From the Ship of Fools to Earl of Wugang

After the bone flute fell silent, the chaos in the cemetery escalated.

After a brief period of stagnation, the ghouls, now without their master, erupted into an even more frenzied and violent ferocity.

They no longer attacked in an organized manner, but instead scattered and pounced on each other driven by their instinctive bloodlust, their fangs and claws drawing chaotic arcs in the moonlight.

Starsword's saber twisted half a turn inside the first ghoul's chest before he pulled it out, black blood gushing out from the wound. Before he could wipe the blade clean, the second ghoul had already pounced out from the shadow of the tombstone on his left.

"Damn it." Jiliu parried a monster that lunged at him with a knife in one hand, the still-bleeding wound staining his sleeve a deep red. "Without a commander, it's even harder to deal with."

Star Sword kicked away the ghoul whose face he had sliced ​​off, and his gaze quickly swept across the battlefield.

"Don't linger in the fight, move towards the ideal state!"

As he spoke, he had no choice but to slash with his military knife again.

Three ghouls pounced at him from different directions at the same time. He could only turn sideways and use the back of his knife to parry the nearest claw attack, while simultaneously striking the second ghoul in the face with his left elbow.

The third claw grazed his right rib, tearing his coat and shirt, but fortunately Starsword stepped back in time.

Meanwhile, Edmund's consciousness was still flooded with the spiritual experiences Heinrich had instilled in him before his death.

Those scenes were undoubtedly beautiful. The boundary between life and death was a gray river, and the phosphorescent flames burning in the eye sockets of the corpses were like endless stars in the deep sea, surrounding the full moon.

Edmund's fingers trembled slightly, and a deep longing welled up within him.

The living are drawn to death by curiosity, fear, and contemplation... What kind of emotion would it evoke if it were to appear right before their eyes, real and tangible?

Before his death, Heinrich Pick handed over his most precious memories intact—a sincere yet sinister invitation.

Abandoning oneself, merging into that vast and perfect stillness. No more loneliness, no more fear, no more the pain of being alone in another world, borrowing another's body and face...

Edmund struggled to restrain himself from letting go, when he sensed that someone else shared a similar desire and obsession—Ryan Hall.

His presence, ironically, brought Edmund to his senses.

Heinrich Pick, what did that monster say again? "As cautious as I am, I have not lost myself; I am still Heinrich Pick."

Is it really still "me"? It's a bit self-deceptive for a humanoid creature that crawls out of a grave to say to its own claws, "I am still me."

Heinrich was clearly lost in this temptation and could no longer distinguish reality from fiction.

If I continue painting in this state of mind, what I produce will only be a second Heinrich.

Edmund took a deep breath, abruptly pulling his attention away from the vast beauty of death and turning it to another consciousness in the corner of his mind.

"Ryan, listen, we need to talk."

That consciousness retreated again.

"I said on that less-than-respectable ship that I would continue to see the world through your eyes." Edmund tried to keep the conversation in a friendly and open tone.

"Now you've reached the crossroads that once dragged you into the abyss, but now you have a second chance, a chance to truly realize your original idea."

The trembling fragments of consciousness seemed to relax slightly.

Edmund pressed his advantage: "Come on, buddy, this opportunity is rightfully yours. This time, you don't need to write for your teachers and classmates; you only need to write for yourself."

Deep in his mind, he made a move he had never done before: he took a step back.

"Mr. Lane Hall, the goddess of art will bless you for fifteen minutes—let the masters of art take the stage."

After a moment of silence, Edmund felt his right hand move.

He could still feel the touch of his fingertips, the coldness of the tombstone beneath his knees, and the salty smell of the sea in the night wind, but the movements of his right hand were no longer under his control.

Lane Hall skipped the initial sketching and went straight to painting.

The callus on the first joint of the index finger, formed from years of holding a pen, now resembles a seal, proving that these hands have left their mark on the canvas countless times.

Edmund watched quietly from the side, sensing that Ryan's hands were trembling, and he sent him some encouraging thoughts.

It's perfectly normal for someone who has been locked in darkness for too long to tremble instinctively when they stand in the sunlight again, facing an overly bright world.

"Come, Ryan, use your skill to depict that magnificent river on paper, for the most difficult part is over."

Ryan's hand paused for a moment, then the brush began to move at a more confident pace, and was still accelerating.

"Excellent, very good." Edmund felt like he was chatting with an old friend at his easel. "Is it possible to add some silver-gray?"

A paintbrush laden with paint fell onto the canvas, and the grey-blue sea gleamed with a cold luster under the moonlight.

The hue, somewhere between lead gray and phosphorescence, made the bright moon seem to freeze the entire ocean.

"Very good," Edmund continued in a low voice, "Perhaps we should add some elements symbolizing the spiritual. You know, in place of the dead..."

Ryan seemed to heed this advice, and with an animation pen on his wrist, he began to sketch the countless angels in the upper right corner of the image.

A series of shadows, composed of light and shadow, overlap each other and extend into the void, with light and free brushstrokes.

Edmund's consciousness extended outward, glancing at the battlefield: "A good idea, best to act quickly, before this feeling of freedom slips away."

The battle in the cemetery was nearing its climax. Starsword's breathing was noticeably heavy, and Torrent was in a sorry state, as he wielded his sword with one hand to cut down a ghoul, only to be tripped up by another undead.

With a roar, Jiliu plunged her dagger into the monster's eye socket, using it to prop herself up from the ground. Her bleeding wound stained the soil beneath her.

The encirclement had narrowed, and they were now less than five meters from Edmund's tombstone.

"Lane, let's finish it." Edmund suppressed his eagerness. "Draw upwards, towards the moon!"

Ryan tilted his head back slightly, as if looking directly at the moon that floated above his soul's vision.

With a sudden upward flick of the brush, a series of silvery-white strokes leaped into shape on the canvas, forming angels that created a ladder connecting the river and the starry sky.

Another ghoul broke through the defenses and charged toward Edmund. It ran on all fours, its movements grotesque and terrifying, like a mad dog that had broken free of its cage.

The torrent rushed in from the side, and with its intact hand, it swung the iron support and smashed it into the monster's spine in mid-air.

The ghoul was sent flying, crashing into a tombstone and rolling twice.

But the torrent itself was also pulled down by inertia, and it fell to one knee.

She looked up and saw two more ghouls approaching Edmund.

Star Sword was entangled by three monsters and couldn't break free at all.

"The Ideal State—!"