

Perhaps sensing the storm’s approach, the flapping of birds overhead grew quieter, yet unnervingly distinct.

He could even distinguish the creature descending from open heights, landing in the nearby thicket—thorny branches rustled apart and bent, then fell silent, like water swallowing a stone without a ripple.

“Are there any raptors or wild beasts nearby?”

“Almost none,” the priest shouted back. “Occasionally snakes, mostly nonvenomous.”

“Good.” Krap scanned the surroundings, naturally finding nothing. The mountain wind bent low vegetation back and forth, producing rhythmic rustling of leaves.

Perhaps it was psychological, but suddenly he felt as if something was crawling along the ground.

The moment the thought formed, the sound seemed to confirm it—growing stranger, shifting from light to coarse, like wind strengthening, scraping fine gravel.

Listening again, the sound no longer scattered—it circled around them, acquiring spatial depth.

“Do you hear anything?”

Already on edge, Krap dared not gamble whether it was his paranoia—or something real. He halted, listening intently.

The other three stopped, seemingly unaware of any anomaly in the wind.

After listening, Benny and Yvon heard nothing. The priest hesitated, sensing the wind was unusual, yet insisted: “No beasts nearby. Perhaps it’s just naturally windy at night. Let’s hurry down.”

Though he said so, his accelerated pace betrayed his fear.

After walking a dozen steps, Benny spoke up from behind: “Hmm… maybe?”

“What did you hear?” Krap asked.

“Not like an animal. Did we see any birds on the way up?”

“What birds?”

“Hard to say—maybe bats. Sometimes you see huge bats in the mountains, though no one’s heard of them attacking people or livestock.”

Even as he spoke, Benny clearly didn’t convince himself—his hand had already drifted unconsciously toward his sword hilt. “Maybe it’s just one especially large one.”

He emphasized the last phrase.

Krap was about to say they’d heard different things—but the flapping returned, closer, stronger.

As Benny described: a bat impossibly huge, its black membrane wings blending into the night sky, circling and twisting between cliffs—the sudden gust was it skimming the rock face.

The imagined thing sharpened rapidly—from sound to language, fleshing out its form.

When Krap realized his mind had grown too active, he noticed he’d already mentally drawn the outline of wings.

A chaotic current surged past them, kicking up dust before vanishing into the treetops.

No leaves fell. No birds took flight. What followed was a scraping, dragging sound.

Like a pen on paper. A snake slithering on sand—light, yet leaving proof of presence.

The scraping slid down the trunk, rasping against rough stone. Imagination shaped it into a long, supple body, covered in fine scales.

The clearer it became, the heavier it felt. At some point, it gained texture: its belly pressed down thorns, parted tangled shrubs.

“Something’s there,” Benny whispered, drawing his sword.

Krap felt he should see it—such a thing ought to reveal a terrifying silhouette.

But he saw nothing. The danger screamed in his mind, yet his eyes caught no complete form—only a one-body-width, intermittent “path” extending from the trees.

Fragmented, incoherent words flooded his mind, kneaded like clay into a lump, trying to assemble a vague, elongated shape, rising upright in his vision or imagination.

No clear boundary. Neither brighter nor darker than its surroundings.

Yet there—it was there. He knew.

He couldn’t describe how he knew. Not hearing. Not sight. No spatial or directional sense. Between intuition and memory.

Even with eyes closed, the sensation remained. The thing hadn’t entered his vision—but perfectly filled the empty space in his cognition.

Like an extremely precise word—you know where it belongs, what it implies—but it was never created, or lost beyond recoverable history.

【It’s coming】

Krap swung his hammer horizontally before him, twisting sideways just before impact.

A series of hard, flat surfaces scraped past the metal handle; his body went weightless, flung upward. Even with elbows bent to cushion the blow, the violent tremor left his arms numb for a moment.

He landed in the shrubbery, rolling to dissipate force, turning to his companions for help. But Benny was also crouching, dodging what seemed to be an aerial attack; Yvon stared blankly with his hammer raised, then rushed toward Krap as he fell.

The priest clutched his holy symbol, praying loudly, eyes shut in trembling surrender, leaving everything to the Lord.

“Where?”

“It’s…,” Krap tried to point toward his intuitive sense, but his hand traced a half-circle in midair—he couldn’t precisely describe its location, nor align it with any visual reference.

Before he could think further, the rustling of scales drew nearer.

It passed right by Yvon, yet the wind it stirred didn’t even ripple his clothing. Yvon stared blankly as Krap rolled desperately, swinging the blacksmith’s hammer—yet the weapon passed harmlessly through the attacker’s path.

They seemed separated on a cognitive level: sharing the same space, assaulted by the same entity from different angles. They could communicate—but no form of expression, even language, could make others understand what they faced.

The thing grew clearer in his mind, slowly unfolding a body without head or tail, scales rising like cracked strata, layer upon layer, endless.

Its mirror-smooth surfaces reflected everything around: flames, trees, figures—each scale different.

He first thought it was mere reflection—until he saw himself in one scale, from an impossible rear angle; in the next, he viewed himself from above, as if peering down from a treetop.

The sense of fragmentation intensified. The clearer it became in his mind, the harder to describe. Every second that passed added a new set of descriptions; language strained to refine its outline, yet grew ever farther from truth.

It wasn’t illusory—it was too direct, beyond indirect expression.

A scream of extreme terror and agony rang out—the priest levitated, contorted in an unnatural, bone-breaking posture, as if bound by a tightening rope, fine sharp threads cutting through his clothes, leaving spiral-grid blood trails on his skin.

Benny barely dodged the attack, swinging his sword to help—but the blade met no resistance; the thing nearly killing the priest was invisible to him.

He forcibly altered his swing’s trajectory, slicing past the priest’s agonized face, striking the rock wall—the recoil wrenched his fingers open, nearly causing him to drop the weapon.

Before he could recover, he ducked sharply—a lock of hair was sheared away.

The attacker was here, yet there; soaring through air, crawling on ground; winged and scaled, without head or tail.

The knight suddenly understood something, letting out a cry that was neither triumph nor despair.

“Dragon!”

“What?”

Krap didn’t understand how he’d made the connection—but Benny had neither time nor desire to explain. Uncharacteristically, he abandoned passive defense, raising his sword tip as if ready to fight to the death.

Perhaps he saw the impossible creature as a legendary beast, the cause of the storm, willing to sacrifice his life for the safety of his family’s lands.

But Kraft didn’t think so—the thing that had driven them to the brink was terrifying, yet nowhere near as formidable as the most troublesome enemy he had ever faced; it felt more like a vanguard, a marginal byproduct of disaster, not the main force.

“Don’t—” A sweeping wind pressure choked off his plea; his body instinctively dropped its shoulder and sidestepped to avoid the direct impact, and sharp pain erupted across the affected areas, accompanied by warm fluid oozing out.

He staggered a few steps, barely steadying himself, realizing he had vastly underestimated the danger.

Things beyond common logic were not beasts to be overcome by brute force, but anomalies that overturned established laws—exploring new laws came at a cost.

Now he might become that cost.

But Kraft had never taught him to sit and wait for death. On the edge of life and death, his battle-numbed mind groggily stirred, reviewing what little room for struggle remained.

The back of his waist struck a hard object—the lead box from his pack, containing precious samples.

A slightly boring question suddenly surfaced:

【Why was it shaped like an arrowhead?】

??Two-in-one (Happy)??..???