CHAPTER 263: CHAPTER 202: EDUARDO’S ABILITIES (PART 2)

"And you?" Aik asked softly.

The response came from the snow forest not far away, a sudden string of footsteps.

They turned around, and standing on the snow were familiar figures: Blo, Heim...

Uncles and elders who once drank and fought alongside his father were now approaching like marionette corpses.

Father drew his sword, roaring as he charged at his former brothers.

The snow turned blood-red, the roar pierced the night sky.

Aik turned back for a final glance; that was the last time he saw his father.

Eduardo "witnessed" the end at dawn...

Aik staggered alone through the vast snowy forest.

He fell, got up, and fell again, never to stand again.

Those small feet were long stained with blood, yet before falling, he clung tightly to a badge and an overburdened short sword.

As if guarding something, or waiting for someone.

Sunlight poured through the forest gaps, casting a silent farewell on the small, stiff body.

The scene halted.

Eduardo slowly straightened, eyes long soaked with tears.

It wasn’t an illusion or a mere memory being observed, but life submerged as if personally experienced.

Divine Grace was not a gentle gift, but a costly synesthesia.

Aik’s fear, despair, stubbornness, and unfulfilled yearning pierced like needles into his nerves.

"Ha..." He gasped, wiping tears with his hand, yet blurring them further.

His knuckles whitened, gripping his sleeve to stop the trembling, yet a fatigue like a mountain almost knocked him off balance.

It was the agony of being crushed by emotions, not his own, yet as shattering as a broken heart.

Eduardo leaned against the cold stone wall, closed his eyes, and remained silent for a while.

The painful emotions finally subsided slightly, ebbing from his fingertips, leaving only reason slowly returning.

He took a deep breath, exhaled a misty white breath, and began to sort through what he had seen and felt.

"First, Aik indeed made contact with the ’Nest’ before his death, or... it left traces of Spiritual Power.

Secondly, the pollution from the Nest is not limited to corpses; it can also erode the minds of the living—chronic, hidden, and silent."

He looked at the half-closed coffin, his eyes revealing an unmasked pity.

"Third... the ’Snow Swearer stronghold’ where Aik and his father last escaped, was likely not an ordinary camp from the mental echoes. It might have been a Nest disguised as a stronghold."

The door suddenly flew open with a bang, bringing a gust of damp, cold cellar air.

Louis, waiting outside in boredom, shrugged: "Finally letting me in? I thought you were inside stripping and dancing."

"Stop with the jokes." Eduardo’s voice was low, his expression grave, "There’s a situation."

Louis’s expression immediately tightened, the joking tone vanishing instantly.

He entered the room and, after hearing Eduardo’s report, his expression grew even more somber.

"Polluting the living, hiding the stronghold, possibly even breeding right under our noses..." Louis repeated in a low voice, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes.

He wasted no words, simply raising his hand and snapping his fingers.

"Scout Knights, deploy. The target is a thirty-mile radius around Dongxi Territory. Find the Snow Swearer stronghold."

A response rang out immediately outside, with armor clashing and knights moving, figures retreating in an orderly manner.

Louis then turned his face, his gaze falling on his silent brother, his voice almost whispering:

"If it really is a Nest..." He paused, a sardonic smile suddenly curling his lips, "Then it’s just right; I’ve been wanting to see if my sword is sharp."

......

Leaves drifted down the slope, the wind stirring dry branches, the forest silent as if even the birds dared not chirp.

Under Louis’s orders, the Red Tide Scout Knight Team began a carpet search around the "Chosen Oath Taker stronghold" in batches.

After two days and nights of reconnaissance, a team finally discovered a settlement in the depths of the Northern Forest, far on a slope, unmarked on any map.

Caslo lay behind a rock, his brows furrowed.

He was the captain of this scout team, experienced and steady. At this moment, his gaze was locked onto the unfamiliar village below the slope.

"A place not on the map, yet with a complete stronghold, damn rats..." he muttered in a low voice.

The settlement’s buildings were crude and rough, mostly skewed wooden houses with walls built of stone pieces.

But strangely, several structurally complete watchtowers and wooden arrow towers were still operational, as if meticulously maintained.

This was not a naturally formed village, but a well-organized military outpost.

However, more eerie were the people.

They weren’t ordinary villagers but Snow Swearers.

Each one’s shoulder marks, armor scars, calloused hands, and belt emblems indicated:

This was a complete team.

Adult men, strong and robust, once swore to their beliefs and fought bravely.

But now they stood motionless like soulless statues along the streets, under the eaves, in the watchtowers.

Caslo stared at them intently, his throat dry.

He watched a bear-like man with tattered leather armor, holding a rusted axe stand rigidly before a wooden house, eyes fixed on a corner, not moving a muscle for half an hour.

It wasn’t alertness or vigilance, but stupor.

"Are they in a trance?" Alan whispered.

"No," Leo’s voice was nearly inaudible, "they... just don’t want to move."

Caslo narrowed his eyes slowly: "Not can’t move, but won’t move. They’ve sunk in, like... pressed under a dream, even their muscles forgot to contract."

The scouts saw a Snow Swearer sitting against a wooden pillar, head stiffly tilted upward, mouth slightly open, as if reciting ancient words.

But the lip movements, tone, rhythm... were like distorted underwater echoes, itching at the heart.

"Don’t you think they don’t even seem alive?" Alan gritted his teeth, "Yet their breath is still there."

As they continued to observe, they felt increasingly eerie.

A Snow Oath Warrior was cleaning a knife, but it was air he was wiping; there was no knife in his hand.

Someone was practicing archery with perfect form, yet there was nothing before him.

A tall female warrior stood on a terrace, sunlight enveloping her, lifting her arms as if greeting something.

"...This is sleepwalking." Leo finally spoke up, "They remember their combat moves, training habits, but for some reason, it’s like the whole village has fallen into a shared dream, endlessly repeating those long-meaningless actions."

"They’re not crazed maniacs," Caslo whispered, "they’re lucid puppets."

Suddenly Alan was startled, looking into the distance.

At the village entrance stood a Snow Swearer beside a wooden fence, motionless like a watchful statue.

The person suddenly—ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, shifted their eyes, looking in their direction.

Threads of blood surfaced in those deathly still pupils, weaving and wending like cobwebs.

"Did he... did he see us?" Alan’s voice trembled.

"No," Caslo grabbed them, "he’s not seeing us. He’s seen something in his dream."

"We can’t watch anymore." He made a sudden decision, his voice firm, "If we watch any longer, we’ll fall in too."

Alan whispered through clenched teeth, "Should we just... set it on fire now?"

Caslo glanced back at him, his voice low but unequivocal: "No. The Lord needs information, and it’s easy to mess it up."

Alan and Leo nodded together: "Understood."

They swiftly descended the mountain, not saying another word.

The wind blew through the forest, fluttering the edges of their cloaks, and swept towards that eerily dormant village below the valley.

No dogs barked, no smoke from chimneys.

Only those who murmured softly, living yet sleepwalking, continued slowly to repeat those phrases whose meaning was forgotten.