Chapter 49

Kraft quickly weighed the cost-benefit of the front door versus the kitchen, then sprinted toward the main entrance.

The knee-deep water drastically slowed his speed; the door, which should have been reachable in two breaths, now took several times longer to reach.

His shoulder slammed into the closed door—expecting it to be slightly ajar, it didn't budge an inch, and instead shoved him back two steps. A few splashed droplets landed in his mouth—bitter and salty—seawater.

Wen Deng Harbor had never experienced such a terrifying seawater surge; even if it had, it was usually confined to the harbor and salt-flush zones. If the inn where he stayed was this flooded, the salt-flush zone wouldn't even have half a roof left.

A crashing sound echoed from upstairs as doors shattered and fell; the spreading light illuminated the entire second-floor corridor, and reflected off the water on the first floor, flooding the entire foyer with glow—and allowing Kraft to clearly see the door before him.

There was no bolt inside, yet he slammed into it again, stubbornly. This time he heard a metallic chime amid the impact—the lock sprang open then snapped back into place. The door had been locked from the outside.

He could now reasonably confirm he'd been moved in his sleep to some place similar yet different—a clearly abandoned inn, owner absent and business suspended.

But knowing this helped nothing. The light at the stairwell intensified rapidly; the thing was accelerating, drawing nearer, its damp, viscous soft tissue moving with heavy, nauseating squelches.

It abandoned pretense, advancing down the corridor without concealment—boneless, fleshy limbs stretching and slapping, not just one, but many, producing overlapping, wet, sticky "slap-slap" sounds on the floor.

Hard, angular structures on its surface bit into wooden planks and earthen walls with each strike, shattering and pinning whatever it touched; piercing and colliding sounds rang continuously, drilling through bone and piercing muscle membranes to form auxiliary tissues for locomotion and grip.

All softness was an illusion, meant to conceal the predatory core within—the twisted, malevolent aspect.

It was emitting its own sound—unmasked, unfiltered.

The hissing merged countless overlapping voices—as if multiple vocal organs vibrated simultaneously, a swarm of writhing throats whispering in fragmented, rising-and-falling murmurs, ceaseless and repeating.

Resonating, amplifying, forming a gloomy song across several audio tracks like a choir, carrying patterns incomprehensible to ordinary minds, transmitted through airborne sound waves to every creature with hearing.

The song violated human musical aesthetics—always following a low or high rhythm with the most jarringly inappropriate continuation, lacking any conductor to coordinate the discordant performers, as if fractured wills each gained their own tongue.

An uncontrollable irritation surged from deep within, scratching at his subjective consciousness, driving him to draw his sword and split the source open, chop it to pieces, destroy it by any means imaginable—he could no longer endure even a second of the noise.

Kraft clutched his head, feeling his long-dormant OCD resurfacing, compelling him to act out thoughts not his own, to silence this sound.

He pressed his knuckles against the thin spots on either side of his skull, using pain to suppress this irrational urge. His thoughts were flooded with fury and clamorous noise, demanding all his focus to resist its interference—leaving no capacity for other thought.

The blasphemous song drew closer, its light with it—brightening, growing painfully intense.

It poured down from the second floor, flowing across and beneath the water, as if gaining substance, moving through the fluid, spreading through the salty seawater, surging toward Kraft.

Luminescent liquid, flowing light, coalesced in the transparent water into an oily, film-like substance—evoking the stubborn grease on water's surface, a sign of water degradation, bringing greasiness and the inevitable rotting stench.

The previously gentle, pure white had been tainted with uneven hues, now irregular and fractured. Different whites blended into a single mass; grayish-white curled outward from within, like a wound splitting skin and flesh, or like a slit-like mouth opening beneath a smooth surface.

Sensing its prey had no escape, it ceased hiding, unfolding fully, slowly advancing along the corridor toward the stairs.

The complex, cacophonous sound still echoed, transmitting through the eardrums and ossicular chain into the skull, carrying vibrations that scrambled sensory perception.

Kraft released his grip on his head, steadied himself against the nearby table, drew his longsword, and jammed it into the door's crack, attempting to pry it open.

The craftsman who forged this sword had, at his grandfather's request, used the finest materials, hammering and forging it repeatedly—the blade was sharp enough to cut through leather armor, and if durability weren't a concern, could even clash with metal.

But clearly, its design never accounted for use as a pry bar, nor could it cut through a metal lock in such a narrow gap. Kraft's full body weight bent the blade into a deep arc—further pressure would bring it near its elastic limit—yet still, it yielded nothing.

He felt he couldn't escape—unless the owner had secretly built a second door, an idea he could suggest in his next life. But as the saying goes: "When facing a beast, meet its gaze… that way, you die with dignity."

The situation was slightly different now, but the principle still held.

His alien soul's upbringing had forged his fearlessness toward ghosts and gods—he firmly believed any living thing would eventually die. Unless it was a whale—he didn't know of any creature that could survive a blade to the vital spot.

And as a descendant of a long line of seasoned skull-splitting experts, his familiarity with the sword was no less than with brush and ink, carrying the still-vivid bloodline of the third generation.

He abandoned thoughts of escape, concentrating all his remaining energy into making the most rational choice.

The rage stirred by the irritating noise, mixed with courage born from the peak of unknown terror, coalesced into a grim, decisive resolve—confirming his only option.

Kraft straightened, drew a deep, long breath—cold, damp air flooded his lungs, cooling both body and spirit.

The blade, freed from pressure, snapped back into place, wedged in the door's crack, humming with metallic vibration.

"It wasn't made for wood."

He gripped the hilt tightly, steadied the faint tingling in his palm, and pulled the longsword back out of the crack—the familiar weight brought him calm.

This world's Kraft had imagined countless times what his first true battle would be like, endlessly practicing with training swords, day after day for over a decade, hoping to earn on the battlefield a glory worthy of legend.

He remembered it was fourteen—his body had finally grown large enough to wield a standard weapon—when Old Wood handed him this specially forged sword, his face devoid of any smile, a gaze that puzzled him deeply.

【"I didn't want to give this to you…"】

At the time, Kraft was lost in the joy of receiving his long-desired gift, eager to rush outside and draw the blade—he quickly forgot his grandfather's strange behavior.

From then on, he used this sword daily, caring for it meticulously until it felt as natural as his own arm.

Now, he suddenly recalled that memory, understanding the contradiction in that gaze—the unfinished sentence hidden behind his gray beard no longer vague.

【…but I feared you'd one day have to use it.】

Well, today was that day. The only regret: the enemy never follows gradual progression, nor does it honor the martial virtue of knightly duels.

He'd imagined his first battle would begin with a full-armored cavalry charge against infantry—instead, his first real fight was this: a high-difficulty scenario, fighting an unknown creature with no retinue, no plate armor, and only light gear.

But it wasn't all bad. The optimist would argue: facing an animal with far superior strength—especially one where a single blow kills you whether you wear armor or not—maintaining agility might be better than plate.

This claim is dubious—only half a tier above sliding under a tiger—but what he needed now wasn't credibility, just a sliver of psychological comfort to face the light at the stairs.

For the first time tonight, he didn't retreat—he advanced toward the presence.

Under mortal peril, his mind focused with unprecedented clarity; muscle memory transformed into precise, powerful motions—he advanced steadily through the water, both hands gripping the sword.

His awareness activated, braving the insane hissing to memorize the positions of tables and chairs; the scattered light conveniently aided his observation. The entire foyer was reconstructed in his mind as a three-dimensional, usable structure.

Whether illusion or not, as his reason restored his consciousness, his body grew stronger—physical strength further fueled the growth of his defiant will.

Kraft fixed his gaze on the stairs, forcing his mind to adapt to this sensation—he must gain the capacity to face it.

The filthy white light spread further; the twisted, overlapping sounds drew nearer—the malevolent entity crept onto the upper stairs, its flexible body extending downward, an indescribably unnatural thing.

After hearing, his vision now suffered immense torment—merely beholding it filled him with unbearable discomfort.

It was a tentacle-like structure sprouting from a massive body, lacking suckers; its pitted, pale skin was covered in dense grooves, with luminous nodules scattered randomly, clustered in bunches atop protrusions.

It hung rigidly downward, its tip twitching and curling.

In contrast, the skin erupted with frenzied, hair-thin branches, radiating vitality utterly opposite to the main trunk—struggling, as if self-aware, reaching out in all directions, grasping anything to cling to.

With the emergence of this limb, the hissing song reached a new crescendo—sounds emanating from worm-eaten hollows along the thicker tentacle branches, spewing white luminescent mucus mixed with air, like alien flutes playing.

Yet these were not the most intolerable organs among them.

Many branches contracted, extruding sharply pointed pale yellow bony protrusions; their longitudinal slit-like mouths were packed full of these things, which, as they swayed, mercilessly bit into surrounding tissues, pulling them into the sac cavity to chew, leaving only half-eaten remnants of similar creatures around.

On the broken branch stumps, new white flesh buds grew at visible speed, filling the gaps and sustaining this incomprehensible feast.

Even in humanity's deepest nightmares, nothing so chaotic and terrifying had ever been seen.