Free Web NovelThe moment the green mist merged into his consciousness, Louis's movements paused for a split second.
It wasn't because of pain, but due to an extremely piercing sensory distortion.
It was a sour, astringent sensation that set his teeth on edge, suddenly exploding deep within his mind like countless invisible needles frantically probing.
Probing every tiny crack in his soul, searching for any potentially loose interface.
Simultaneously, whispers began to emerge, continuously overlapping and replaying.
"Why... that should have been mine..."
"You're just lucky..."
"You're just the chosen vessel..."
"Pull him down..."
"Let him also taste the flavor of rotting in the mud..."
Amidst this noise, the sea of consciousness itself began to change.
The emerald-green toxic mist spread out from the void like wildly growing thorns.
They didn't pounce directly on the platinum primal heart at the center of the sea of consciousness; instead, they bypassed it.
They seemed to be imitating it, the green mist twisting and shaping itself frantically, attempting to construct an island with a similar structure within the sea of consciousness.
The outline was repeatedly adjusted, layers were continuously added, and even the rhythm of energy flow was crudely aligned with the rotation frequency of the primal heart.
Just as that false island was about to stabilize its form... the primal heart stopped rotating, and the sea of consciousness fell into a brief silence.
Then, platinum starlight, like a surgical knife of extreme precision, sliced in along the structural edges of that false island.
The luster used for camouflage was stripped away layer by layer.
The facade constructed by the green mist collapsed instantly.
What was exposed was merely a hollow and chaotic core of thorns.
Crimson power then pressed down, transforming into a slowly rotating giant millstone, drawing those fleeing thorn roots into its maw.
Deep purple aura followed closely behind, turning into countless invisible mouths opening within the sea of consciousness, precisely devouring the high-energy remnants after they were crushed.
Pink power descended last, like a gentle yet dense net, covering the remaining agitation.
Those still sharp fluctuations were slowly enveloped and smoothed out.
The sharp edges were blunted, and the desire to resist was suppressed.
The emerald-green thorns were decomposed and refined one by one.
The sea of consciousness returned to stability once more.
Louis, already familiar with the process, did not rush to open his eyes, instead allowing himself to fall into the undercurrent formed by the remnants of old memories.
It wasn't a complete timeline, but more like a riverbed that had been shattered and pieced back together, with nothing but blurry fragments beneath the surface.
He slowed his breathing, reined in all redundant thoughts, and began to capture them one by one.
In the first image to emerge, the sky was scorched black.
Giant winged creatures loomed above the clouds, their shadows covering the entire land.
Every beat of their wings was a storm; every breath was a collapse of the climate.
On the ground, humans lay naked in the mud, trampled at will like ants, tossed by the rising air currents, and smashed into bloody pulps upon landing.
The scene shifted abruptly.
On a temporarily constructed stone platform, a black-haired man wearing strange long robes stood in the center of a magic circle.
The structure of that magic circle was complex and ancient; its lines did not follow the common magic sigil logic of this world, but were instead mixed with certain square characters.
An Ancient Dragon was forcibly bound at the center of the array.
It roared and struggled, its dragon might pressing down like a physical mountain, yet it was dismantled layer by layer by the magic circle.
The black-haired man plunged a sword into the dragon's chest, forcibly taking the still-pulsating mana core.
Behind him, a slightly younger blond man was assisting in adjusting the array patterns, his movements appearing somewhat unpracticed.
The scene jumped again.
The blond man had grown old.
He lay by a field ridge, the freshly turned soil beneath him, the air carrying the scent of crops before they ripened.
He died peacefully, with neither fear nor regret on his face.
That withered hand tightly clutched a key.
The people around him knelt on the ground weeping, a display of heartfelt sorrow and gratitude.
To commemorate him, the survivors gathered spontaneously, initially building only a simple stone hut.
Later, the stone hut became a cathedral.
Time was rapidly compressed here.
Louis saw a Pope obsessed with art and symbolism, standing alone in a secret chamber.
He opened the sealed box that had been passed down through generations.
Inside the box were two emerald-green eyeballs soaking in preservative fluid.
The Pope did not retreat.
He didn't even feel fear.
In his eyes, these were relics left by God, treasures that had witnessed the Primal Era.
"It is too lonely," the Pope whispered softly, his tone carrying a near-fanatical piety, "it needs to see the light again."
The image began to distort.
The Golden Thorn Crown, which was originally just an ornament, was placed upon the white throne; at first, it was just a symbol, an extension of faith.
Then it began to grow, tiny golden thorns piercing the inner side of the crown, silently sinking into the Pope's scalp and deep into his brain.
"As long as it can make the Ecclesia great again..." The previous Pope knelt on the ground, his voice trembling with pain, yet he did not back down, "I am willing to sacrifice everything."
The thorns slowly and patiently fed on brain matter and consciousness.
The image collapsed and was forcibly pieced back together.
The final fragment appeared.
Eduardo stood in place, his whole body trembling, sweat soaking the back of his clothes.
He was pinned to the spot by that irresistible pressure.
Louis could even clearly feel that soul-piercing burning pain through the memory remnants.
Countless thorns cascaded from the dome like a waterfall, instantly enveloping Eduardo's body.
Fear was frozen in his eyes.
The image completely disintegrated.
Louis snapped his eyes open.
Reality returned to his senses, and everything became clear again.
Deep in his pupils, a flash of deep emerald green briefly flickered before quickly receding.
That completely tamed green power flowed back along his consciousness, re-merging into the sea of consciousness.
The fifth halo quietly took shape.
It did not approach the core but hovered at the outermost layer, like a ring of defensive lines covered in barbs.
Louis could clearly feel the changes it brought.
The first ability was that nothing in his eyes was a whole anymore, but a structure.
The tendon connection points of creatures, the blockages in the energy circuits of magic arrays, the overlooked gaps in tactical systems... every fragile point would be instinctively marked.
Furthermore, the thorns on the mental plane could be projected outward.
They were invisible and silent, yet sufficient to pierce energy cores, interrupt spellcasting, and forcibly seal the operation of a certain ability.
At a deeper level, in close contact, he could even briefly borrow a characteristic power, resistance, or a certain specialization from the opponent.
Of course, like the other mists, these were not all of its abilities; others still needed Louis to develop them slowly.
Louis didn't immerse himself in the feedback brought by the power; his attention immediately fell on the newly acquired memories.
In those shattered images, the symbols written by the black-haired man were not the common script of this world, but the Chinese characters he was most familiar with.
He then thought of the pronunciation of incantations; their essence was also closer to the phonetic structure of Chinese.
A conclusion naturally formed in his heart.
The so-called Primal Mages were very likely not natives of this world either.
He might have come from the same place as himself.
However, the memories regarding that person were still incomplete.
More clues had already been devoured over the long course of history.
Louis slowly let out a breath.
The truth was not yet complete, but he had already taken a step closer... Weil's crimson shield had been sustained for too long.
Under the high-frequency vibrations, his battle qi began to grow hot, like a piece of red iron being repeatedly forged.
Dull impact sounds constantly came from the shield's surface, each strike sending ripples across the light membrane; the heat waves backlashed along the battle qi circuit, making his arms slightly numb.
He gritted his teeth as sweat slid down his forehead and into his eyes, but he had no time to wipe it.
The Sako beside him had long since become a mess.
That guy had already dulled two greatswords; dark red battle qi enveloped the blades, and every swing was accompanied by the muffled sound of flesh being torn apart.
He was covered in strange green blood, and broken bones were stuck in the gaps of his armor; he looked like a bloody man who had just crawled out of a swamp.
They were advancing, yet it was more like they were grinding in place.
For every step forward, three more layers of corpses had to be paved beneath their feet. freewёbnoνel.com
Severed limbs writhed on the fleshy ground, and Stitch-monsters that hadn't completely died would still try to drag the knights' ankles with their teeth and residual arms.
While there was no life-threatening danger, it was a war of attrition that bordered on torture.
"Damn it!" Sako kicked away a twitching half-bodied monster, his roar echoing in the corridor, "These things just never end! How long has the Lord been inside?!"
"Shut up! Maintain the formation! Increase the speed of the advance!"
Weil took a deep breath, almost squeezing the command out of his throat: "Even if we have to pave the way with corpses, we must push through."
The knights didn't respond, but everyone was gritting their teeth and moving forward.
They weren't worried about dying here; they were worried about their Lord, who had walked into the depths of the darkness alone.
Just as Sako was preparing to detonate his battle qi once more to forcibly break through the wall of flesh and bone ahead, an anomaly occurred.
The nauseating sensation that had been pressing on their chests, making it hard to breathe, suddenly vanished.
It was as if someone had directly cut off the source.
"Buzz—!"
A low resonance swept through the air and then {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} quickly returned to dead silence.
The charging swarm of Stitch-monsters froze in unison.
In the next second, they began to collapse; the stitching points that defied physiological structure lost their support, like puppets whose strings had been cut.
A six-legged centaur monster had its upper and lower halves misaligned and separated in the same instant, falling and turning into ash.
The meat on the walls quickly turned grey and shriveled, peeling off the skeleton in large chunks and slamming onto the ground like rotting sludge.
Thousands of monsters lost their life force in the same second, scattering into a mess of disgusting parts with a clatter, leaving only the sound of viscous liquid flowing.
Sako's missed swing with his longsword nearly pulled him over.
He stood in place, staring blankly at the mountain of rotten meat remnants before him, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"What the hell, did they all commit mass suicide?" Weil was also stunned for a moment.
The next moment, Weil suddenly looked up, a light bordering on losing control erupting in his crimson pupils.
"No." His voice was trembling, yet it couldn't suppress the surging ecstasy, "It's the source."
Weil gripped his sword hilt and said, almost through gritted teeth, "The Lord has dealt with the source."
"All units, hear my command!" He turned abruptly, his voice suddenly rising, "Disengage defensive formation!"
The crimson shield dissipated with a boom.
"Charge! Go and rendezvous with the Lord! Now! Immediately!"
Thus, the hundred Red Tide Knights ignored the need to save energy and the layer of meat sludge beneath their feet that was so slippery it was hard to stand, and sprinted forward like mad... Charging past the final corner, the fleshy giant door leading to the core hall was right ahead.
Louis was walking out of the shadows at an unhurried pace, his black military overcoat as smooth as new, without a single wrinkle.
Those white gloves were dazzlingly white, so clean they were out of place with everything around them, as if the external filth had been kept at bay by some invisible force before it could even get close.
His expression was calm, as if he had just taken a stroll in a garden.
Weil charged too fast and stumbled a few steps, nearly kneeling on the ground.
He looked up, his voice carrying a clear tremor: "My... My Lord? Are you injured?"
Louis, however, smiled nonchalantly: "What could possibly happen to me? Let's go, we'll talk back on the ship."
I've caught a cold; if I'm not better tomorrow, I'll take a day off.
