Winter Lord: Starting with Daily Intelligence

Chapter 465 The Fifth Mysterious Mist

The moment the green mist entered his consciousness, Louis's movements paused for a split second.

It wasn't because of pain, but because of an extremely jarring sensory distortion.

It was a sour, astringent smell that made his teeth ache, which suddenly exploded deep in his mind, like countless invisible needles probing wildly.

Probe every tiny crack in the soul, searching for any possible loose connection.

At the same time, whispers began to emerge, playing repeatedly in layers.

"Why...that should be mine..."

"You're just lucky..."

"You are merely a chosen vessel..."

“Pull him down…”

"Let him taste what it's like to rot in the mud..."

Amidst this noise, the sea of ​​consciousness itself began to change.

The emerald green poisonous fog spread out from the void like wildly growing thorns.

Instead of rushing directly towards the platinum-colored primordial heart in the center of their consciousness, they bypassed it.

They seemed to be imitating, the green mist twisting and shaping wildly, trying to construct a similarly structured island in the sea of ​​consciousness.

The outline was repeatedly adjusted, the layers were continuously added, and even the rhythm of energy flow was roughly aligned with the rotation frequency of the primordial heart.

Just as that fake island was about to stabilize and take shape...

The primordial heart ceased its rotation, and the sea of ​​consciousness fell into a brief silence.

Then, the platinum starlight, like an extremely precise scalpel, cut into the structural edge of the false island.

All the luster used for disguise was peeled away layer by layer.

The facade constructed by the green mist collapsed instantly.

What was exposed was merely an empty and chaotic core of thorns.

The crimson power then pressed down, transforming into a slowly rotating giant millstone that engulfed the thorny roots that tried to escape.

A deep purple aura followed closely behind, transforming into countless invisible mouths that opened in the sea of ​​consciousness, precisely devouring the pulverized high-energy remnants.

The power of pink finally descended, like a gentle yet dense net, covering the remaining restlessness.

Those still sharp fluctuations were slowly enveloped and smoothed out.

Their sharpness was dulled, and their desire to resist was suppressed.

The emerald green thorns were broken down and recycled one by one.

The sea of ​​consciousness returned to stability.

Having already become familiar with the process, Louise did not rush to open her eyes, but instead allowed herself to fall into the undercurrent formed by the remnants of old memories.

It wasn't a complete timeline; it was more like a riverbed that had been shattered and pieced back together, with blurry fragments beneath the surface.

He slowed his breathing, gathered all superfluous thoughts, and began to capture them one by one.

The first image that comes to mind is a charred sky.

Giant winged creatures hovered above the clouds, their shadows covering the entire land.

Every flap of their wings is a storm; every breath they take is a collapse of the climate.

On the ground, humans lay naked in the mud, trampled like ants, tossed about by the air currents, and smashed into a bloody mess upon landing.

The scene suddenly changed.

On a makeshift rock platform, a black-haired man wearing a strange robe stood in the center of the magic circle.

The magic circle had a complex and ancient structure, and its lines were not the common magic runes of this world, but rather mixed with some kind of square characters.

An ancient dragon was forcibly bound to the center of the formation.

It roared and struggled, its dragon might pressing down like a tangible mountain, but it was dismantled layer by layer by the magic array.

The black-haired man plunged his sword into the dragon's chest cavity, forcibly removing the still-pulsating magic core.

Behind him, a slightly younger blond man was helping to adjust the array patterns, his movements a little clumsy.

The screen then switched again.

The blond man had grown old.

He lay on the edge of the field, the soil beneath him freshly turned, the air filled with the scent of crops before they ripened.

He died peacefully, without fear or regret on his face.

The withered hand was tightly gripping a key.

The people around were kneeling on the ground, weeping with heartfelt grief and gratitude.

To commemorate him, the survivors spontaneously gathered, initially in a simple stone hut.

The stone house was later converted into a church.

Time is compressed rapidly here.

Louis saw a pope obsessed with art and symbolism standing alone in a secret room.

He opened the sealed box that had been passed down through generations.

The box contains two emerald green eyeballs soaked in a preservation solution.

The pope did not back down.

He didn't even feel fear.

In his eyes, it was a relic left by God, a treasure that witnessed the primordial era.

“It is too lonely,” the Pope murmured softly, his tone filled with almost fanatical piety. “It needs to see the light again.”

The image began to distort.

Originally just an ornament, the golden thorn crown was placed on the white throne. At first, it was merely a symbol, an extension of faith.

Then it began to grow, tiny golden thorns piercing the inside of the crown, silently seeping into the Pope's scalp and deep into his brain.

"As long as the Papacy can be made great again..." The former pope knelt on the ground, his voice trembling with pain, but he did not back down, "I am willing to sacrifice everything."

The thorns slowly and patiently sucked away at the brain and consciousness.

The image collapsed and was then forcibly spliced ​​together.

The last fragment appeared.

Eduardo stood there, trembling, his back soaked with sweat.

He was pinned to the spot by that irresistible pressure.

Louis could even clearly feel that searing pain that went straight to his soul through the remnants of his memory.

Countless thorns cascaded down from the dome like a waterfall, instantly enveloping Eduardo's body.

Fear was frozen in his eyes.

The screen completely malfunctioned. Louis suddenly opened his eyes.

Reality returned to the senses, and everything became clear again.

A deep emerald green briefly flashed in the depths of his pupils before quickly disappearing.

That completely tamed green power flowed back into the sea of ​​consciousness along with the return of consciousness.

The fifth halo quietly took shape.

It did not approach the core, but floated on the outermost layer, like a ring of barbs.

Louis could clearly feel the changes it brought about.

The first ability is that everything is no longer seen as a whole, but as a structure.

The tendon connections of organisms, the blockages in the energy circuits of magic arrays, the overlooked gaps in tactical systems... all vulnerable points will be instinctively marked.

Moreover, mental thorns can be projected outwards.

They are invisible and silent, yet powerful enough to pierce the energy core, interrupt spellcasting, and forcibly seal the operation of a certain ability.

On a deeper level, in close combat, he can even briefly borrow one of the opponent's special abilities, resistances, or expertise.

Of course, like other fogs, this is not all of its abilities; Louis needs to develop other abilities gradually.

Louis did not dwell on the feedback from the power; his attention immediately fell on the newly acquired memories.

In those fragmented images, the symbols written by the black-haired man were not the common script of this world; they were the Chinese characters he was most familiar with.

He then thought about the pronunciation of the incantation, which is essentially closer to the phonetic structure of Chinese.

A conclusion naturally formed in his mind.

The so-called primordial mages are very likely not the original inhabitants of this world.

He might be from the same place as me.

However, the memories of that person remain fragmented.

Many more clues have been exhausted over the long course of history.

Louis slowly exhaled.

The truth is not yet complete, but he has already taken a step closer.

…………

Weil's crimson shield has lasted far too long.

The fighting spirit began to heat up under the high-frequency vibration, like a piece of red iron that had been repeatedly forged.

The shield's surface relentlessly emitted dull impacts, each impact creating ripples on the light membrane. The heat waves rebounded through the battle aura circuit, causing his arm to go slightly numb.

He gritted his teeth, sweat trickling down his forehead and into his eyes, but he didn't have time to wipe it away.

Sakho beside him was already in a terrible state.

That guy had already cleaved two greatswords in two, the blades enveloped in dark red battle aura, and each swing was accompanied by a muffled sound of flesh being torn apart.

He was covered in strange green blood, and broken bones were stuck in the gaps in his armor, making him look like a blood-soaked man who had just crawled out of a swamp.

They are making progress, but it's more like they're just polishing things up in place.

With each step forward, three more layers of corpses would appear beneath their feet.

The severed limbs writhe on the fleshy surface, and the not-yet-dead stitched monster tries to drag the knight's ankle with its teeth and remaining arms.

Although there was no immediate danger to their lives, it was a grueling war of attrition that was almost torture.

"Damn it!" Sako kicked away a twitching half-monster, his roar echoing through the corridor. "These things are endless! How long has the lord been inside?!"

"Shut up! Maintain formation! Speed ​​up the advance!"

Will took a deep breath and almost forced the order out of his throat: "Even if it means paving the way with corpses, we must push through."

The knights didn't respond, but everyone gritted their teeth and pressed on.

They weren't worried about dying there; they were worried about the lord who had already walked alone into the depths of darkness.

Just as Sako was about to unleash his fighting spirit once more and forcefully break through the wall of flesh and bones in front of him, an unexpected event occurred.

The nausea that had been pressing on my chest and making it hard to breathe suddenly disappeared.

It's as if the source was directly cut off.

"Om-!"

A deep, resonant sound swept through the air, then quickly faded into silence.

The horde of stitched monsters, which was charging forward, froze in perfect unison.

The next second, they began to collapse. The splicing points that violated the physiological structure lost their support, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The six-legged centaur monster's upper and lower body separated at the same instant, and it fell to the ground and turned to ash.

The chunks of flesh on the wall quickly turned gray and shrank, peeling off in large pieces from the skeleton and splattering onto the ground like rotting mud.

Thousands upon thousands of monsters lost their lives in the same second, scattering into a pile of disgusting parts, leaving only the sound of flowing viscous liquid.

Sakho's longsword, which he swung in mid-air, nearly knocked him down.

He stood there, staring blankly at the mountain of rotting flesh and remains before him, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

"This is a fucking mass suicide?" Will was stunned for a moment.

The next moment, Will suddenly looked up, and a nearly out-of-control light burst forth from his crimson pupils.

"No." His voice trembled, but he couldn't suppress the surge of overwhelming joy. "It's the source."

Will gripped the hilt of his sword tightly, almost gritting his teeth as he said, "My lord has solved the source."

"All personnel, listen up!" He turned abruptly, his voice rising sharply, "Disarm!"

The crimson shield vanished with a deafening roar.

"Charge! Go and meet the lord! Now! Immediately!"

So the hundred Crimson Tide Knights, disregarding their own energy and the slippery, unsteady flesh beneath their feet, charged forward like madmen.

…………

After passing the last corner, the massive, fleshy gate leading to the core hall is just ahead.

Louis emerged unhurriedly from the shadows, his black military overcoat perfectly smooth and without a single wrinkle.

The white gloves were so dazzlingly white and so clean that they stood out from everything around them, as if some invisible force had kept all the filth of the outside world at bay before it could even get close.

His expression was calm, as if he had just taken a walk in the garden.

Weil rushed too fast, stumbled a couple of steps, and almost fell to his knees.

He looked up, his voice trembling noticeably: "M-Sir? Are you injured?"

Louis laughed nonchalantly, "What could possibly happen to me? Let's go back to the ship and talk about it."

　I've caught a cold. If I'm not better by tomorrow, I'll take a day off.

　　
　
(End of this chapter)