Chapter Sixty-Six: Obsession with Cleanliness

When Weir and Prossis entered the wild forest, their first reaction was one of unfamiliarity.

Yes, unfamiliarity. It wasn’t that they’d never set foot in dense shrubbery before, but this kind of wild forest was beyond anything ordinary people could ever imagine. The entire woodland was filled with massive trees; looking up, one could see nothing but towering canopies, vast like gigantic umbrellas, sealing the sky completely. Even now, at midday, with the sun blazing overhead, the sunlight that managed to pierce the densely interwoven branches and leaves was but a scant trickle.

Pressing his hand to his chest, Weir felt the stiflingly humid air weighing on him, dizzying to the point of vertigo. Yet even so, he dared not gasp for breath, for in this forest the humidity was overwhelming. The carpet of fallen leaves had lain for who knows how long, decomposing thickly, mixing with the mud on the ground to emit waves of pungent decay. Weir had no choice but to cover his mouth and nose tightly with his sleeve.

Another notable thing was the uncanny silence—though occasionally, from a distance, came intermittent birdcalls, the deathlike quiet was unsettling, stirring a deep, anxious fear.

“Ah, I can’t take it anymore!”

A man walking ahead of Weir suddenly stopped, slumping on the ground, panting heavily. Weir could plainly see his clothes were soaked through with sweat.

“Do you want to die, idiot? Keep it down!”

The man’s shout startled the man with the triangular eyes, who nervously glanced at Prossis. When he saw Prossis remain impassive, he relaxed, then scolded the man, “You fool! Do you have any idea how many dangerous things lurk in this forest? Are you trying to get us all killed?”

At some point, the man with triangular eyes had become the leader of the dozen or so men. When he spoke of “dangerous things,” he cast a furtive look at Prossis, clearly suggesting she herself was one of those dangers.

Yet the man failed to grasp the meaning behind that look. He stared at the triangular-eyed man’s darting gaze and asked oddly, “Huh? Is there sand in your eye? Why does it keep spinning around?”

“Ah?”

The man with triangular eyes was momentarily stunned, a sense of foreboding rising in his heart. Behind him, a chill of murderous intent slowly crept toward him.

There was no doubt—the owner of that murderous aura was Prossis.

“Yes, the sand is bothering me terribly. Blow it out for me, would you?”

Swallowing involuntarily, the triangular-eyed man feigned composure and spoke to the other man, as a bead of sweat traced from his forehead down his cheek and onto his neck...

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

...

Time seemed frozen; though only a few seconds passed, the triangular-eyed man felt as if centuries had gone by.

The oppressive atmosphere, coupled with the almost uncanny tension, nearly drove him mad.

Of course, he wasn’t alone in his discomfort—all the others felt the same, each struggling to suppress their inner fears, yet none dared utter a word.

As for the reason... After entering the forest, Prossis had killed again.

Just as Weir had said, these men were rotten to the core. After leading Prossis and Weir into the woods, several men once more set their sights on Prossis, perhaps believing that, no matter how powerful she was, without someone familiar to guide them, she’d never find her way out of this wild forest. Emboldened, they tried to threaten her—but the outcome...

They entered the woods as a dozen or more; after Prossis “let loose,” fewer than six remained—including Weir and Prossis themselves.

With a cold snort, Prossis pressed her sleeve to her nose and took a deep breath... Damn! Even so, the reek of decay was still overpowering.

Truth be told, her mood was anything but good.

This place, this damned wild forest, was a veritable nightmare for Prossis.

The air was humid and stifling; it wasn’t long before sweat poured from her, sticking her clothes to her skin like a layer of thick glue. The discomfort nearly drove her frantic. The ground was littered with leaves, long since rotted and mingled with mud; each step stirred a sickening sensation deep within her.

Perhaps Prossis’s magical prowess was formidable, but in the end, she was a mage—frail of constitution, a “virtue” shared by all sorcerers, and Prossis was no exception. Not far along, her calves felt as heavy as if filled with lead, a dull ache and swelling throbbing beneath the skin.

“Damn it! Why isn’t there a single magical beast here?”

Biting her lip, Prossis forced the words out between her teeth. She reached to rest her hand against a nearby tree, but the instant she touched the trunk, she recoiled as if burned, then glanced at her palm, a groan rising from within...

The trunk was coated in green moss, grimy from the environment. Her palm was smeared with an uncanny green, like rotten sludge, and the sight made her shudder. A sour stench wafted up as well...

Incidentally, Lady Prossis was not only fastidious about food—she was hypersensitive to anything unclean. In short, she was a consummate neat freak.

In that moment, every hair on Prossis’s body stood on end; a chill ran up her spine and prickled her scalp.

“Tris...”

Weir had noticed Prossis’s unusual reaction and was about to ask what was wrong, when she suddenly rubbed her hand hard against her clothes. Her hand was clean, but now her clothes were stained. Prossis, a true neat freak, couldn’t tolerate even the slightest filth or disgust; so she took off the oversized hat she wore, wiping the dirt from her clothes. By doing so, she inadvertently exposed the mysterious face she had always concealed beneath her hat.