Mission Attendant II

Foreword:

If there are footprints, I might try to go in.

[Part 1: Sound]

"This kid can't hear what we're saying, and he can't speak."

Fret Caesar said this--

"--In that case, Wood Plark, my merciful and loving father, I will use this boy's essence to create a writhing monster so that it may search for your tracks."

The devil has already declared his attack, waiting only for Wood to take the bait.

"You certainly wouldn't just stand by and watch these innocent civilians fall victim to my cruelty, would you?"

"How far are you from me now? Twenty-one feet? Or twenty-six feet? In which direction are you?"

With great patience, Fret pointed to the pit in the wall of the dye pool courtyard—the path he had made when he crashed into the wall, the only way out for Wood and the other deaf boy.

"Are we just going to do nothing? Continue to be a coward?"

The great demon gently stroked its cheek, and a second mouth grew from the bright red skin of its face. This was the innate skill of the Pher Grey Butterfly, allowing the elemental matter near its vocal organs to be used as another set of throats and tongues.

"I'm going to kill him with the Boiling Blood Curse. It won't consume much spiritual power; it's a death spell that involves reciting all forty-four syllables, four overtones, and two glissandos."

"He will die very slowly, and his body will be more intact, making him suitable as a spellcasting material for the writhing monster."

At the same time, two rows of sharp teeth sprouted from the side of Fret's face, and a long, forked, purplish-black tongue emerged, which began to chant incantations.

The "Little Mute" who had been hiding outside the door of the yarn washing room suddenly squatted down. He first pounded on the wooden window of the workshop, but got no response. Then he tried to walk towards the pit in the courtyard wall. As soon as he took a step, he felt a burning sensation in his eyes.

As the curse to death was activated, the Little Mute's body temperature slowly rose. The speed of chanting and casting the spell was just right, like a slow and gentle simmer.

In just over ten seconds, the Little Mute could only curl up and lie sprawled on the ground like a cooked shrimp.

His skin was bright red, with the heat most pronounced in his extremities. His palms were covered in a dense layer of blisters, and his skin, soaked in the hot tissue fluid, looked like it had been soaked in a scalding hot spring, becoming wrinkled.

One by one, the swollen, allergic, and festering tumors burst open, and he began to let out shrill screams.

Fret's resolve began to waver, not because of the Little Mute's pitiful state, but because of Wood Plark's cold indifference.

"What? Aren't you going to save him?"

"The forty-four syllables can be recited quickly. I deliberately lengthened the rhythm between the sounds. You personally taught me this language to distinguish the accents of demons. Many exorcists use this feature to find imposters hiding in the human Netherworld."

"He's going to die soon, Wood."

"If you weren't planning to save him, why did you save me?"

"Why did you bring me, this deformed freak infected with syphilis, out of that cold valley? Why meddle? Why interfere in my life? Why? Why! Why!"

"Why, why, why?"

"I'm asking you a question! Why?!"

"Am I just your guinea pig? Is this kid worthless to you? He's deaf and mute and can't help you at all! So you just gave up on him?"

"Wood, you hypocritical and cowardly bastard."

"The incantation is almost finished!"

In the short time that Fret Caesar was hysterically and frantically questioning...

Mr. Wood had moved five or six steps silently. His shoes, along with his coat, were long gone and ruined. He could only walk barefoot between the wet and slippery bricks of the dye pool, trying not to make any noise, as he crept toward the tormented Little Mute.

He dared not use his psychic powers, so he opened the stopper of the Universal Elixir vial and removed the rubber seal. He tried to sprinkle it on the young man to alleviate the pain of the Boiling Blood Curse.

If Fret finishes reciting the incantation, the Little Mute's brain will instantly turn into boiling porridge— Doctor Maguire was once hit by this spell; once the curse is completed, even the strongest human will suffer brain death within seconds.

The distance wasn't enough; Wood was still more than six meters away from the Little Mute. He had to climb the stone steps and continue forward until he was at least right in front of the Little Mute before he could administer the medicine.

Just as Fret finished reciting the incantation, the Little Mute's screams gradually weakened. His throat and tongue were swollen and blocking his trachea, and all his internal organs were about to be cooked by the boiling blood. He was only one step away from death.

The Universal Elixir was splashed on the boy's face, and almost along with his burning hot head, there was a crackling sound. It was the sound of the skin's moisture being evaporated by the high temperature, and the bones cracking immediately due to the thermal expansion and contraction caused by the cold liquid.

Without hesitation, Wood continued to pull needles from his pocket to save the boy, inserting a second syringe into the side of the Little Mute's neck.

"Why? Why isn't he dead yet? His heavy breathing seems to be getting stronger."

Fret said with a grin--

"--So you didn't run away, you're right here with this kid, aren't you?"

In the blink of an eye, a powerful surge of psionic energy transformed into a chilling malevolence, locking onto Mr. Wood.

He barely had time to think before grabbing the Little Mute and jumping into the dye pool. Another Blood Boiling Curse followed immediately, the warm sea breeze carrying Duo Hun psychic energy shock that struck Wood's tilted limbs and the flesh connecting his right hip to his lower abdomen.

With almost no time to hesitate, Wood pressed hard against the injured limb in his lower abdomen.

"-- Blast it to pieces!"

His suddenly swollen and deformed abdomen, along with some intestines and half a kidney, and his entire right leg, were completely blown to pieces.

The limb, propelled by the force of the explosion, was blasted away and rolled to the side of the drying pole. It still retained the high temperature brought by the Boiling Blood Curse. In the blink of an eye, the trouser leg was torn open by the boiling steam, the leg and foot swelled up, the skin burst, and discolored, white muscle fibers gushed out with streams of viscous, boiling black blood.

Mr. Wood, who fell into the dye vat, nearly lost his life.

He held the Little Mute close, held his breath, and pinched the boy's mouth and nose to prevent the dye from entering his trachea. The pain from his abdomen made him lose strength and consciousness several times, his will on the verge of collapse. He needed oxygen; he needed to breathe.

Just as the devil declared his attack, Fret Caesar unleashed a devastating attack with all his magical power, yet he still could not see anything.

"Success? I killed Wood Plark?!"

Hahahaha! Hahahaha!

No one can survive such a predicament; the psychic tides that come when the curse takes effect do not lie.

"Hehehehe! Heheheheheheha..."

Fret's face lit up with ecstasy, and his sharp claws dug bloody wounds into his chest, which healed instantly until his nails were full of flesh—only to have the devil roll them back into his mouth with his tongue.

"Hehehehe! My inner demons! My inner demons are gone!~Hehehehe!"

Beneath the dye vat, Mr. Wood, feigning death and holding his breath, couldn't hear anything above the surface. He was like a corpse sinking to the bottom of the sea, only able to wait for the demon to leave, for the intense spiritual pressure to gradually dissipate.

"--grown ups!"

Just then, a discordant note interrupted Fret's joy.

A swollen, fat head peeked out from the door of the spinning workshop; it was the Little Mute foreman.

"My lord. My lord?"

"No, no, no, Immortal Master!"

Realizing he had misspoke, the foreman quickly changed his address, took off his melon-shaped hat, put down his pipe, and hung the precious item back around his neck.

He opened his eyes wide, trying to smooth out the fat on his face and transform it into the appearance of a "good citizen" with thick eyebrows and big eyes.

"The Wood Plark you just mentioned."

"He doesn't seem to be dead."

[Part ② The Meaning of Civilization]

Fret's smile froze. As his mind fully processed the meaning of those words, he abruptly retreated into the pavilion, moving to a safe distance.

--His magical power was almost exhausted, and he felt no sense of security whatsoever.

"What did you say?! Where is he? He's still alive?! That's impossible!"

The foreman chuckled and said, "He might not be dead, but he probably won't live much longer. I clearly saw him break a leg, and fall into the cinnabar dyeing pool while holding the Little Mute. There was no movement after that."

"Damn it!" Fret was sweating profusely, but dared not go forward to check, so he shouted at the foreman, "Go and see!"

The foreman quickly waved his hands and shook his head. "I wouldn't dare! I wouldn't dare!"

Even immortals wouldn't dare take a single step forward; how could a mere cloth workshop foreman be expected to do so?

"So you want to die?!" Fret urged. "Men die for money, birds die for food! What you just did..."

"I heard you clearly! I heard you clearly!" the foreman immediately replied. "If I help you, this cloth workshop is all mine!"

After this back and forth, another minute or so passed.

Wood was on the verge of hemorrhagic shock. He could no longer pinch the Little Mute's mouth and nose. He was about to lose all his strength and free his hands to search his waist pouch for the Universal Elixir to treat the wound. There were still two needles left.

The dye pool was full of impurities from colored minerals and anthocyanins. Wood didn't know what would happen if his body healed in such water. He could only pin his hopes on the luck goddess who was often absent from work—after all, Shambhala had no Ming De.

The chubby foreman crept closer to the dyeing vat and carefully examined it for a while.

There's no sound anymore.

Fret: "Look closely!"

The fat foreman. "There really isn't any left! Not even a bubble can float."

Still uneasy, Fret shouted, "Jump down and look for it! Pull the body up!"

This is not just the devil being paranoid. The bodies of those who die from the Boiling Blood Curse will still remain at a high temperature. If what the foreman said is true, then Wood Plark is definitely not dead; he may still be lingering in the pool.

The initiative is now in Fret's hands; he must expand this advantage.

"Tell me, where is that leg?"

The fat foreman was taken aback. "What leg?"

"Where is Wood Plark's broken leg?" Fret was growing weaker and weaker. After the magical power of this body was exhausted, the connection with the magic pool was also becoming weaker and weaker. He needed to replenish his essence. His empty stomach was like Magic Power furnace that had run out of fuel and was about to start breaking down his flesh and blood.

Whether they are carnivores of the Guiyi Sect or demons of the Netherworld, the essence of psychics is the best nourishment.

If he could obtain Wood Plark's leg and that portion of the essence, Fret's physical body could hold on a little longer, allowing him to witness his father's death and confirm the news.

The fat foreman pointed in a direction and said, "It's right there!"

Fret was still blind and couldn't see anything. He yelled, "Are you fucking asking for it?!"

The chubby foreman quickly corrected him, "Oh no, no, no! No, no, no! You should move forward, forward!"

Fret followed him out.

The chubby foreman then pointed out, "Take two steps to the left, then a few meters forward."

Fret: "How many meters is it? How many meters exactly?!"

"I can't see it! I can't see it!" The fat foreman was sweating profusely. "It's just a few meters away. When we get to the lawn, there's a cypress tree, and that leg is leaning against the tree."

Fret: "Good job, I can smell it."

After securing this powerful connection, Fret finally felt relieved.

He felt victory was within reach and there was nothing left to fear.

The father's radiance stone and stick were on one side of the pavilion. Without these two items that amplify psionic power, no matter how powerful a psionicist or how brave a phallus is, the destructive power of [Sexy Bomb] would be diminished.

He swallowed mouthfuls of scalding hot human flesh, tore open the tattered trousers, crushed the pale tendons, chewed up the major blood vessels, squeezed out some excrement, and even ate the intestines clean.

He ate incredibly fast, and the method of gnawing on bones seemed to be something he had mastered long ago. This was undoubtedly due to his usual hard work and practice, and perhaps also partly due to mental rehearsals. He had long thought about how to eat Wood Plark —and finally, his dream came true. Everything happened so suddenly.

Having consumed most of the human flesh, Fret had long since regained his strength, and his demonic body gradually calmed down, no longer as weak as before. Abundant spiritual energy once again flowed through this Netherworld body—its beauty came from its power, from its invincibility.

"Did you see clearly?" Fret no longer cared about Wood Plark's life or death. Even if the gunsmith was hiding in the dye vat, he was no longer afraid. It seemed that after swallowing the leg, the intense hatred in his heart had been dissolved, allowing him to re-examine the world with a compassionate heart.

These lowly, trashy creatures ventured into dye vats to clear mines, all for the sake of a fabric workshop.

As for my father? Ha!

For the sake of a completely unrelated mute child, he so easily revealed his location and almost lost his life.

Fret ripped the eyeball out of its socket, along with part of the cystic duct connective tissue. Cleaning this eyeball was no easy task; it required a detergent specifically formulated to match the dye.

He simply ripped out his eyeball, hoping a new one would grow in.

"I want to witness your death with my own eyes."

New vitreous humor grows from the bloodied eye socket, the iris regenerates, and the pupil gradually returns to its normal position.

As his vision gradually cleared, Fret saw the fat foreman sitting by the dye vat, supporting Wood Plark's weak and powerless body, while his other hand scooped up the Little Mute, allowing the young man to breathe calmly and quietly, all the while making sarcastic remarks and offering perfunctory replies.

"Immortal Master, please wait a moment! Let me look again! Let me look again!"

That's what they say, but that's not how the fat foreman actually does it.

He had been helping Mr. Wood, trying to slowly push the two drowning men, one big and one small, onto the stone platform.

"Wood." Fret remained seated under the cypress tree, showing no immediate intention of casting spells. "What's going on now? Why is this fat pig helping you? I should be the one with the upper hand."

"You have no pyroxene and no club, look at you—"

"--These blind and foolish mortals exhaust you; they want to drag you down, to pull you into the abyss of death. How can you win?"

"You have to give the Little Mute some benefits! I'll help you too!" The fat foreman struggled to push Mr. Wood onto the stone platform, his eyes filled with terror, yet he still shouted loudly, "Master! But even if the sheep listens to the wolf and obediently goes into the cave, will it still be eaten?"

"I'm like a fat sheep standing outside the wolf's den, watching the footprints go in. You should at least show me the footprints that came out! You forced me into this! I had no choice!"

"Mr. Wood is dying, but he still wants to save the Little Mute!"

The fat foreman clutched his chest, almost bursting into tears.

"How could I help you?! How dare I help you?!"

Fret didn't care about this mortal at all; he just found it noisy.

"--Lesson 1: Mineral Material Research."

Wood Plark lay paralyzed by the stone platform. His right leg and half of his buttocks had been blown away. The dye pool water had caused some limb deformities to grow. Heavy metal poisoning had turned his face cyanotic, and hard warts had grown all over his body.

"Hope, what have I taught you?"

"I don't remember at all, Father!" Fret found it laughable. "Who would learn that! What I want to learn most is magic! Psionic power! I want to Defying Heaven and Changing Fate! Look at your deformed body, and now you will experience my pain."

Wood Plark continued—

"--Hibiscus bloodstone is a mineral specialty of Lennon's Kingdom, and it is also a type of red pyroxene."

"Contains cinnabar, quartz, chalcedony, magnetite, and hematite."

"The ground material has a slightly fishy smell and a sweet taste. Cinnabar, also known as vermilion, can be used in medicine."

This is also one of the ingredients in the vermilion dye, the pyroxene medium in Wood Plark's blood.

Wood Plark: "As for the bombs, they're already in the most suitable positions."

Fret's expression changed, and he looked down at his abdomen.

"Damn it."

Wood Plark gave his good-for-nothing son a Thumb- up, then pulled the detonator switch.

"See you in the Nine Hells!"

The vivid redstone dust revealed the outline of Wood Plark's subcutaneous blood vessels. The intense psionic reaction caused his skin to fester again, as the temperature fluctuated wildly with the psionic tides, repeatedly subjecting this scarred and deformed body to psionic torment.

Flames and smoke, resembling those of a monstrous beast, billowed from his mouth and nose. A goat-headed demon clung to the man's body, its hoof-shaped forelimbs slamming into the knuckles of the detonator.

A sharp buzzing sound rang out, like the whistling sound produced when the fuse of a bomb melts and heats up rapidly before detonation, as surging gas flows through the cavity!

The great demon's belly rapidly swelled, its flesh blasted to pieces, and the chain of explosions sent its upper limbs flying into the air. For every bite it took at Wood's remains, it would explode again.

The booming explosions lasted for five or six seconds before stopping, followed by a shower of blood falling from the sky.

Wood gave himself a shot in the neck; he had one last shot in his pocket.

He leaned against the stone platform and vomited uncontrollably. He took some detergent from the worker and cleaned the dye off his body. He then ran to the toilet and vomited profusely. He found the workers' dormitory and stole a pair of pants to change into.

Back in the dyeing area, the fat foreman and his men all stared at the strange foreigner.

"The dye only needs to be anthocyanin, and the dye is made from chicken-blood stone clay. Children who wear this kind of underwear will not grow taller."

Wood patted the fat foreman on the shoulder, and then he understood.

"--Oh, you're a heartless boss, trying to cut costs, huh? Nobody grows roselle here. I'll get some seeds from the flower farmers in the city later."

No one spoke, unsure how to respond to the conversation.

The Little Mute: "Thank you."

Wood: "Can you fucking talk?"

The Little Mute pointed to his ear.

"--I'm just deaf, not mute."

Now that he could hear, the young man's throat had been cured by Universal Elixir, and he could naturally learn a few phrases by imitating his companions' pronunciation.

Wood limped out of the yard, his mind preoccupied with too many things, and forgot to bring his cane.

The fat foreman immediately picked up the white copper rod and shouted, "Hero! Here's your stuff!"

Wood took it casually and stomped his feet hard, which made his legs behave a little better.

The chubby foreman said, "Why don't you take a break? Your legs are numb, and you can't walk properly anymore."

"Your squat toilet is no good, mine is numb," Wood cursed. "There's only so much space, you'll fall into the latrine and drown sooner or later! The money spent on repairing the latrine won't even cover your funeral expenses!"

The portly foreman nodded in approval, "That's right, absolutely right."

Wood hurried towards the main road to clean up Fret's magic pool.

"They're gone."