Chapter 383: Snake Saliva

"The sphenoid bone, located at the center of the cranial base, derives its name from its shape resembling a butterfly with spread wings; in some earlier texts, it was also called the cuneiform bone, and now the two names are sometimes used interchangeably, with the former being more common.

"However, some anatomical researchers still insist on using the latter, believing that the term 'cuneiform' better reflects the special status of this bone.

"It connects anteriorly to the frontal and ethmoid bones, posteriorly to the occipital bone, and laterally to the temporal and parietal bones, participating in the fixed connection of almost all major skull blocks, like a carpenter's wedge locking numerous components firmly in place.

"Therefore, in terms of function and position, the latter makes it easier to understand its central status, while the pituitary gland lies right in the middle of this wedge, within a small saddle-shaped depression."

Kraft sat with his back to the window behind an old desk, his upper body submerged in a stack of books.

Field could hardly recall when the pile had grown so high; theoretically, most of it had been delivered by his own hand, but perhaps due to recent busyness, he had almost no impression of it.

Heavy paper passed through his hands like quicksand, leaving nothing behind but weight.

"The pituitary gland is the crux of Dominic's condition; perhaps this will help you understand how perilous his illness is. Fortunately, we have successfully removed the lesion; what remains to be dealt with is merely something ethereal."

Though the lengthy professional descriptions had been somewhat simplified, Field had not really listened, grasping only words like "center" and "perilous."

He nodded as if understanding yet not, preparing to take his leave, but was called back.

"Wait, what is that in your hand?"

"Oh, sorry, I almost forgot this." Field awkwardly picked up the straw-wrapped heavy object; somehow, it felt exceptionally comfortable in his hand, and he had nearly taken it back to his quarters.

"Koup found this at the foot of the mountain. I heard the original owner was a stonemason; because he worked for the monastery, he carved the donated prayer onto the decorative plaque, and the content is somewhat strange."

"Did you read it?"

"No."

If he were living a life of idleness, he might have been curious enough to glance at it, but as the Chief Resident, he absolutely had no energy to care about anything outside his scope of responsibility.

Among the crooked books, he found a suitable empty space, shoved the object in, and hurriedly closed the door before leaving.

Silence descended upon the study once more.

A hand reached out from behind the book pile, pulled out the plaque, unwound the layers of straw, and revealed the text carved on the rock, as fresh as the day it was made.

Yes, this was the thing needed. The moment one read it, anyone qualified would naturally realize this, just like groping on smooth glass and suddenly touching a tiny crack, knowing the entrance was nearby.

"Found it."

Kraft could not say what he felt. Surprise? Relief? Or hesitation?

It seemed to be none of these.

Recalling the experience of being disturbed, he saw a gaze as blinding as a beam of light shining through a fissure. He himself seemed to be in a dim, cramped environment, with thick fluid enveloping his senses and hindering his limbs, always unable to grasp it.

It was not like the backlash of side effects when severing spiritual senses, but closer to a natural state, driving him to move according to the instinct of exploration—not with limbs, but through understanding.

The more one saw, the closer one got; the closer one got, the more one saw, until reaching a membrane where no further progress was possible.

Yet at this moment, that gaze from outside the membrane shifted away.

This was maddening; he had already become aware of the existence on the other side, but whether it was a void or a tangible reality would have to wait until the membrane was broken.

But without guidance from the outside, he faced the dilemma of having nowhere to start.

Fortunately, Koup had brought him a breakthrough point.

As a precaution, Kraft extended his spiritual senses and read the text at maximum speed.

The obscure language seemed to belong to a variant of religious stories, using metaphors of "knights" and "dragons" to demonstrate an understanding of a certain concept.

It was very brief, yet exceptionally infectious. It seemed as if extra vivid phrases overflowed from the gaps between the characters, filling in the omitted descriptions, making the reader feel as if they were present, sensing an endless, massive entity floating in the sky, like cloud barriers pushed by the wind, heavy yet light.

His eyes ached, and the carved strokes on the stone became less sharp. He shifted his body to the side, making way for the light.

Beyond the ethereal, the fable presented a new image—one of unimaginable magnitude. If coiled and encircling, it would be enough to block the sunlight, darkening heaven and earth; the friction of its scales would be like the collapse of mountain rock strata.

Unconsciously, the scene was depicted in his mind: continuous, deafening roars rolling across the vast expanse of heaven and earth, falling from the clouds, crossing peaks, and flooding mountain gorges, approaching low and slow.

Just as the imagined sound reached the window, a tremendous boom suddenly exploded in his ears, with rumbling vibrations rolling in his chest, indicating that this was not auditory hallucination but a real existence.

He froze for an instant and looked out the window.

The leaden gray sky had pressed down at some unknown time, with thick clouds curling and gathering, almost touching the opposite mountain peak.

Autumn rain in the mountains arrives without warning.

Deep within the clouds, lightning outlined the contours of churning water vapor. The motion was not uniform; in some places it was so slow it seemed about to solidify, while in others it surged ceaselessly, forming vortices of immeasurable scale.

Such a massive downpour had been seen many times before.

However, this time was different; within those surging contours, vision captured a rhythm not belonging to the wind. It was as if the spine of something extremely long arched up in the shadows and slowly sank back, each time causing vast seas of clouds to swell, raising waves like inverted mountain ranges.

His eyes froze, his tongue locked. Consciousness froze inch by inch, unable to explain whether it was an illusion or reality.

The hand resting on the window shutter stiffened; the limbs were briefly stripped of their driving commands, nailed to the spot. If this were an illusion, it could not truly harm him; if it were a real existence, locking the window or making any escape would be meaningless.

He watched everything before him, letting the scene remain in his vision.

Contrary to the stiffness of body and consciousness, his emotions were exceptionally intense, like a water surface hammered by a storm, with fish leaping from all directions, so chaotic that fear, excitement, anger, or sorrow could not be distinguished, or perhaps all were present.

They collided with each other and instantly shattered; after reaching a certain threshold of intensity, they broke through the distinction between void and reality, stirring up a small ripple within the spiritual body.

An extremely tiny rhythm spread outward along the spiritual body, originating from the temporal and frontal lobes, winding through the grooves on the surface of consciousness, penetrating the neural folds coiled around the hippocampus, sliding over the fibers of the corpus callosum's interconnecting projections, moving not a fraction.

Until the wave descended and seeped down, spreading toward the central region of the cranial base, consciousness finally realized its target:

【Pituitary Gland】