Chapter 127: The Madness of Babbling
The sun had already dipped below the horizon, leaving only a broad, faintly curved line of light along the skyline.
With Amber’s shadow interference abilities aiding them, the group easily scaled the eastern wall of the castle and ascended the internal staircase of an old tower, entering the inner fortress of Viscount Andrew.
They slipped into the shadows and took cover on a second-floor terrace, overlooking the empty courtyard below and the corridor opposite it.
Like most noble strongholds in the southern lands of Ansu, this castle was roughly square and tiered in structure. The outermost layer was the curtain wall; inside that was a ring of stables, servant quarters, storage rooms, and outer galleries forming a protective zone. Further in lay the residential area, composed of inner corridors and the lord’s manor. These sections were connected by thick, sturdy passageways. Watch posts, some overt and some concealed, dotted the castle, and at each of the four corners stood arrow towers topped with bell towers and beacon fires for early warning.
This was no comfortable residence. Much of the architecture resembled a military fortress—a legacy of the southern lands’ history as the frontline against the magical tides. Though centuries of peace had softened many southern noble estates, with even modest families adopting the brighter, more comfortable manor style favored in the north, Viscount Andrew clearly cared little for comfort. His castle retained a distinctly “classical” fortress style.
Yet, in this near-military stronghold, Gawain saw surprisingly few guards patrolling or standing watch. Even the central courtyard was deserted.
“Not a soul in sight?” Amber’s eyes widened as she peered down. Her shadow affinity allowed her to see clearly even in the dim light. “And it looks like no one’s tended the courtyard for months—the weeds and bushes have grown so thick they’re covering the paths.”
Indeed, the courtyard was not only empty but overrun with rampant vegetation. Though just days ago it should have been orderly, now it looked as if the castle had been abandoned for months, maybe even a year. Thick plants sprawled everywhere, covering walkways and walls, with vines creeping up the main gate.
“Byron, you’re not fully recovered yet. Wait here for us,” Gawain said, turning to the middle-aged knight behind him. “I’m giving you three ‘crystal grenades’ for self-defense. You remember how to use them, right?”
The graying knight twisted his neck awkwardly. “It’s not a great feeling being treated like dead weight.”
Gawain smiled and patted the knight’s shoulder plate. “You’ve already done great and fought bravely. I don’t want my knights throwing their lives away recklessly.”
His words were sincere. Though Gawain had privately grumbled about this mercenary-turned-knight’s sometimes unreliable behavior, Byron had proven his courage and resolve in this mission. There was no need for him to risk his weakened body further. Maybe someone like Philip, with his rigid knightly spirit, would stubbornly fight to the death, but Byron wasn’t that kind of old-fashioned fool.
The knight nodded and accepted the three grenades, eyeing the delicate “magitech” devices with a complicated expression. “Tch… even a child could probably learn to use these.”
Moments later, under the cover of deepening dusk, the group slipped into the courtyard.
They saw no guards, no cultist minions, no magical traps. The vast fortress felt truly abandoned—empty, silent, eerie.
Philip, sword in hand, followed quietly behind Gawain but soon sniffed the air and lowered his voice. “There’s an evil presence here.”
Amber glanced at the usually slow-witted young knight. “You’re not about to shout ‘By the holy light, this evil must be fought!’ and charge in swinging that sword, are you? You’re not a paladin.”
“Shh,” Gawain cut her off softly. “Don’t forget, Philip is a devotee of Kael.”
Amber’s eyes widened slightly, then she pressed her lips together and fell silent.
Kael—the god of warriors and knights, a war deity second only to the Holy Light in power among the pantheon—blessed all brave fighters and granted favor in battle. Though not the Holy Light itself, Kael’s divine power included abilities to detect and oppose blasphemy and evil. His followers gained extra sensitivity when hunting cultists—not as strong as a true paladin or cleric, but far beyond ordinary men.
Philip was a devout Kael worshipper. Though not a cleric, his faith sharpened his senses, allowing him to detect the cult’s presence in the castle more keenly than the others.
Gawain, a skeptic who believed in no gods, felt no divine aid. Yet his body instinctively sounded alarms. Gripping the Pathfinder sword tightly, he stared warily at the overgrown bushes and trees in the courtyard. “These plants are growing too wildly. Something’s wrong.”
Pittman clutched a seed of ironwood but dared not cast any druidic spells to probe their surroundings. Just as he could easily sense cultists of the “End of All Things” sect who shared his druidic roots, cultists born of druidic origin could detect his magic the moment he cast it. Unless forced into open conflict, he wouldn’t risk it.
They began crossing the courtyard, moving toward the main building of Viscount Andrew’s castle—the most likely hiding place for the cultists.
A faint veil of darkness cloaked the four figures. Amber walked in the center, using her extraordinary shadow affinity to grant the group a collective stealth effect. Without her, Gawain wouldn’t have risked sneaking straight into the castle to save time.
The sun had fully set, the last glow on the horizon swallowed by darkness. Stars began to twinkle. As the first starlight appeared, a cool night breeze swept through the courtyard.
The thick plants, as if having grown unchecked for a year, swayed in the wind, rustling softly. Amid the rustling, faint, low whispers seemed to mingle.
A chill ran down Amber’s spine. As the shadows deepened, her vision sharpened into something almost supernatural. Things overlooked in daylight suddenly came into view.
The half-elf nearly gasped—but before she could speak, Gawain clamped a hand over her mouth.
“I see it too,” he whispered.
Beneath the dense, rampant plants, among the sprawling roots and vines, something stirred.
A nearby bush swayed in the breeze, and from its base emerged a pale hand, buried in the soil, twitching faintly. Nearby, a half-buried face peeked out from the weeds—its eyes half-open, cracked lips moving silently. An old oak tree, half-dead and leaning by the path, had a swollen root shaped like a skull. A pair of eyes glowed from cracks in the bark, yellowed and lifeless, mirroring the tree’s half-dead state.
Underneath every plant in the courtyard lay buried human limbs—and their owners were clearly still alive.
“By the name of the War God!” Philip whispered, voice trembling. “What madness is this?”
“Are these people alive or dead?” Amber took two deep breaths, prying Gawain’s hand from her mouth, her voice trembling with fear.
“Most are still alive, but it’s hard to say for how long,” Pittman said, clutching the seed he planned to use for magic. “No wonder we haven’t seen any guards or servants… they’re all buried in the courtyard!”
“Be very careful not to touch those plants,” the old druid added. “They’re the cult’s eyes.”
“What do the cultists want with burying people here?” Amber grimaced, fighting nausea. “Are they draining their life force?”
“…Probably not,” Pittman shook his head. “Draining life force doesn’t require such a complicated ritual. The cultists keep these people in a half-living, half-dead state, their minds foggy. I suspect they’re harvesting their thoughts.”
“Harvesting thoughts?!” Amber gasped. “The End of All Things cult can do that?”
“It’s not so easy against supernatural experts, but these are ordinary people with no magical resistance,” Pittman sighed softly. “Looks like the cultist isn’t just killing people here. He has a purpose—he’s gathering intelligence…”
As they spoke, the group carefully crossed the courtyard overrun with maddening plants and reached the porch leading to the castle’s main hall. Before them stood a slightly ajar oak door, bearing the Leslie family crest.
The emblem seemed to pulse with dark red, as if blood flowed beneath its surface.
Gawain didn’t touch the door directly. Instead, he used the Pathfinder sword to gently push it open, silently and slowly. Then, on high alert, he stepped inside first.
The moment his foot crossed the threshold, a sudden, overwhelming cacophony erupted—an unbearable chaos of noise!
It was as if ten thousand sounds exploded simultaneously in his ears, ten thousand voices shouting, ten thousand discordant instruments playing, or two drunken Ambers babbling nonsense right beside him…
Gawain felt his body stiffen, as if rusted, making even turning his head agonizingly slow. He soon realized the noise wasn’t external—it came from inside his own mind.
Amid the maddening clamor, the castle corridor before him, carpeted in dark red, stretched endlessly. The ancestral portraits of the Leslie family lining the walls receded into infinite distance. The space around him suddenly expanded boundlessly, and the castle’s interior gave way to a dark starry sky.
The chaotic noise finally coalesced into a single, clear voice, roaring over and over:
“All things must perish! All things must perish! All things must perish!”
Though noise and illusions swirled around him, Gawain found his mind surprisingly clear. Amid the roaring chaos, the sounds came through distinctly, and an involuntary thought popped into his head: “Yeah, because of entropy—so what?”
“All things must eventually…”
Before Gawain could make sense of it, the maddening noise and the vision of the dark starry sky abruptly ceased, vanishing like smoke.
(End of chapter)