Translator: CinderTL
Colin had told Roland that if he encountered an emergency, he should shake the copper bell, and someone would come to handle it.
But Roland wasn't sure if the situation before him qualified as the "emergency" Colin had mentioned.
Still, considering the man was a prominent figure from Far Ocean Port and had even tried to recruit him earlier, he probably meant no harm...
With this thought, Roland cautiously approached the edge of the rope and slowly pulled it.
Jingle, jingle, jingle!
A clear bell chime echoed through the silent space.
But after a moment, silence returned.
Nothing happened.
Seeing this, Roland frowned. He quickly stripped off his nightclothes and chose a suitable outfit from his wardrobe.
Just as he fastened the last button, a muffled thud suddenly came from the dark corridor outside.
The sound was faint, barely noticeable in normal circumstances.
But in the absolute stillness of the room, the soft thud struck Roland's ears like thunder.
Before he could react, a series of muffled thuds followed, growing closer with each one.
Clearly, the source of the sounds was approaching his room.
Bang!
With a loud crash, the door burst open.
A figure crashed through the open door and landed heavily on the soft wool carpet.
"He's..."
In the dim light, Roland's gaze fell on the deep blue uniform. The distinctive cut and insignia immediately identified him as one of the guards who had been patrolling the Sea Pearl Pavilion earlier.
"What in the world is going on?"
Roland narrowed his eyes, studying the guard on the floor. The uniform was perfectly buttoned, the copper buckle on his belt still glinting coldly, and his sword hung intact at his waist. There wasn't a single sign of struggle or injury on his body.
Yet his face was ashen, like paper. His lips bore an unnatural bluish-gray tinge, and his eyes were tightly closed, as if he had simply fallen into a deep sleep.
Roland knelt down and gently touched the guard's neck.
No pulse.
The skin felt cold and stiff, clearly long devoid of life.
Strangely, the guard's expression was eerily peaceful, even serene, as if some unseen force had silently drained his life away without him even realizing it. It was as if he had simply died peacefully in his sleep.
"How could this be?"
Roland withdrew his hand, his brow furrowed. A robust patrol guard, dead without warning right in front of his door?
And their deaths were so peaceful?
Gripping the hilt of his sword at his waist, Roland took a deep breath, lightened his steps, and slowly moved to the door.
The corridor outside was even darker than he had imagined.
The wall lamps were still lit, but their flames seemed suppressed by some invisible force, barely illuminating a small area around them.
Instinctively holding his breath, Roland peered out sideways.
The sight before him nearly froze his blood.
Down the dimly lit corridor, a guard's corpse lay sprawled every few steps.
Their postures varied.
Some, like the one who had broken down his door, had their eyes closed, their faces eerily serene.
Others stared wide-eyed, their pupils dilated, their faces frozen in twisted terror, as if they had glimpsed some unspeakable horror in their final moments.
Still others had flushed faces, a strange smile even playing on their lips, as if lost in a hallucinatory ecstasy from which they couldn't escape.
Yet without exception, their uniforms were neatly worn, and there were no signs of wounds or struggle on their bodies.
The entire corridor was eerily silent, save for the occasional faint crackling of the wall lamps, which only served to highlight the silent death scattered across the floor.
Witnessing this scene, Roland's throat tightened slightly.
These guards...
How had they died?
What could silently take so many lives without leaving a trace?
And what had they experienced before they died?
As he pondered, something in the darkness at the end of the corridor seemed to stir.
Sensing the anomaly, Roland's muscles tensed instantly, his gaze fixed on the eerie shadow at the corridor's end.
From its outline, it appeared to be a human figure.
It moved with an unnatural gait.
Though its steps were slow and graceful, it closed in with unnerving speed.
One moment it was still in the shadows at the corridor's end, the next it had flashed several meters closer, as if space itself were twisting and folding beneath its feet.
In mere breaths, the figure had stopped less than ten steps from Roland.
By the flickering lamplight, Roland finally saw the creature's true form.
An abnormally tall frame was draped in a pristine white robe, beneath which the outline of a gaunt skeleton was faintly visible.
A skeletal hand, its gray-white skin clinging tightly to the bone, emerged from the robe's overly long sleeve. Its knuckles were grotesquely swollen.
Beneath the wide hood, only a sliver of pale jaw was visible. The skin had an unhealthy transparency, revealing the purplish-blue veins beneath.
But what chilled Roland to the core was...
When Roland's gaze met the shadow hidden beneath the hood, an icy chill shot up his spine and prickled the back of his neck.
Though he hadn't seen the figure's eyes, he could distinctly feel an entity "watching" him.
"Is this one of the Church of Truth?"
Roland had reached this conclusion in a mere instant. The figure's appearance was strikingly similar to the members of the Church of Truth he had encountered before.
In the oppressive silence, the white-robed figure suddenly let out a dry, rasping chuckle like rustling dead leaves.
"What a... delightful surprise."
As the words faded, the figure slowly raised his head. Two points of golden light suddenly flared beneath the hood's shadow.
They were not human eyes. Their pupils were long and serpentine, gleaming with a metallic, icy luster.
But what was truly terrifying was the emotion contained within that gaze.
Ecstasy, longing, and greed...
These human emotions had twisted into a horrifying mockery within those alien eyes.
The figure stared at Roland as if a dying desert traveler had finally found an oasis, or a starving wolf had stumbled upon a lone lamb.
That raw, unbridled desire seemed to materialize, causing every inch of Roland's skin to prickle with an inexplicable ache.
Yet Roland's composure remained unshaken by the figure's unsettling behavior.
Roland's eyes suddenly sharpened like blades. He shifted his left leg back, leaned forward slightly, and assumed a combat stance.
Though he still didn't know the white-robed figure's origins, the mysterious deaths of the guards in the corridor were undoubtedly linked to him.
Adding to this was the suffocating malice radiating from the figure.
Before the white-robed man could finish his second sentence, Roland struck.
Despite his unhealed injuries and only eighty percent of his strength restored, the sword's strike was still as swift as thunder.
The Mithril Longsword sliced through the dim corridor, leaving a blinding trail of cold light as it aimed precisely for the white-robed man's slender neck.
This attack was devoid of any fancy techniques, relying purely on speed, accuracy, and ruthlessness.
It was a killing blow honed through countless life-and-death battles!
Swish!
The blade sliced through the white-robed man's neck without resistance.
But in the next instant, Roland's expression changed drastically.
His muscles tensed, and he leaped back several steps, his eyes fixed on the white-robed figure before him. His grip on the sword tightened unconsciously.
That strike...
There was no sensation of cutting through solid flesh.
No resistance as the blade parted flesh and bone.
The Mithril Longsword had passed through the figure as if it were a wisp of mist, light as air.
The perfectly intact neck and the bloodless blade silently proclaimed:
The eerie sensation of the strike missing its mark was no illusion.
(End of the Chapter)
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