Stray

If this scene is also an illusion.

Oliver finally looked away, unable to bear to look at the scene on the left side of the corridor. The scene behind the cage became more and more terrifying - what floated in that space was not blood or pain, but coldness and numbness. Those precise metal instruments and magic circles are not specially designed for malice, every detail is full of calmness and order, and everything is in order.

"Common sense" in this castle seems to have been redefined. It seems to be a matter of course for human beings to be treated in this way, without any mental struggle.

This should be intentional. Whatever the intentions of these people, they did succeed in destroying most of his positive emotions. Oliver began to stare at the ground, and the gray and clean stone ground was clearly illuminated by the pale light.

This road full of torture is extraordinarily long. He may have walked for a hundred years, and only the incomplete guide ahead stopped. Oliver, who was counting the bricks, almost hit the man's back.

As big as a slap. Except that the thin chain between the ring and the brand is longer, it is no different from the one worn by the crowd in the cage just now.

The man threw the metal plate at Oliver at will, and the ring at the end of the plate moved like a living thing, and got into Oliver's collar through the gap of the armor. Immediately there was the excruciating pain of the flesh on the collarbone being pierced, along with the feel of warm blood flowing through the skin - it should have encircled his collarbone just like those in the cage had experienced.

"Take a good look at the sign." The thing leading the way squeezed a broken voice from her throat, "It doesn't matter if you don't know how to read."

The stone wall slid away.

Oliver was pushed in before he could see what was on the other side of the wall. He staggered two steps under his feet, but in the end he didn't have the strength to keep his balance, and fell firmly to the ground, almost knocking off the skeleton helmet.

Then he heard breathing.

Despite being exhausted, his long combat training left him with enough insight. Judging from the distance of the sound, this should be a fairly large room, accommodating at least fifty people. Their gazes came out of the dark corners, and Oliver could feel those cold gazes wandering over him. He did not choose to stand up immediately, but clenched the hilt of the sword with his right hand, and his muscles were tensed to death.

However, apart from the accentuated breathing, no other sounds were added to the space. No one came near him, and they continued to watch patiently, like insects hiding in dark crevices.

Oliver finally stood up slowly and clenched the waving sign. With the weak light in the room, he could see the scene in most of the room.

Like a tomb—that was his first thought.

As narrow as the shelves used to lay dead bones, people lie in the middle of the wooden shelves as cramped as coffins. The shelf has four or five layers, and the lower layer is much more empty than the upper one. Oliver raised his head slightly - there were also quite a few people sitting against the wall, motionless, he almost regarded them as stone sculptures.

There are men, women and children in the "stone carvings", but at first glance it is still dominated by men in their prime. Except for less than ten people wearing the standard thin white robes, the rest of the people are dressed in different styles, and the cold light of the weapon leaks a little from the darkness from time to time - it seems that it should be the same as him, not being asked to change into other clothes, nor anything is taken away.

They were staring at him together, their eyes slowly turning like they were carved out of dull stone, and there was no vitality. Oliver swore he smelled the festering stench of wounds, and the strangely sweet smell of pus.

Oliver took a careful breath. He walked as quietly as possible, found a relatively empty corner, and tucked his back into it - the most important thing is to recover his strength, and the rest will be planned later.

The drum-like heartbeat gradually stabilized, and now he could hear the sour sucking sound of the living collar around his neck. Oliver tried to cast a condensing spell with the energy he saved, but the soft blue light didn't mean to light up halfway, and the surging pain didn't let him go because of the weak spell fluctuations.

But this time Oliver completely suppressed the pain without making any sound.

His throat cracked with thirst and his brain was screaming with thirst. The dry air in the room aggravated his pain, and after the fierce battle, his mind was confused and slowed by the lack of moisture. How long has it been since he drank water? One day, two days?

The restlessness of his physical instinct made him uncontrollably depressed.

This will not work. Oliver licked the corner of his bitten mouth. In this terrible unknown environment, negative emotions are like a dangerous swamp. Once you step in, there will be no ending other than sinking. He had to pull himself together, not out of some idealistic optimism—he had to do that, it was his only option.

Even if all common sense is broken here, at least he still has an emotion that is beyond the influence of this ghost place. Oliver switched the sword to his left hand and removed the armor from his left forearm with his right hand.

The trade mark Nemo branded him had long since expired, and it was almost gone now, leaving only a faint white mark on the skin.

The edge of the black armor left many small gaps due to the battle. Oliver carefully pulled off a thin piece of metal and cut his own skin along the white marks. He stroked by the not-so-bright light, his movements were serious and careful, until the strange mark reappeared in the blood.

Oliver then put his chapped lips to the wound and sucked the fresh blood. The thick smell of blood made him sick for a while, and Oliver knew that this would have no practical effect, but the blood flowing down his throat had a somewhat soothing effect. He finally regained his concentration and began to think again.

The metal sheet is very sharp and under his control did not leave too bad wounds. The blood soon stopped gushing out, leaving only a slightly swollen mark.

After doing all this, Oliver closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and then used his blood-stained fingers to pinch the slightly wobbly metal plate.

On the front of the brand is a series of numbers written in Common Language, exactly three hundred thousand. I don't know if it was the dim light that gave him the illusion, the strokes seemed to be shaking slightly. When looking at the long string of numbers, his fingertips touched something uneven behind the metal plate.

Oliver frowned and turned the sign over. There are a few short sentences cast on the back of the sign. Their meanings transcended the words themselves, straight into his mind—

Win the specified battle to take 100 points of value from the enemy.

Kill others for 100 points, plus the full value of the deceased.

Those who live to lose their full value will be transferred to the experimental area for processing, please also note.

Oliver was silent for a long time. After half a minute, he released the metal plate, leaving only a few **** fingerprints on it. He brought his lips closer to the mark again, only this time it wasn't for blood—

He kissed it.

He raised his head and faced the projected gazes again.

"I'll get out alive, Nemo," he announced to himself. "...Leave here alive in a way that won't disappoint you."

On the other side, in the darkness of Kenyatta.

Nimo stood on top of his target building, then slid back to the ground down the darkest corner, moving as lightly as breathing in a deep sleep. He wanted to break the fragile door directly, but the movement of his right hand stagnated for a moment in the darkness, and finally turned into a polite knock.

The man who came to open the door was not very tall. He looked forty or fifty years old and was as thin as a malnourished vulture. There were obvious bags under his eyes, and his eyes were slightly rolled up, revealing part of the whites of his eyes, staring at Nemo unceremoniously.

In order to avoid looking too unnatural, Nemo now dissipates the dark shadow covering his face, revealing only his fair-skinned chin, but that's enough to show his age.

"Is something wrong, kid?" asked the man who opened the door impatiently.

"Are you a demon believer of the Church of the Abyss." Nemo asked as politely as possible, distorting his voice a little with magic. He has never liked the way of questioning with direct conclusions. This kind of questioning is a bit tough, but it is difficult for him to control the words that he blurted out. "…gentlemen?"

The man's pupils shrank, and he started very fast. Before the end of Nemo's voice disappeared, his gestures were already finished—

But nothing happened.

The big demon in the room did not obey. It got into the bottom of the table at the speed of its life, and began to shiver very regularly, and the table shook with it, and clacked against the floor.

"Looks like you are." Nemo looked apologetically away from the table and began to speak uncontrollably faster. "I just wanted to ask a few questions and leave."

"I have nothing to say to people like you." The man knew that the situation was not good, he bared his charred teeth and spat thick phlegm on the floor beside Nemo's feet. "Which pseudo-god spokesman's dog are you?"

"I really just want to ask a few questions." Nemo stretched out a hand, and the radiance unique to Abyss magic illuminated the room. It was already dark, and the air in the vicinity was quiet and peaceful, but he became more and more restless for unknown reasons. "In a more polite way—"

The demon believer glanced in horror at his familiar, who was shaking more and more, his eyes swept over the non-aggressive circles, and finally stopped at the one exposed by Nemo. Small half of the face. He tried to find relatively obvious traces of alienation, but he failed miserably—and then he realized a possibility.

"They...they dispatched demon warlocks, or...?" The demon believer's tone softened instantly, "Which bishop are you under..."

Too much to say. Nemo was silent, not intending to make up any more. Although he knew that if he wanted to, he could take all the information he wanted from this person in half a second - but no matter which method he used, the other party's brain would turn into a **** mess afterward.

He didn't want to do that.

"Don't worry about that, I'm in a hurry. Who summoned the deadwood jellyfish in Roadmark Town?" Nemo clenched the staff wrapped in black mist in his hand, and his voice was a little dry. "Tell me all you know."

"Okay… okay, sir."

Things were going well, Nemo thought. He just needs to go to the vicinity of Road Sign Town to find enough evidence to confirm the safety of the town by the way. Then he can tear open the space, throw the prisoner directly at the door of the isolated island court, and take Oliver away dignifiedly.

But he just couldn't feel at ease, and he couldn't even breathe a sigh of relief. In theory, everything is still under control, but there is still a cold thorn in his heart.

Nemo adjusted his breathing for a while, then raised his head again, his eyes fixed on the other's mouth.

Quick, quicker. His intuition screamed—

He must get Oliver back as soon as possible.

And in the next second, the blazing white light mercilessly split the quiet night sky. Nemo turned sharply, looking in the direction of the white light—a Radian spell, no doubt.

But the breath wasn't anyone he knew.

(m..=)