I loaded the Mysticism panel.

When Coleman saw the grayish-yellow mist, he didn't have time to think about it.

When people are afraid, they don't think about anything; their bodies will move first.

So the first thing his body did was to fill his lungs with air.

This was St. George's first lesson, when the instructor stood by the ice pool, holding a pocket watch.

The first lesson is to breathe deeply and quickly, pressing each breath down to the very bottom until your fingertips go numb and your vision goes black.

The pressure was applied to that small, unused area of ​​the lungs, which was then stretched to its maximum capacity, so that the tiny flame in the blood could finally ignite.

The basics of the Blood Burning Technique can be summarized in one sentence: breathe first, then unleash your power.

He trained for more than two years, and after being eliminated, he trained alone in the backyard for another three years.

This burst damage system has been ingrained in his very being.

So deep that his consent wasn't even needed, Coleman instinctively took twelve breaths.

After taking the drug, I knew I was doomed.

My eyes hurt so much.

Coleman initially thought it was from smoke, so he raised his hand and rubbed it hard, but the more he rubbed, the more painful it became.

Tears welled up instantly, blurring the entire field of vision into a yellow blur.

Then a sweet taste began to rise in my throat.

It was similar to a pineapple rotting in a boat basket, with a pungent peppery smell underneath. When he inhaled it, it felt like something was igniting his chest.

"Don't fall into the pit!"

A sergeant's shout boomed from the other end of the ramp: "Climb higher! That thing will sink; it's pouring down!"

Tucker remained where he was, his hands resting on the ammunition box.

The sergeant slapped him off the box.

He stumbled from the blow.

"Cloth, bring the cloth."

"What kind of cloth?"

"Just pee on whatever's on your body and cover your mouth and nose."

He glared at the sergeant: "Sergeant, what did you say?"

The sergeant was already unbuckling his belt.

"I worked in the mines for years. That's how we did it when there was a gas leak down there. You don't know anything!"

Coleman didn't tear off the cloth covering his body.

He pulled the roll of bandage directly out of the first aid kit, his hands trembling so much he could barely undo his belt.

I accidentally peed on my own hand, and it was surprisingly cold, the coldness even reaching my wrist.

"Hurry up and apply it!"

The sergeant roared.

He took the lead and pressed the soaking wet cloth to his mouth and nose.

The sweet, fishy smell was indeed suppressed a little, but only a little.

When Major Baldwin emerged from the bunker, he was burning up.

Is this an ether burst?

Coleman had seen instructors use it at military school, but he had never seen it on a real battlefield.

The air around the major was constantly pushed outwards, and the wall of yellow-green poison gas surged in front of him, smashing a dent in it, but it only covered a very small area around him.

But it's still better than me; he's already on the countdown.

Baldwin's voice came through: "Run south, all of you, along the trenches!"

The wind had already started to pick up two miles to the south, and Coleman peered over the broken wall.

The wind arose out of nowhere from the ground, dozens of them converging together and pushing northward continuously.

The wall of poison gas on the side that was pushed up rose up completely.

Someone cheered on the pedals, but the cheer was cut off halfway through.

After the wall of poison gas was flipped up, it did not disperse; instead, it unfolded in mid-air, becoming both thin and wide.

The original 8-kilometer front was spread out to a full ten-mile radius, and then pressed down again, making it even more uniform than before.

"That gust of wind just now was caused by the people from the branch office."

Baldwin squeezed past him, his voice hoarse: "I knew it wouldn't be that easy to handle."

There was someone calling from the other side of the trench, and Coleman recognized who it was.

That communications soldier who always swung his legs too far apart when he ran was crying here just a few days ago, crossing out the unnecessary lines one by one on a field postcard.

He pressed the cloth tightly against his face and began to inhale.

Coleman took out his silver needle box and pricked himself with a needle to prolong his time.

By the time he climbed into the trench below, it was already full.

The yellow-green poison gas accumulated below the trench, and stopped moving once it reached knee-high.

He bent down and felt around inside, finding a boot. He had to climb up the boot to find the person.

They hoisted the man up and dragged him to the edge of the moat. By then, the breath in his lungs felt like nails were scraping inside.

Tucker was up there helping him catch the call and keeping track of the time.

"1:40!" he shouted, as was Coleman's habit.

Coleman lay on the sandbag to breathe, and on his third breath, he couldn't help but cough up a small pinkish substance.

Then he turned around and rushed down without hesitation.

The second group to move the equipment were engineers.

That guy kept bragging about how big their dogs were, and how deep they dug their pits.

But a deep pit means that you fill it up more than anyone else.

Coleman pulled him out of the pit and found that his body was no longer as flexible as a normal person should be, but he still pulled him up.

Dragging it up is pointless.

"Coleman!" Baldwin grabbed him by the collar from the pedal.

"Forget about saving others, let's retreat south first and save our own lives."

It's precisely because I'm about to die that I want to save others.

Coleman looked up at him; the major was still surrounded by glowing aether, protecting himself completely.

He pulled his collar out of the major's hand without explanation.

"There are still people down there, sir, there are people everywhere down there."

Baldwin suppressed his emotions.

"We can't take many with us."

Coleman smiled.

"Then take what you can carry with you."

He finished speaking and flipped down again.

After the third, fourth, and fifth trips, he had lost count.

He once went the wrong way and spent a long time groping around at the bottom of the trench, only to find a roll of telephone wire.

On one occasion, he was dragging someone halfway down when his hand slipped, causing the person to slide down again, forcing him to try again.

One time when he came up, he heard Tucker shouting numbers next to him, but he couldn't hear clearly.

He had stopped before, but this time he really stopped.

He squatted on the footboard, his hands supporting his knees, his chest stuffed with red-hot shards of glass.

He was thinking very clearly: That's enough. These past two years haven't been wasted, and the backtracking wasn't for nothing. I can brag about this to people when I get back.

He just squatted there, panting, thinking about what to say when he got back.

But after the fifth trip, it wasn't just Tucker who was keeping track of the time.

Everyone living along the entire trench was watching.

Some people counted the number of times he came up, some people helped him down when he was falling, and one of the three people who ran over from another platoon started to loosen his belt like he did.

He recognized those eyes, yet he didn't.

He saw it once when he was fourteen, on the playground of St. George.

The instructor led a student through the ranks, and the whole team stared at that person.

He stood in the last row, chin in hand, staring for a long time until his neck ached.

Later, the person measuring the loop took their hand off his back and said, "Next."

He was never looked at like that again.

The Collie at home has been looked at like that.

It ran in from the foyer carrying a newspaper, and the father would put down his knife and fork and clap his hands twice.

Thinking of this, Coleman stood up and then went back down.

When the last batch came up, he pushed the man onto the step, and then climbed up the sandbags and sat on it himself.

The cloth slipped off his face, but he was too lazy to pick it up.

"Tucker, how long will this trip take?"

Tucker brought the pocket watch close to his eyes, his hands trembling as he looked at it three times before he could make out what it said: "2:11".

Coleman chuckled. "I broke my record for holding my breath."

Then she stopped talking.

Baldwin rushed over and placed his hand on Coleman's chest.

Pour ether into it one stream at a time, pushing it into circulation, invigorating the heart and lungs, and forcing blood to flow back.

He had used these methods many times before.

He could make no mistakes even with his eyes closed, and he even started thinking about using [Moon Nail - Reflection] on Zacolman.

But when he tried to prick him, he lifted up his clothes and found that Coleman's back was already covered with a dense network of honeycomb-like holes.

Baldwin stopped.

He squatted there, making the soldiers who had been rescued nearby afraid to make a sound.

He then reached out and removed the ID tag from the other person's neck, and got up to leave.

"He mailed the card a few days ago," Tucker suddenly said.

Baldwin didn't turn around: "What was left up there?"

"I have received your letter, and I am in good health."

Seeing that the highest-ranking officers present had left, the defeated soldiers scattered like birds and beasts.

Someone knocked Coleman's backpack over, and the backpack rolled halfway around, knocking open the lid of the tin box inside.

Gingerbread was scattered on the pedal and crushed underfoot.

The sergeant picked up the piece of cloth next to Coleman and found that it was already dry.

………………

A group of creatures passed by beneath the clouds, their horns drowning out the cries of wild geese.

The shadow held the antler with the reins wrapped around it in its palm and walked towards the stone pillar on the left.

The bundle of dry grass at the base of the pillar was only half-buried, and frost climbed up from the corner, condensing into a shape on the knot.

A crack appeared in the cloud, and a rope hung down.

There is no road up there, nor is there any need for one.

The people above were lined up one after another, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Some were wearing bearskins, some were wearing chainmail, and one was wearing a red coat from the last century, with buttons polished brighter than anyone else's.

There was another one wearing only a single garment, barefoot, with frost from six hundred years ago on the insteps of his feet.

Their outlines were mostly blurred, but the things they were clutching in their hands were still clear: an axe, a spear, a sickle, and a small knife for peeling apples.

The dog is at the very front.

The shadow, bearing the name "Black Dog," walked inside.

The pack of dogs circled around it, and one old dog with a patch of white fur on its forehead stuck its nose into its paw and sniffed for a long time.

There was also a smaller one, with a slight limp in its hind legs, which followed the one that was using its head to push against its knees.

On the third thrust, the shadow reached out and pushed it away.

The creature flipped over on the spot, its four legs pointing upwards and its belly exposed, and remained motionless.

The shadow had no choice but to press on its belly, and only then did it get up contentedly, wagging its tail and running ahead.

At the front of the line, the rope had broken into dozens of strands.

Each share is held tightly in one hand, and no one is willing to let go first, like a group of partners surrounding the same money bag.

The hunter is not here.

A cacophony of voices erupted in discussion:

"It's not here tonight."

"Where did you go?"

"have no idea."

"The last time it wasn't there was thirty-seven years ago."

"It has been forty-one years."

Thirty-seven.

"Forty-one, you can't even remember what you've been holding onto."

That sentence rolled around in the queue, rolled to a place where it couldn't be heard, and then rolled back.

Someone at the back of the line spotted the half-bundle of grass at the base of the pillar.

"Someone planted grass."

"How many bundles?"

"Half a bundle."

This sentence was passed along the line and carried for miles.

When it came back, it said: "He gave a whole cartload and even brushed the horses' backs."

"I only gave half a bundle," Shadow said.

"Then you shouldn't have corrected it," someone replied.

"Two hundred years from now, you will be the one who built the stables for us."

Richard removed [Black Dog] while the atmosphere on the field was at its best.

The moment they retreated, the entire pack of dogs turned around at the same time.

Dozens of hands gripping the rope pulled it in half a turn at the same time, stretching the rope into dozens of straight lines in mid-air.

But the shadow had already raised the double serpent staff.

The wind paused briefly on the tip of the staff before circling around it, passing by on both sides.

A young man leaned out from the line and swung his axe.

The axe blade stopped automatically in mid-air.

"You can't cut down the messenger," someone nearby said.

"I know I can't cut it."

"Then what are you swinging?"

"Give it a try."

"No physical altercations during court proceedings."

The voice rose from deep within the ranks, and it wasn't just one person speaking.

A single sentence was uttered by hundreds of mouths simultaneously, with no one managing to say it before anyone else.

"The messenger has arrived; let us establish a court."

"Li Ting!" The entire sky seemed to respond.

The hoofbeats stopped.

Tens of thousands of horses stood still in a place where there was nothing, and the procession split off from the middle to both sides, creating an open space.

The wind swept through the center of the clearing, the spot the hunter had promised him.

"We'll tell you the rules first," the voice said.

"When someone is standing at the forefront of a trend, no one can interrupt them."

Only after that will it be the next person's turn. What's agreed upon in court cannot be overturned after the court session ends.

"Even if the Hunter returns, it won't be able to turn back?" Shadow asked.

The sound paused for a moment.

"...Even if it comes back, it can't flip over."

"It will be unhappy when it comes back," someone chimed in, trying to sabotage the idea.

"It's unhappy more often than not."

"Last time it was unhappy, it left the entire team stranded in a swamp for three nights."

"It's not that it's unhappy, it's that it got lost."

"It never gets lost."

"Then why did we wander around the swamp for three nights?"

"Enjoy the scenery."

Then laughter started, and the laughter echoed back and forth, continuing even when it reached places where it couldn't be heard anymore.