Chapter 370: 145. Poison or Antidote (7k)
In a dream that endlessly spun like a kaleidoscope, Fisher’s soul was dragged by a huge magical power from reality into the crevice between the spirit realm and the world. In a daze, his consciousness seemed to be continuously falling. During this lengthy descent, his mind, previously injured by the Base, gradually recovered, and he struggled to look at the dark red glowing Magic Lord ring still on his finger.
“Valentina!”
Then, it seemed he realized something and called out Valentina’s name, but no one around responded; only the sudden feeling of landing answered Fisher.
“Bang!”
Fisher’s consciousness crashed down onto a tangible surface like a meteor. As the feeling of falling vanished, an extremely familiar sensation surged in his heart, akin to the feeling he had when entering a dream with Valentina back at the camp. His soul once again detached from his body, but unlike that time, this dream felt remarkably real.
Just after landing, an incredibly strong stench instantly filled his nostrils, piercing through to his brain, making even Fisher feel a bit nauseous.
“Ah…”
“Ah!”
“It hurts!”
Fisher gasped for a moment, then struggled to get on his feet, only to be met with large piles of corpses, discarded without regard for life or death.
These corpses were dressed in the style of clothing worn by the Shivali people a hundred years ago, a simple amalgamation of men, women, and children from various professions, piled together haphazardly. Through the gaps in the bodies of the deceased and the dying’s final groans, Fisher could clearly see that these people were all grotesquely unrecognizable.
The swollen, pus-filled growths on their bodies, like demons draining them to the bone, transformed once delicate and beautiful women into foul-smelling, water-logged skeletons. Extreme pain stimulated their fragile nerves, causing them to crazily drive their nails deep into thin, fragile skin, thick black blood oozing from the wounds.
Is this the Dead Rot Disease?
Fisher furrowed his brow tightly, covering his mouth and nose, taking in the scene of extreme horror around him. The Shivali clothing and the twisted, distorted imagery of sickness immediately reminded him of the epidemic recorded in history books—the Dead Rot Disease.
All around Fisher, bodies were stacked like small mountains, their groans echoing like a lament for this barren land. Thick, pus-like fluids flowed continuously over the corpses, mixing with the red and black hues of the Shivali earth, as the flames of oil lamps burning the bodies could hardly match the endless supply of corpses brought here on carriages. Even the originally majestic horses were emaciated by this disease, continuously spewing black pus from their mouths.
The sky was overcast, dense black clouds seemed to blanket the sun, revealing only a thread of continuous crimson. The stench in the air, combined with moisture, made the place stifling and hot, enough to make anyone detest staying even for a second.
Fisher cautiously surveyed his surroundings, and little by little, a magical emblem began to form in his hands. This was a method he had thought of while researching lethal Dream Magic; directly constructing magic in a dream consumed a vast amount of soul energy. However, if one were to construct the corresponding magical materials and repetitively engrave them in their mind, they could quickly carve out usable magic at a relatively lower cost.
Yet, the prerequisite for this was that one must be extremely familiar with the process and theory behind constructing the magic, and any mistakes or pauses in thought would lead to the failure of the engraving, draining all magic power.
Fisher focused intensely, walking slowly and starting to practice low-tier magic, as he hadn’t entered this realm since that time with Valentina.
“Help me… Doctor…”
Just as Fisher cautiously walked forward, his right leg was suddenly grabbed by a small hand. His pupils contracted, and instinctively he raised his foot to break free, but when he looked down, he saw a little girl, her face completely covered in Dead Rot blisters, struggling to draw breath, her one remaining murky eye fixated desperately on Fisher, who was about to walk past.
“Please… it hurts…”
Her hand was smeared with thick black pus, unclear whether it was her own or from the already dead around her. She weakly clutched at Fisher’s pants; although her grip was light, the feeble light of survival flickered in her constrained eye.
“Doc—cough cough…”
The magic in Fisher’s hands began to dissipate, and as he opened his mouth to say something, the girl’s gripping hand slowly fell away, leaving behind a long streak of pus trailing down his pant leg. She continued to stare, her eyes still open, but her breathing ceased. The mouth that had just intended to say something was suddenly filled with coagulated pus, transforming her into one of the countless lost souls in this horrific purgatory.
Fisher understood that what appeared before him was merely an illusion constructed by the Dream Magic, but he couldn’t help but sigh. After all, if such scenes could manifest in dreams, it meant someone had truly witnessed these horrors before; otherwise, dreams could not conjure them up, just like that pale image Valentina saw in her dream.
Fisher looked at the small life that perished among the corpses, slowly standing up to continue forward. Soon, amidst mountains of people higher than hills, he spotted rare figures still moving.
They were several individuals dressed in heavy black robes, with sick horses and oxen unable to push the continuous influx of patients piling for destruction, so they had to use human labor to push carts stacked with dozens of corpses onward.
The appearance of these black-robed individuals was rather uniform, all wearing heavy black robes unsuitable for the particularly hot weather. Just by standing in Shivali’s summer, one would immediately be drenched in sweat, and even breathing would be incredibly difficult. Yet, for these people, the black robes were but the bare minimum.
More distinctive were their heads, each donned with crude masks seemingly made from some leather-like material, long and beak-like masks extending from their black robes. In the openings for their eyes were fitted a pair of lenses, magnifying the exhaustion and pain concealed behind the masks.
On their black robes, at the chest position, there was first a nameplate inscribed with Shivali text, commonly listing the individual’s name and their place of origin. Below that, an illustration of a long sword stabbed into the head of a dying snake was depicted.
Do you remember? In the mythology of the Mother God—the creation myth—she saved an injured little rabbit, and after consuming the apple given by the rabbit, she had the child known as “human.” In reality, the true human in that religiously metaphorical story is the injured rabbit.
The rabbit was hurt because it had been bitten by a poisonous snake in the forest, and that poisonous snake represented suffering and disease in the precepts of the Mother God. Therefore, when Shivali’s emperor killed that giant snake during Shivali’s formation, it carried immense symbolic significance, as it signified the end of Shivali people’s oppression and suffering.
In other words, the sign of stabbing a sword into the snake’s head simultaneously indicated the identities of these individuals.
They had all sworn an oath before the Mother God, pledging to use all their knowledge to combat disease and suffering as doctors.
Nali’s history books recorded little about the Shivali epidemic, as it was precisely that epidemic that interrupted Shivali’s attack on Nali, pulling them back from the brink of national ruin to the negotiation table. The Nali people refrained from speaking of that humiliating history, much like Balzak had previously said; it was already remarkable that Fisher had a general understanding of the epidemic’s occurrence.
Watching the doctors before him, transporting corpses while coughing, Fisher suddenly furrowed his brow in silence. The crude medical masks were utterly inadequate against the terrifying Dead Rot disease, and those fighting on the frontlines faced a high risk of infection. Even exhausting their lives and knowledge, many could do little more than tirelessly burn countless corpses amid this horrific epidemic.
“Cough cough…”
One of the doctors pushing the cart collapsed onto the ground, but the others pushing nearby seemed numb, tossing the dying doctor onto the cart among the corpses, dousing them with oil, silently watching the weak flames consume the bodies.
At that moment, Fisher noticed that all the nameplates on these doctors bore the same name:
“Torga Dalel.”
Fisher furrowed his brow and moved forward, crossing the largest mountain of corpses in sight, past the stench carried by the summer winds, until he suddenly spotted an individual dressed similarly to the preceding doctors, holding a notebook and using some container to collect the pus excreted by the Dead Rot patients.
Fisher paused briefly, watching the doctor, whose heavy beak-mask barely concealed a hint of red hair, hurrying through the epidemic area. He observed the doctor tirelessly studying day after day amid the stench of corpses and pus, resolutely manipulating the bodies.
“Whoosh!”
A gust of foul wind swept past, and papers covered in Shivali text flew in the air—papers, drafts, experimental proofs soaked in blood, all shrouded in the dream’s blurred time and years. Fisher grasped many scattered original drafts, seeing only the conclusions, but there were many more, countless processes of recurring deaths, and the torn earth witnessed first-hand, all of which he had not yet seen.
“Theories on the Origins of Dead Rot Disease I: The Source of Magic”
“Theories on the Origins of Dead Rot Disease II: Hypothesis of the Shivali Long-tailed Rat Variant”
“Overview of Dead Rot Disease: The Dead Rot Pathogen”
“Overview of Prevention and Treatment of Dead Rot Disease”
“Research on the Antimicrobial Properties of Shivali Kashi Grass Secondary Secretions: Failed Hypothesis I”
“Suppression of Transmission Hypothesis”
“A Request for Supplies for Frontline Medical Personnel”
“Theories on the Production of Decay Antidote”
“Torga’s Decay Theory”
Carried by the wind were pages of well-structured arguments filled with dense experimental records and research reports, every single page, every word, was penned by a doctor named “Torga Dalel.”
Those blood and pus-stained manuscripts flowed through Fisher’s fingers step by step, and with each step forward, even more bizarre images began to enter his sight.
He saw churches of decay built from living patients and piles of bones; he saw a skeletal and grotesque church official reciting Genesis while leading a group of coughing Dead Rot patients; he saw tightly shut noble fortresses; he saw sun knights charging with long spears and cannons into carnage, yet the horses beneath those knights were all grotesque masses of flesh, and the ground they trod was filled with crawling patients.
As he silently walked, the bizarre scenes continued to follow, until the noise receded completely. Only then did Fisher see at the end of the path a strange gentleman clad in black leather, adorned with a beak-like mask that seemed to embed itself into his face, standing with his back to him, lacking any nameplate or the doctor’s symbol of a giant sword piercing a giant snake’s head.
Before that eerily familiar yet alert silhouette stood a massive and shattered statue of the Mother God. The upper half of the statue’s head had been broken, symbolizing the disappearance of the Mother God’s caring gaze. Before that statue was a huge cross, upon which hung a red-haired girl dressed in burlap, head down, her mouth curling into a pious smile, nailed there before the Mother God’s image.
Fisher finally recognized that the silent black figure in front of the cross was no longer a part of the dream but the real Erwind.
Yet staring at Erwind, who was as quiet as a statue, simply gazing at the cross, Fisher hesitated for a moment before finally speaking.
“Torga.”
Erwind’s body heard Fisher’s voice from behind, offering no denial nor turning around, just looking at the serene girl nailed to the cross before him, then he spoke.
“Fisher, you truly are a genius. All mediums in the crevice between the spirit realm and reality are combinations of the subconscious and soul. The amount of magic power consumed in ordinarily constructing magic must be astronomical, yet you managed to disassemble the engraving of magic into layers, then reassemble them to take effect. While this idea is simple, completing it is indeed as difficult as climbing the heavens.”
Erwind’s ability to articulate this meant that upon entering this crevice, he immediately sensed its nature and could provide a conclusion regarding the phenomena occurring. Therefore, he would soon discover that this place could not construct life and complex objects.
Both of them were extremely intelligent scholars; even as adversaries, after seeing those densely filled manuscripts, Fisher couldn’t help but admire the brilliance and resolute will of the man before him.
“Flattering words. Hundreds of years ago, you were able to deduce the true pathogen and transmission pathways of the Dead Rot Disease before even observing magic being created, and you discovered the inhibitory effect of Kashi grass’s secondary derivatives on the Dead Rot pathogen. Moreover, at that time, you had not yet obtained the Life Completion Manual. In comparison, what I have done is nothing at all.”
Indeed, Torga at that time had not yet received the assistance of the Completion Manual, and he had fought valiantly against the endless tide of corpses and omnipresent disease, like all the countless beaked doctors on the front lines, constantly donning crude masks, while summarizing the characteristics and laws of the Dead Rot Disease and creating the still-usable “Panacea.”
“Ha, the Magic Lord also extolled me in such a way. She told me that in her world, it would take several hundred years for such medicines to be designed by humans. She called me a genius and personally gifted me the notes left by the previous Life Lord for my research.”
Erwind remained still, simply gazing at the serene red-haired girl pinned to the cross. It seemed he wished to reach out to her but was blinded by her painfully radiant smile, unable to raise his hand.
“Genius. You know, Fisher, geniuses are the least tolerated by humanity. In this world, there exists only the high-ranking genius accommodating the masses below; never do the commoners reach upward because being out of sync is the most detested thing by all.”
“Our family are all devout followers of the Mother God; my sister even more so. Following the Mother God’s guidance, I took the path of medicine, hoping to use my meager knowledge to save the multitude tormented by disease. Yet every time I see you, the renowned magical prodigy, I think of my sister. Her innate magic power is far beyond the average person, and her perceptual abilities regarding the world exceed ordinary people. It is very likely she could become a magical master, one of the rare few in Shivali history, just like you.”
“Until that year when war broke out, and the Dead Rot disease emerged, I and countless doctors were summoned to combat the Dead Rot disease. I witnessed too much suffering caused by Dead Rot. I saw towns where the population halved in a single day, I saw mounds of corpses taller than mountains, and I witnessed renowned medical masters brought low by the epidemic who squandered their lives and rich knowledge, spilling pus and blood upon the earth.”
“Despite all this, I never gave up. I tried again and again, innovating, researching, hoping to exhaust my limited knowledge against the infinite diseases and restore peace to my homeland.”
“Boom!”
In the sky, dark, scaly-looking clouds collided, until a striking thunderclap resonated as the crimson skies were compelled by invisible power.
“But the countless corpses and sacrifices yielded nothing. Shivali continued to wage war on the infected lands, sick soldiers carrying the epidemics further away; the church we believed in, which should have strengthened its followers, instead whipped the weak, exploiting their flesh and blood to create vast numbers of decay churches; the noble fortresses remained tightly shut, their luxurious garments unsullied while food spoiled without being given to others. Because once a crack opened, those frenzied masses would devour everything.”
“I couldn’t let ignorance and madness stop me. I blocked out distractions, firmly believing that as long as I could develop the antidote, all this madness would end. Yet that madness driven by desire only intensified. The bishops siphoned wealth in the name of ‘Priestess Bladeless Knights’, while under the act of ‘Hunting Sorceresses’, they humiliated those girls who had struggled to survive the epidemic. Men, tortured by hunger and disease, were once again led by Shivali onto the battlefield of external aggression.”
“All that we devoted our lives fighting against turned instantly into the heavenly patrons they were grateful for, transforming into the revered Mother God’s envoy—the ‘Bladeless Knights’; everyone we fought hard to protect became their slaves to exploit at will, treated like livestock to be scorned and trodden upon.”
Fisher gazed at the girl nailed to the cross and suddenly realized that possessing superior magical talent back in that era was not a good thing for a person, for many akin to sorceresses resembled her nature, and she should have been one of those lost.
“Fisher, aren’t you curious what debts I owe Elizabeth that cause me to help her like this in Nali?”
“The conditions to enter the church for eternal sleep are stringent. Even if my sister has been dead for hundreds of years due to that madness, even her name as a devout follower of Mother God has dimmed, she still bears the unjust label of a crime for resisting oppression, preventing her from entering any church in Cardu, Shivali or even those in smaller nations. None could formally accommodate her under the Mother God’s seat for eternal sleep, yet Elizabeth granted me this opportunity.”
In the sky, the thunder roared once more, and the damp, cold breeze gathered heavy droplets that would soon wash down upon the ground.
“Drip, drip, drip…”
Droplets after droplets, strands after strands; eventually forming a torrential downpour that enveloped the land. Fisher wrinkled his nose, only to catch a strong metallic scent. He raised his hand and saw that the rain falling from the sky left a bright red stain on his palm, lifting his gaze to discover that this land had been drenched in endless blood.
It was raining.
“Over the long period, I gradually realized that the cause of such suffering was not the Dead Rot Disease, nor wars, nor Elizabeth, nor Blake. It was ignorance. This is a trait engraved in the fragile essence of humanity; as times change and the world evolves, ignorance continues to drive humanity to commit one mistake after another.”
“I do not intend to kneel before beings of higher ranks than us, even gods, but I must climb, as those who are sung of in disasters do, using whips to chastise and correct their mistakes, guiding them away from error with the truths of wisdom.”
Standing amid the torrential downpour of blood, Erwind stood as he had a century ago before the cross bearing his sister’s body, tilting his head to gaze at the heavy rain. The Mother God provided no answers to his confusion, allowing the unfeeling rainwater to pound against the beak mask that had once witnessed his saving of souls until it was so embedded into his face, inch by inch, meticulously, that it could never be removed.
Beneath Fisher’s feet, the mountains of corpses and seas of blood, and the pus—either small or large—behind him, the enemies Erwind fought against and the compatriots he sheltered, at this very moment, all flowed into the quietly standing form of Erwind, ushering the heavy blood from the ground, accompanied by the incessant rain and thunder from above.
Only at that moment did Fisher suddenly realize that those sights he had seen before were not merely constructs of the dream; they were all parts of Erwind’s soul!
“Boom!”
In the distant sky, lightning and rain mingled, just as the devoted servants of the benevolent Mother God sang,
“Under the loving gaze of the Mother God, your white cloak was stained by the burning winds.”
“Under the relentless lashes of death, the purity of the soul is witnessed.”
“The punished ignorant child, unable to discern whether you are poison or antidote.”
“Ah, revered envoy of the Mother God, the pure, unblemished Bladeless Knight!!”
The foolish worshippers song of praise for the Dead Rot gradually increased in vigor, and the countless units of blood and flesh poured into Erwind’s body, his originally ethereal soul becoming palpably solid, even as it drifted outside the world, a sensation of gradual merging of soul and body formed; this was also proof that Erwind was but a step away from mythical rank.
The entirety of Erwind’s dream became flawlessly white, as if all the filthy, disgusting blood and flesh, and the Dead Rot disease had never existed. In his dream, there were only two simple things: the cross that held his sister’s corpse before him and the shattered statue of the Mother God whose head was half broken, hiding her loving gaze.
Erwind stood there slimly before the cross until a white cloak, seemingly woven from the most pure radiance in the world, began to grow inch by inch from behind him.
“To seek truth and escape the ignorance of humanity, I ought to abandon ethics, social structures, my human body, name, and past; all I have acquired, all I envision, shall become the path to the future.”
“Only power can correct ignorance; only reason can restrain desire.”
The pure white cloak soared amid the raging storm and thunder, and little by little, Erwind turned his head. Empty-handed, he bore no tangible blade or weapon, yet quietly gazed upon Fisher as if he were a revelation from the Mother God.
The enemy before him bore no original name, only having been smitten with the noble title due to its rampant terror and the ignorance of the worshippers.
In despair, they sang and praised this ruthless plague, foolishly believing it to be the Mother God’s emissary sent to punish her beloved children.
He was the Bladeless Knight, pure and white—Erwind.
“Fisher, we are all that remain. Come.”
“…”
Fisher said nothing as the magic in his hands grew brighter, the constructed circles of magic slowly rising, erupting with dangerously brilliant colors.
“Whoosh—”
With the sound of the white cloak fluttering, the next moment, the world was void of color.
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(End of Chapter)
