In the foul mist, Old Laver's body swayed with the corpse cart.
He heard his own ragged cough echoing amid the pile of bodies, uncertain of how many corpses or wounded soldiers were jostling with each bump.
The severed hand at the top happened to fall onto his chest, its skin cold, and its nails embedded with dried blood.
"Water, water..."
He licked his cracked lips, the oilcloth in front of him was shrouded in a layer of bloody light from thirst.
Where is this place? Gradually awakening from sleep, Old Laver looked around, unable to suppress his astonishnt.
He actually wasn't dead, but had been mistaken for a corpse and loaded onto the cart!
Was he going to be burned then? After all, he was a soldier infected with the plague.
Cutting open the oilcloth with a small knife, he took a few bites of the snow that chilled his lungs, his heart spasd violently like suffocating before regaining consciousness.
No matter what, since he was awake, he shouldn't just sit and wait for death.
At the very least, kill one more before dying!
Hiding the knife in his sleeve, he dared not breathe until the corpse cart ca to a sudden halt, the squeaking axle emitting a teeth-gritting sound.
Two Red Knights lifted the tarp, moonlight shining on their breastplates, revealing not the Lanfeng, but the Ouroboros crest.
Old Laver held his breath, half-opening his eyes to secretly watch the Ascetics approach.
Suddenly, he almost cried out when the Red Knight removed his helt and bandages—was that still human?
His face was covered with sutures from forehead to chin, dark red granulation moving at the seams, seemingly more alive than Old Laver.
"May the Holy Communion grant you rebirth."
The Knights, drawing a reverse cross, began dragging bodies one by one to the bonfire, Old Laver included.
Lying face up, stacked with other wounded and corpses, through the gaps of the foul-slling pile, he saw the black-robed Ascetics pouring thick, worm-like writhing liquids into the mouths of the wounded.
Around four or five seconds later, these injured soldiers would convulse madly, their skin turning a bizarre ash-gray in the firelight.
Their once firm muscles shriveled rapidly, turning into dry corpses within re seconds.
As for the wounds, they oozed a pus-like liquid, emanating a strange foul odor.
Most who drank the fluid died, with the remaining few quickly surrounded by the Ascetics.
They wrapped the surviving soldiers completely in linen bandages, leaving only their eyes exposed.
Then they lifted them, hurling them into the coffin-like iron trough next to the bonfire.
The edge of the trough dripped black slurry, black-purple bubbles churning, splashing onto the snow, rising with foul-slling blue smoke.
"In the na of the Sevenfold Fire Prison, O great Eternal Lord..."
Incomprehensible prayers echoed in his ears, making Old Laver shiver uncontrollably.
When that "thing" crawled out of the trough, Old Laver bit his tongue to suppress the urge to scream.
The soldier, originally on the brink of death, expanded to more than fifty percent, skin turned blue-black, spine piercing through flesh forming bone spurs.
The Ascetics approached, pounding hot iron nails along the spine, each nail eliciting inhuman growls from the soldier's throat.
No wonder these Red Knights could swim in armor for so long; they were living dead.
Seeing the knights leave with the wounded, Old Laver changed his mind about killing one before dying.
This intelligence must be passed on.
"Plop!"
The Ascetics conducting the ritual simultaneously turned, looking at the corpse rolling off the pile.
Nearby, a bush shook, barely visible, far off the sound of sothing entering water echoed.
Soon, heavy footsteps sounded from the stream bank.
"Ran away?"
An Ascetic crouched by the bush, dipping his fingers in fresh blood, gently rubbing them between thumb and forefinger.
"Please have the Knight co over," he murmured, "and bring a few hunting dogs."
......
"Wer! Wer! Wer!"
The braying in the night was so piercing, but as a hunter, Old Laver knew it was not a donkey, but the Thorn Garden's patrol hounds.
Famous for their peculiar howl, these dogs produced in Thorn Garden signaled their owners of the prey's location with their shrill cries.
If it were the forest, he could easily shake off these hounds.
However, outside Xia Lvcheng lay plains, sparse bushes and small groves, barely any cover.
Running through the snow, Old Laver felt his lungs burn with every breath.
"Wer! Wer! Wer!"
The barking grew closer behind him, and though his body temperature was rising again, his throat felt sore.
His vision blurred, body losing balance, staggering step by step.
Suddenly, a shimring line appeared before him, instantly recognizing it as a stream.
Touching his fever-abandoned forehead, Old Laver steeled himself and plunged into the water, rolling twice, shivering from the cold before climbing out.
It seed that the stream's disturbance had thrown off the scent, the barking behind Old Laver grew increasingly distant this ti.
The scent of blood wafted through the air with the wind, and the hound's nose grazed the grass, hesitating by the creek.
Seizing the opportunity, Old Laver ran far, panting as he climbed over a crumbled wall, only to pace into a tilted hut.
He banged his knee against the door fra, nearly falling over, but he didn't stop and quickly rolled inside.
Before he could look up, the sound of a sharp object slicing through the air reached him. A veteran like Old Laver wouldn't be struck down by such crude hacking.
The blade slashed downward, the chopper carving three inches deep into an oak board.
"Witness of the Holy Father!"
The butcher inside the broken hut panted, his face sared with blood, eyes bloodshot, like a frightened pig.
Old Laver grabbed a salt jar in reverse and threw it at him, taking advantage of his wild swings with the cleaver to land a punch, knocking the man to the ground.
Seizing the cleaver from the burly man's hand, Old Laver stood panting, surveying everything inside the hut.
Behind the luggage in the corner of the wall, a woman cradled her child in the shadows.
Huddled behind their mother's arms, several children stared wide-eyed, looking at him with fear and confusion.
Evidently, they were citizens of Xia Lvcheng seeking refuge, secretly hiding in this field hut.
"Please… don't harm my family…" the attacker rasped, causing Old Laver to pause.
Old Laver stared at him in silence for a long ti before suddenly realizing it was the old butcher Giovanni who had once cursed him in Xia Lvcheng.
What a coincidence for enemies to cross paths.
Giovanni didn't recognize who it was, only begging for rcy repeatedly.
"Wer! Wer! Wer!"
Old Laver heard barking again, that damned dog's nose was too keen.
"Listen, the hounds have caught the scent of blood; if I stay here, you won't escape either."
The barking outside grew closer.
Old Laver's eyes fell on the child in the corner, the frail little boy clutching his mother's clothes tightly, trembling.
At that mont, he rembered his own son, rembered the figure curled up by the fireplace.
"Unless I go out and draw those hounds away, you won't survive, understand?"
Giovanni looked at this black-clad soldier as if grasping the last straw: "What do you want?"
"Once you escape, find the Cheka or the army and tell them one thing."
"What do you want to convey?"
"The Red Knights are not human, the Leia people can resurrect the dead." He spoke through gritted teeth, "Rember this, repeat it."
After making Giovanni repeat it several tis and ensuring he rembered, Old Laver quietly said, "If you don't want our holand permanently occupied by the Leia people, you must do as I say."
Taking a deep breath, he tossed the ring from his neck to Giovanni: "If they don't believe you, find a man nad Kaler Hans and show him this."
Trembling, Giovanni took the ring, his eyes shifting from fear to confusion.
The barking of the hounds grew nearer.
Old Laver pushed the door open and stumbled out.
Soon after, the Giovanni family heard shouts and hoofbeats in the night.
"Over there!"
The light of torches approached.
The first arrow skimd past his arm, blood splattering on the white snow.
A second crossbow arrow pierced his calf, causing Old Laver to stumble and fall hard onto the snowy ground.
He propped himself up, looking ahead.
At the edge of the woods, a dead tree cast a sinister shadow in the moonlight, as if lying in wait for him.
The third arrow pierced into his back, and he laughed instead.
The pursuers were now half a mile from the original broken hut.
Old Laver thought of the ring he threw away, his only token, all he owned when he was fifteen.
Using all his savings, he had a ring made by a blacksmith to propose to his woman.
Mire Village, Adrian Manor, the ironwood forest, the morning mist…
As if hearing the sound of bells again in the night sky, his woman, eyes brimming with tears, waved at him.
His ho could never be returned to.
Spitting out a mouthful of bloody froth, he turned his head to the approaching Red Knights and suddenly revealed a grim yet relieved smile.
Old Laver clutched the dead tree to haul himself up, and facing the encroaching knights, he used the last of his strength to shout, "Demons! Get out of my ho!"
A crossbow arrow shot through his chest, blood gushing out.
He fell in the snow, the cold wind blowing by, and the barking of the hounds gradually subsided.
Above the celestial do, black clouds obscured the last glimr of starlight.
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