Chapter 476: The Straw Men

Light suddenly faded from where Ince Zangwill disappeared, staining the

area with the richest and deepest darkness.

In the darkness, the sounds of melodic chanting could be heard. It was

quiet and tranquil, hypnotic even. Even the countless pale arms flailing

upwards underneath the pitch-black water seemed to slow down, no longer

as frenzied as before, as if they had won redemption for their souls.

In such a "dark night," a figure walked out. It was none other than Ince

Zangwill who had just been dragged into the spirit world.

Compared to before, he had lost the bonnet on his head. The clothes on

his left shoulder were tattered, and a piece of flesh had been torn off.

Faint yellow pus bubbled out one after another.

His eyes were no longer indifferent, but filled with pain, as if he was

suffering some unimaginable torment.

The 0-08 quill continued writing.

*"Some might feel regret, while others might rejoice. Ince Zangwill had

the umbilical cord of the evil god which came from the baby in Megose's

womb. It was from the True Creator, and through the umbilical cord, he

successfully escaped from the restraints of the unknown existence and

forcefully returned to the real world, but as a result, he had lost that

mystical item. In addition, he would suffer the ire of the evil god's

spawn from having failed to descend for a short period of time.*

*"This made his strength appear like some kind of commodity in a

department store during a change of seasons, with only 55% left. Yes,

this number is extremely accurate."*

In a street in the depths of East Borough.

Old Kohler hurried back to his rented apartment, carrying some ham in a

paper bag.

He looked around warily, afraid that those ravenous wolves around him

would pounce on him and steal his New Year's gift.

He had seen wolves back when he was still in the countryside, but to his

surprise, he was able to experience that familiar feeling in Backlund.

*It's still too expensive. I can only split the cost with someone else

and cut it into pieces... This is enough for the new year holiday. I can

eat two slices of ham for every meal. Three slices, no---at least five

slices of ham. I can cut some of them off and stew them together with

the potatoes. I don't even need to add salt...* With this in

mind, Old Kohler looked at the ham in his arms, seeing the white spots

mixed in with the red meat, his throat couldn't help but twitch and he

swallowed a mouthful of saliva.

As he walked, he felt the fog around him grow thicker. The cathedral's

clock tower that was still relatively clear in the distance was

gradually swallowed by a mixture of iron-black and pale yellow colors.

Even the pedestrians around him were reduced to blurry shadows once they

were ten steps away.

Old Kohler suddenly felt like he has been forgotten by the world as he

raised his palm to cover his nose.

"Why does the fog smell so bad today?" he muttered, and he quickened his

pace.

One step, two steps, three steps. Old Kohler felt his face heat up and

his forehead start to burn.

His chest tightened, his throat felt uncomfortable, and soon he was

experiencing difficulty breathing.

*Have I fallen ill? Damn it, I still want to have a good new year's, and

now I can only send my savings to the clinic or hospital... No, perhaps

I'll be fine with some sleep. I'll be fine sleeping with a blanket over

me!* Old Kohler silently muttered to himself as his head grew

hotter and hotter and his senses became more and more muddled.

Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. He heard his own labored breathing, and his

hands went limp as the bag of ham fell heavily to the ground.

Old Kohler instinctively bent down to pick it up, but he ended up

falling to the ground.

He held the bag of ham and tried to keep it in his arms.

At this moment, he thought there was thick phlegm rushing up his throat,

blocking it, so he fought back, making panting sounds.

Thud! Old Kohler began to see, through his blurry vision, that

a few steps away, someone else had also fallen and was gasping for

breath. He was about the same age as him, in his fifties, with white

sideburns.

Suddenly, he understood that he was about to die.

It reminded him of his own wife and children, who, like him, suddenly

got infected with the plague and died shortly after.

It reminded him of the time when he had been hospitalized. The patients

in the same room were still chatting and laughing that night, but they

would be sent to the morgue early the next morning.

It reminded him of the friends he had known as a tramp, many of which

had disappeared over the course of the winter until they were found

stiff under a bridge or some spot which was sheltered from the wind. A

small number died from suddenly having food.

This reminded him of the days when he was still a decent worker, when

the neighbors in the neighborhood would suddenly die like this. Some of

them died from headaches, some of them died from accidentally falling

into molten steel, some of them died from all sorts of painful, bloating

ailments. Some of them even collapsed silently in the factories, one

batch after another.

This reminded him of what he had heard from a drunk in the bar when he

was scrounging for information.

"People like us are like straw on the ground, falling when the wind

blows. It's even possible to fall on our own even without the wind."

The wind is coming... Old Kohler suddenly had such a thought.

He clutched the bag of ham tightly as he groped the pocket of his old

jacket for the crumpled cigarette he had always been unwilling to smoke.

What he couldn't understand was why his healthy body would suddenly

become ill. It wasn't like he had never experienced such a dense fog

before.

What he couldn't understand was the reason for him suddenly collapsing

just as his life was back on track, moving in a direction that was

sufficiently nice for him. Furthermore, he had been paid in advance by

Detective Moriarty to buy his long-awaited ham for the new year, and he

was looking forward to tasting it.

Old Kohler fished out that crumpled cigarette, but he no longer had the

strength to lift his arms again as they slammed heavily to the ground.

He used the last of his strength to shout out the words that had been

building up inside of him, but he could only let the frail words linger

at his mouth without producing them.

He heard his last words.

He heard himself ask, "Why?"

In an apartment at the edge of East Borough.

Liv hung up the last piece of clothing she had washed and waited for it

to dry.

She looked at the sky outside, somewhat unsure of the time due to the

thick fog which had appeared without her realizing it.

"Anyway, it's still early, and we've already done the laundry..." Liv's

expression grew heavy.

It wasn't a good thing to finish work too early. It didn't mean that

they could rest for it meant not having enough work and inadequate

income.

Liv took a deep breath, turned around, and looked at her eldest

daughter, Freja, who was wiping her hands and casting her gaze towards

the vocabulary notebook in the opposite room.

"It's almost New Year's. Most of our clients have left Backlund and have

gone on vacation elsewhere. We can't go on like this. We have to find

new work."

As she spoke, she walked towards the door.

"During this period, the rich will host banquets one after another. They

definitely won't have enough servants and might hire temporary kitchen

cleaners. I plan on inquiring. Freja, you stay at home and pick up Daisy

when the time comes. We need income, but so do the thieves, bandits, and

human traffickers of those prostitutes to welcome the new year."

In the East Borough, every woman, who didn't work in the factories, had

to be skilled or aggressive enough in order to survive.

Freja answered briskly, "Alright."

Her mind was already on the desk and vocabulary notebook next door.

Liv had just opened the door when she stumbled and fell to the floor.

Cough! Cough! Cough! She broke into a violent coughing fit as

her face flushed red, with every joint in her body experiencing an

unbearable ache.

Freja ran over in panic and squatted beside her.

"Mother, what's wrong with you? Mother, what's wrong with you?"

"It's nothing. Cough, I'm fine." Liv began to find it harder to breathe.

"No, you're sick---sick! I'll take you to the hospital immediately!"

Freja tried to help her mother up.

"It's too expensive, too... expensive. Cough---Let's go to a charity

hospital. A charity hospital, I can wait. It's n-not a big problem." Liv

gasped a response.

Freja burst into tears and her vision blurred rapidly.

But at that moment, she felt her lungs burn, and her body went limp as

she fell to the ground with Liv.

"What's the matter with you, Freja? Cough! You're sick too?" Liv shouted

anxiously. "There's money, cough---in the closet, cough---in the hole in

the wall. You have to be quick. Go to the hospital! Get a good---a good

doctor!"

Freja tried to say something, but not a sound came out from her mouth.

Her eyes slanted up to the door beside her.

It was their bedroom, their bunk beds. On top of it was her favorite

table and her vocabulary notebook.

Her body suddenly began to twitch.

Liv's coughing stopped.

Within the public elementary school at the edge of East Borough, the fog

still wasn't thick yet, but many students had already started to cough.

The experienced teacher on duty immediately ordered, "Quick, to the

cathedral. We need to head for the cathedral next door!"

Daisy stood up in a panic and ran with the crowd to the cathedral next

to the school.

Suddenly, her heart palpitated as she felt the horror of losing

something important.

...Mother... Freja. Daisy turned her head sharply, wanting to

rush home against the crowd.

However, she was stopped. She was caught by her teachers and forcibly

dragged towards the cathedral.

Daisy struggled and screamed at the top of her lungs, "Mother! Freja!

"Mother! Freja!"

In East Borough, the dock area, and the factory district, the old or

those with latent ailments collapsed in the fog in succession like

felled trees, while those who came into contact with them felt as if

they had been infected by the plague. They died quickly, and even the

able-bodied adults and children also felt slightly unwell.

In their eyes, the light yellow and iron-black fog was like the descent

of Death.

On the Tuesday of the last week in 1349, Backlund was shrouded in smog.

In the corner of the hall, Klein pressed himself against the stone wall

so that he wouldn't be discovered by Mr. A.

Soon, he heard muffled groans and could smell the scent of flesh and

blood.

"Give up your lives for the Lord," Mr. A's voice suddenly sounded.

Thud. Thud. The sound of figures collapsing entered Klein's ears, and a

strong spirituality fluctuation appeared and constantly reverberated.

Mr. A sacrificed his four attendants? Just as this thought

appeared in Klein's mind, illusory layers of weeping sounds could be

heard. Some of them were calling out for their mothers, others coughing

violently, and some moaning in pain.

As half of an expert at mysticism, Klein seemed to see a series of

disgruntled and transparent figures entering the ritual one after

another, followed by the years of numbness, despair, pain, and

resentment from the dock area, factory district, and East Borough.

Has it officially begun? Klein closed his eyes and leaned his

back against the wall, his right hand clenching and relaxing.

For him, the best thing to do at this moment was to slip out of the hall

and flee into the distance while Mr. A was concentrating on the ritual.

His right hand loosened and tightened before relaxing many times in a

row.

Seven or eight seconds later, Klein opened his eyes, the corners of his

mouth curling upwards in an exaggerated manner.

He reached out his hand to grab the revolver, turned around abruptly,

and dashed out.

Dressed in his black double-breasted frock coat, he raised his right

hand and aimed at the altar.