Chapter 48

Fear lapped at his sanity; his trembling hand could barely hold the glowing flat box.

From touch to shape, to its luminescence, it was molded into the form Kraft recognized—yet profoundly alien, its hollow exterior copied, its void interior offering only a pale light too dim to illuminate its surroundings.

Kraft flipped the glowing side face-down on the floor and kicked it away; with a faint scraping sound, the strange object resembling a phone slid toward the wall, emitting a low, crisp "click-clack."

The only light left in the room was a sliver of moonlight.

He stepped backward slowly, his hand reaching behind him to press against the rough, icy wall. His mind raced, trying to identify what he had held just now—and why it had appeared here.

A familiar stranger, perhaps—that's what this was. The familiar parts made the object seem even more aberrant: similar in form, yet utterly different, as if rendered with crude, cut corners due to limited capability.

The inexplicable presence of this imposter object filled Kraft with overwhelming unreality; doubt took root, denying the truth of the scene.

He felt he was trapped in some bizarre dream, aware of his situation yet unable to wake, suspended in illusion. Yet the sensations were too real—the sandpaper texture of the wall, the sounds he heard, every detail rich and complete.

Kicking that thing away had been too reckless, Kraft thought. In an unfamiliar place, silence must be maintained.

That was part of his grandfather's teaching. Sudden shock had disrupted his rhythm—he should have been more cautious.

But things weren't too bad. When he lay on the bed, he'd forgotten to remove his sword scabbard; his most trusted weapon still rested beside him.

Pressing his left hand against the metal fastener, back against the wall, Kraft moved silently toward the door. A place to quickly retreat and create obstacles—this was always the first priority in any scenario.

His outstretched right hand first touched the door bolt—unchanged in position. If something went wrong, and nothing was clear, the best choice was always to open the door and run.

His vision gradually adapted to the environment; retinal cells needed time to shift from photopic to scotopic vision—from sharp, bright-detail imagery to a blurrier, dim-light-adapted mode.

The outlines of chair, table, and wooden bed emerged; the room seemed unchanged—no clichéd "strange ceiling" drama.

But the silence was too absolute. Kraft could hear his own heartbeat like a drum, his deliberately suppressed, slowed breath. Blood surged through his body, oxygen fueling his powerful motor system, preparing for the unknown threat lurking in the anomaly.

Logically, even at midnight, some sound should drift from other rooms—unsuitable for all ages—and the night watchman downstairs would shift chairs or tables.

If Old Wood were here, he'd lower his voice, in his usual deep tone for telling mysterious tales: "The dead make no sound..."

Kraft had long passed the age when silent nights frightened him—but upon reflection, this was deeply chilling. The bizarre object appearing on him, the unnaturally quiet inn—both screamed a major problem.

After pulling the bolt, he froze all movement, standing still to steady his heartbeat and breath, waiting for whoever—or whatever—lurked in the dark and silence to reveal itself.

Patience—this was a vital lesson Kraft learned in military training. Trading time for life never backfires.

In silent darkness, meeting silence with silence—this instinct was written into the genome, born of ancient tales where one's own kind vanished into the dark; human instinct carried a reflex to remain quiet in quiet.

He waited, nerves taut, senses hyper-alert, scanning endless data. Time perception warped—seconds and minutes blurred in stillness.

The long wait felt like only a moment—he noticed the moonlight on the floor had changed. That thin white line had brightened, stretched longer. Originally distant from the bed, it now reached the foot of it.

The light source seemed to be adjusting its position, approaching his window—slow, steady, inexorable.

【That is not the moon】

Consciousness stirred, revealing the nature of the light.

【You have seen it】

That pale, gentle glow crept closer, its movement so subtle it escaped notice unless observed closely, drowning one in a false sense of peace.

Kraft slowly withdrew the door bolt—he could not remain in this room.

The light intensified further, pouring through the gap; the slender white thread on the floor widened into a luminous band, glowing so brightly it nearly blinded.

Yet that soft, gentle quality clung stubbornly—like an ill-fitting fur coat that refused to shed with the seasons, appearing out of place in any context.

The bolt was fully withdrawn; Kraft grasped the doorknob and, with utmost care, pulled the door inward, inch by inch.

The light source drew nearer; as its brightness peaked, a faint creak sounded—the leaking light trembled and shifted, as if something outside was pressing against it, warping the thin wood.

But the window was latched from the inside—it opened outward.

Kraft had already pried the door open wide enough to pass through; he sidestepped out, aiming for the first floor—more open space, tables and chairs arranged haphazardly would favor the agile.

His body slipped through the gap without a sound. Before leaving, he cast one final glance at the window—the light source remained outside, unmoved.

"Tap. Tap."

A rhythmic knocking came from outside the window—its tone suggested a polite visitor. The gentle, courteous pressure reminded Kraft of Romeo visiting Juliet at midnight—restrained, yet eager to be noticed, inviting trust.

But this was the second floor. Only a confused, half-asleep victim would answer a visitor at the window.

The bolt was slipped casually into his pocket—it was heavy hardwood, perfect for striking a nuisance at speed.

"Tap-tap-tap!" Another round of knocks—faster, urgent.

Kraft closed the door and retreated toward the stairs. He still hadn't figured out how to cross the unstable staircase without making a sound.

A grating, teeth-on-edge creak came from inside the room—likely the window. Something was applying force to it. One could imagine the thin wood bending, on the verge of snapping.

The thing clinging to the outer wall had far less patience than Kraft—this was good news. It suggested it acted on instinct, not human-like intelligence, even less cunning than some forest predators.

As he reached the stairwell, the sound of warping wood suddenly split with the sharp crack of splintering fibers—shards flew, striking the half-closed door and rolling onto the floor.

It chose to steadily increase pressure, crushing the whole panel rather than repeatedly striking—a non-intuitive motion pattern led Kraft to suspect it lacked anything resembling mammalian muscle or bone.

The sound indicated escalating force; more cracks erupted—the window frame tore clean from the wall and crashed to the ground.

A flurry of shrill, chittering noises spread—not the crushing of wood, but a familiar yet unidentifiable low hum, vibrating from unknown vocal organs, echoing through the space.

White light spilled from the door crack—it had entered Kraft's room through the window, emitting a thick, viscous sound like a paste brush slapped against a wall. More than entering, it was as if some slimy substance had been poured inside.

The nauseating sound resembled a bucket of rotting soft-shell seafood, its own decaying tentacles slapping the bucket walls, mingling with indistinct murmurs—yet simultaneously emitting an irrational, spiritual allure.

Kraft bit his tongue, enduring the nausea rising in his throat, gripping the railing as he slid downward. He hoped it wouldn't yet realize it needed to open the door.

The first floor, usually lit by a brazier, was pitch-black; the night attendant was gone. He stepped lightly on the wooden stairs, leaning only a fraction of his weight on the handrail, fearing any loose board might shriek.

These sixteen steps had never felt so torturous—he had to deploy every step technique he'd ever learned, moving swiftly yet silently, avoiding its notice.

The light seeping through the door crack flickered unpredictably—the source was wandering inside the room.

Consciousness, using gathered auditory data, shaped it into a massive soft-bodied creature—its slime erased friction from movement, its pliable organs aiding it to crawl along flat surfaces.

A sharp object scraped the floor—perhaps wood splinters, or predatory teeth embedded in contracting, writhing tissue.

Kraft didn't know how it found him—perhaps it had memorized him during his shallow dream in the Salt Tides that day, then slipped soundlessly to his window at night.

Had it entered the realm of reality—or was he being hunted in some dream he could not wake from? He bit down hard; pain flared on his tongue—no way to tell truth from illusion.

There were nineteen steps. Kraft counted silently in his mind—he had two left. Beyond the danger of the second floor, once on the first, he could hide in the kitchen—or flee through the front door.

After mastering the technique, his body leaned back skillfully; the last two steps weren't high, and he could directly merge them into one step to reach the floor.

A resistance sensation came from his soles—not the expected floor—he contacted a layer of liquid. A cold, flowing feeling spread from his feet, seeping through the seams into his boots.

Kraft realized he had stepped into water up to his knees, but it was already too late. The delicate balance was shattered; even with his exceptional balance, he staggered backward two steps in the water before steadying himself, water splashing onto his face.

The sound of water was clearly audible.

After two seconds of silence, a crushing, snapping sound erupted instantly from the second floor.

Kraft turned and ran.