I loaded the Mysticism panel.

The shadow stood in the center of the wind, firmly holding the cane.

"Flanders, a new area has recently opened."

There was a two-second silence in the open space, and then the chatter resumed.

"There's more stock over there." The young man wielding the axe was the first to rush ahead.

"I can smell it right here; one night's worth is enough to last ten years."

"Shut up, it's not your turn yet."

"Isn't it true that anyone can speak in court?"

"Yes, you can say you need to wait in line."

"We won't go to places where war is fighting."

The dozens of hands gripping the rope spoke at once, their voices perfectly synchronized.

"Werburg is clear, and tonight we're chasing those who've been lingering all winter and refused to leave."

"Others will collect the newly fallen on the battlefield; we won't steal from their pots."

"This line hasn't been broken in three hundred years."

"Three hundred and twenty years."

"here we go again."

A mumbled voice was interrupted as it recounted how its ship capsized at sea that year, but was abruptly cut off: "It's not your turn."

"I'll finish saying this sentence."

"You haven't finished saying this sentence in six hundred years."

Shadow waited until they stopped arguing before speaking.

"Then let me ask you this first: who was it that was collecting people in that area tonight?"

It was very quiet up in the windy area.

"The judgment of the church is written according to the manner of each person's death."

The way tens of thousands of people are dying tonight is new; it's not mentioned in the church's books.

The army roster wouldn't be copied until tomorrow morning. Their names were currently in the quartermaster's drawer, which was locked. The key was in the pocket of a second lieutenant who had already run six miles away.

My family doesn't know yet; the letter won't be sent for another three days.

It slammed its cane on the ground.

"There was no one standing by the pot, and the pot was empty."

"Even an empty pot is someone else's pot," some people say.

"Then let's talk about the second thing." Shadow continued with his persuasion plan.

"Tonight is Qing, so I will not ask you to go and collect people."

Dozens of hands gripping the rope released their grip at the same time.

"The material world layer on that piece of land has now dissipated with the wind, but the layer behind the curtain has not."

It fermented over the winter, trapping tens of thousands of people underneath, preventing them from getting out or escaping.

The shadow stopped speaking here.

"It's stubbornly refusing to leave; isn't that exactly what you all chased away tonight?"

The sound didn't immediately pick up again the first time.

"...He circled back to the point," someone whispered from behind.

"Don't listen to him finish speaking, because once you do, you'll think he's right."

"I already think so."

"Then you're finished."

An old man pulled his hood down to cover his ears:

I won't listen to the third sentence.

"No matter how well you try to shoo it away, you can't drive a dog away."

Dozens of hands spoke at once, and this time even the ending sounds were in unison.

"Tens of thousands of people died at the same time, and each death had its own unique flavor."

The dog sniffed around but only found a wall; it couldn't distinguish the door from the wall.

"If you bite the wrong one that's still breathing, the punishment falls on the hand holding the leash."

"We don't go to the battlefield because we can't tell the difference."

"I will divide it for you all," said the shadow.

A few short laughs rang out in the open space. The laughter wasn't unpleasant, but ultimately no one believed it.

One of the dozens of hands holding the rope hooked downwards.

One of the dogs darted out from the pack, plunged into the darkness below, and quickly came back up with something in its mouth.

It was a wisp of something that had just risen from below, so thin it was translucent, hanging motionless and completely cold in the dog's mouth.

Richard maintained a facade of popularity for Shadow, but inwardly he was on edge.

The shadow attached the wisp of spirit within its body to the surface, peeling it away layer by layer.

The outermost layer is cold, so cold it looks like it's stopped.

On the next level down, something was still slowly shrinking back;

In the bottommost layer, there was still half a breath left to be exhaled.

Thank goodness, I'm so glad that my [Perception] recently broke through to level 4, otherwise I might have really made a fool of myself.

Shadow reached out and took the strand from the dog's mouth.

"This one's still breathing, put it back."

"The dog recognizes it as dead."

Dogs smell scents.

He'd been pressed under something for so long that the smell came out first, the person was still behind.

The shadow flipped its hand over: "Put it back, count to twenty."

The hand flicked its wrist.

A thin wisp slid down from the shadow's palm and fell back into the darkness below.

When the count reached seventeen, someone coughed.

The cough was very light, almost inaudible due to the sound of tens of thousands of hooves pawing the ground.

No one spoke in the open space.

The hand gripping the rope pulled down one more time.

This time, the dog brought back a man wearing an old military uniform, the corner of which was covered in mud.

"What about this one?"

"This one is dead. It's been dead for three days."

"……right."

"I tested you twice, and you were right both times."

"Luck," muttered the young man wielding the axe.

"You can tell the difference between one and ten thousand." The hand gripping the rope ignored him. "What about tens of thousands?"

"I won't divide them one by one."

"Then how do we divide it?"

The shadow held the double-serpent staff horizontally.

Two golden snakes staggered along the staff, revealing a very narrow slit in the middle.

"I'll give you a line, I'll read it, and you can walk on your own."

Those who can cross this obstacle will walk; those who cannot will still be panting.

The dog doesn't need to sniff; just squatting on either side is enough.

"What are you saying?"

"We'll talk about it when we get there."

"You won't be able to pronounce it when you get there."

"Then I'll follow you all for the night," Shadow said. "That's what the Hunter Master said."

Someone laughed out loud.

"How will the profits be split?" The younger one finally spoke, his voice even louder than before.

"He wants one? A living person wants one?"

"I earn the credit myself, so when it comes to splitting the profits, my share will be included."

Richard, sitting in the wicker chair, clenched his fingers a little tighter.

"They were sorted wrong." The hand gripping the rope asked, this time with the most serious expression.

"The punishment falls on me."

The open space fell silent again.

"Not falling into the hands of the person on the leash?"

"Never fall."

Dozens of hands looked at each other, clearly showing interest.

"You smell of life." The man carrying the charred piece of wood suddenly stopped laughing. "You have people down there, don't you?"

"have."

"several."

"Three, at least three."

"So you've come here to beg us to take care of them."

"If I wanted this, I wouldn't need to stand in court," Shadow said. "A private word with the rope handler would suffice."

"The last time someone gave us directions was three hundred years ago."

"How was it that time?"

"We took him in that time too."

"Did he point out the wrong person?"

"No, he's right." Charcoal Tip tapped his chin. "He just talks too much."

As the group discussed this, they changed direction and headed in the opposite direction from their destination.

The aerial Wild Hunt team moved quickly, and in no time, the strait below shone with a dark gleam.

All the lights went out, leaving only a few troop transport ships trailing white marks.

No one on the road was talking about serious matters.

The one on the right started talking about how he drowned.

"That year at sea, when the ship capsized, I was still clutching a shoe in my hand..."

"Last time you said it was a bucket."

"The bucket was mentioned the year before last."

"Six hundred years have passed, and you can't even remember what you've been holding onto."

"I remember it was a very good shoe." He was very persistent.

"The sheepskin is stitched very tightly; I saved it up for two summers to get it."

"What's your name?" the shadow asked.

The sound stopped for a long time.

"...I don't remember," he said. "But I remember the shoes."

The whole team laughed.

In the backyard, the gas lamp had burned down to almost nothing.

Richard sat motionless in the wicker chair, his eyes closed.

Gerald took off his coat, unfolded it, and covered his grandson with it.

The old man tucked his collar in for him and stepped back behind a pillar.

………………

At a quarter to five, the eleven men directly under the division dispersed on a low hill two miles to the south.

Lieutenant Colonel Odd blew out the first blast.

The wind rose from the ground and pushed northward along the furrows.

The second layer presses down on the first layer, and the third layer presses down on the second layer.

Dozens of layers piled up together, completely tearing apart the yellow-green wall.

People were cheering below the low hill.

Od was looking at what it looked like after he climbed over the wall.

It unfolded thin and wide in mid-air, then sank back down.

He pressed his last breath into the deepest part of his lungs.

The fierce wind gathers its energy in the lungs, pressurizes it to the limit, and then exhales it all in one breath.

He held his breath for a full eleven seconds, until it felt like a piece of red-hot iron was stuffed into his chest.

He vomited.

The thing that was spat out was caught by that yellowish-green thing, and it didn't come back after it caught it.

Odd stood on the low hill with his mouth agape. A soft crack came from the steel prosthetic limb on his left side, and the Signature Wonder cracked.

Further away, to the south, from several places, and from one place whose location was indiscernible, came the same soft sound almost simultaneously.

Several of the eleven people turned to look at him.

The lieutenant colonel opened his mouth.

For someone as powerful as Lie Feng to reach that level, their voice has long been deformed from being suppressed.

Over the years, most of his orders have been relayed by his adjutants, using gestures and glares.

There was no other way; conventional countermeasures were ineffective, so we had to resort to our trump card.