Chapter 66: Burning

When truly facing such a twisted monstrosity, few warriors could remain fearless, and Kraft was certainly not one of them.

It moved in an uncoordinated state between crawling and writhing, each tentacle erupting with considerable force yet utterly out of sync, exerting strength without regard for overall balance—as if hurling itself forward at the cost of instability to achieve a speed incongruous with its size.

Teeth and keratin scraped against the floor, producing a grating, irritating noise that rolled like a ratchet over the eardrums, evoking the sensation of a giant meat grinder’s blades spinning, bearing down with immense pressure.

Affected by the screech, Kraft barely managed a dodge, sidestepping to the side.

The movement was clearly detected; tentacles slammed and tore at the ground, attempting to alter course mid-motion. But these limbs had ample power yet poor coordination, only rotating the torso a small angle before missing Kraft entirely.

A partially formed tentacle extended its oral appendage and lunged viciously, circling around the blocked blade; upon contact, it ripped away the cuff along with a cufflink, gnawing and shredding the fabric in frustration. The metal button was ground repeatedly between its teeth, deforming beyond recognition—the sharp crack was indistinguishable between breaking teeth or broken metal.

Had it been any closer, it might have seized a few fingers—or even half a hand.

A faint ache throbbed along the ulnar side of his wrist, as if warm fluid were seeping out, though it didn’t impede movement—he only hoped no superficial vessel had been severed.

He noticed his hand trembling slightly, the longsword growing heavy. Was it fear of narrowly escaping death—or uncontrollable exhaustion?

The screech erupted again; the grotesque creature, having slammed into the wall, swayed its massive fleshy tumor-body, swinging its tentacles to reorient. Though its exterior showed no anatomical flexibility, it clearly possessed an internal sense of “front,” requiring this direction to face its target.

Normally, Kraft could have wrestled such brute force all night, but now he could distinctly feel his condition deteriorating. His stamina was drained by violent physiological reactions; his body and mind were tormented by the shrieks—the last time he’d felt this way was during a one-kilometer fitness test in the otherworldly soul’s university days.

He gasped for breath, inhaling air saturated with moisture and the stench of burning, along with the nauseating aroma of charred protein. His stamina had reached a perilous threshold; all senses were fading, the edges of his vision darkening, his ears filled only with the echoing, horrifying sound.

His spirit and will were nearing their limit, sustained only by a final sliver of numb rationality—until he lost total control of his body, he wouldn’t collapse.

The thing lunged again; as it accelerated, Kraft seized his chance and dodged once more, letting the mass of tentacle-meat collide a second time with the wall, shattering the fire brazier directly in its path into scattered splinters.

Flickering flames still burned on its body; its burned tentacle skin cracked and blackened, shattered by violent motion, revealing beneath yellowish-white scabs threaded with branching, tree-like vascular networks.

It seemed the pain of severed limbs and surface burns were far from fatal—even not serious wounds. If this continued, only he would be dragged to death.

His mind scoured the room’s unutilized furnishings, but most were beyond his current strength to deploy.

Yet he need not act alone.

The creature’s movement pattern confirmed at least half of Kraft’s suspicions. Its tentacle design was highly efficient, yet insufficient to sustain high-frequency motion for its massive frame—only capable of bursts of speed.

Moreover, all tentacles lacked cohesion; the central control failed to fully coordinate them, rendering directional changes sluggish once speed increased.

The lingering flames on its body sparked an idea; Chenzhezhuanxiangdejianxi , he moved toward the bedside.

Heavy, viscous, soft yet sharp, its hard skeleton propping up a soft body—this contradiction paid no heed to his plan, just as it had previously charged the door.

A sliver of courage was essential—suppress the blind evasion driven by fear. Let it come closer, closer still, until he could see the mangled tentacles, the rows of fangs in its mouth, and the dense, shadowed grinding teeth hidden behind, packed with glowing fragments.

Countless oral appendages churned and opened, eager for the prey that no longer fled—to slice, grind, digest, and assimilate it entirely into itself.

Based on its prior behavior, he needed to wait just a moment longer—until its colossal body filled most of his vision, its crushing passage over this spot now inevitable.

Then, with all his remaining strength, he dove toward the widest direction, clearing the row of fish oil jars behind him. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the floor, bracing his hands to crawl toward the corner, pulling as far away as possible.

A series of sharp cracks echoed; thick liquid splattered and flowed, ignited by the creature’s small flames—dying embers surged violently into a blazing red mass, swallowing its body and most of its tentacles.

Heat, thick as if solidified, swelled through the room; flames spread along the oily floor, reaching unprecedented intensity.

The twisted soft body writhed and rolled in the roaring fire, tentacles twitching and curling, soaking up more fish oil as they overturned other jars, bathing in the expanding pool of flame, emitting a final guttural screech—the heatwave carried the brittle, crackling echoes of its demise.

Then, superheated gas and flowing oil seeped into every cavity daring to remain open, roasting the fragile, foolish tissues that dared challenge its brief, glorious dominion—each tissue cooked to a varying degree from rare to well-done.

Burning—violent, cruel burning—the most direct manifestation of energy, like a giant claw closing, crushing and destroying from outside inward this intricate, malevolent biological masterpiece of organic matter, calcium salts, and water.

Moisture evaporated before it could seep out; the skin curled, shriveled, blackened, and peeled away. Muscles contracted, joints bent, tentacles twisted into gnarled, clenched shapes; branches, after brief spasms, became indistinguishable charred matter, still entangled and burning.

Eyeless orbs burst like pustules, spilling altered contents; its already indistinct elongated features melted and baked, sizzling as oil and water bubbled together; thick smoke filled every inch of air with the acrid stench of smoke and an unnatural odor of frying fat.

When he realized these were human tissues burning, the odor triggered an additional layer of profound psychological revulsion, churning his gut.

After futile struggles ended, an unexpected change occurred. Kraft watched as layers peeled away—outer tentacles detached and fell off, segment by segment.

At first he thought it was merely dried sections collapsing under their own weight, but then he noticed inner layers: reddish-gray muscle and bone separating, tendons withering and decaying, discarded before they could even ignite.

A force sustaining this impossible flesh was being drained along with moisture, stripped from its flawless “peripherals”; the locomotor system was abandoned, excess Zhuishengwu shriveled and desiccated.

Flames devoured these lifeless tissues faster, spreading in tandem with its contraction, closing in on the core.

Logically, if this were merely reassembled human anatomy, all life should have ceased long ago. Yet after shedding tentacles and outer lumps, something still moved within.

Burning. Peeling away.

A core struggled to adjust this balance, instinctively discarding irrecoverable parts to survive the inferno.

From this perspective, it did not resemble a mere part of the whole—it acted as if it were an independent entity, viewing its body as merely a temporary vessel providing nourishment and shelter, regarding the flesh as “other” rather than self.

But this strategy was doomed; the fire burned on, and no matter how central it retreated, escape was impossible. More and more ashen tissue collapsed into fresh fuel, revealing the core that had abandoned them.

A murky, viscous luminous flow pulsed like a heartbeat—not brighter than the surface’s glowing nodules, but distinguished by its dense, thick consistency: a high-density, filthy white, resembling fungal pus.

Deep within, it writhed; each surge of flame drew it further inward, its space shrinking, the viscous, nauseating sensation intensifying.

Even though this vocalizing, crawling creature’s exterior exceeded human tolerance, this viscous core within the ruins remained alien, self-aware, a pathological lesion disconnected from the rest, not a component found in any human anatomy.

Without needing words, Kraft rose, leaning on his sword. Freed from the screech and having rested a moment, he could now stand and retrieve the torch.

He lit it at the edge of the firepool, took aim, and hurled it into the writhing core—adding fuel to the fire.

The shrunken, hardened tissue became the final fuel; the thing writhed and contracted, but now had no room to evade—the flames closed in, consuming the last remnants of the abomination in indiscriminate combustion, extinguishing the malevolent white glow entirely.

Its contraction greatly aided the burning; the desiccated tissue replaced oil, fueling the second half of this grand bonfire; soft tissues connecting joints burned away, the skeleton collapsed, organic components in the bones vanished, surfaces blackened.

Kraft, now moved to the window, waited as his first—and perhaps last—bonfire slowly died out. Bones lay scattered across a wide area, charred fragments of bizarre shapes impossible to trace to their origin.

He approached the still-hot edge of the firepit and stamped down on a charred bone; it shattered with a crisp snap, just as his system anatomy professor had said—calcined bone had little organic content, hard and brittle.

Back then in class, he’d never had the chance to touch one; the professor had displayed the single calcined bone among dozens of boxes in the entire classroom. Now, here he was, wasting one just to test its texture, without fear of medical ethics—undeniably, it felt luxurious.

There were still many scattered pieces on the ground, of all sizes—limb and trunk bones alike. Had there been no lingering danger, he would have taken them back as teaching aids.

He distracted himself with idle thoughts; the flickering, twisting, writhing afterimages before his eyes faded slightly, though phantom echoes still hovered—sometimes distant, sometimes near, overlapping—as if these remains had not truly died, merely lost the Routi life defined by mortals.

Now was a good moment to retreat, but his work wasn’t done. Within the now less repulsive pile of ash in the center, perhaps lay the answer he sought…

Or perhaps another mystery.