Typhon's chance to understand had come.
He secretly followed the old doctor's trail into the Wailing Swamp.
And all of this was exactly as the old doctor had expected.
Deep within the Wailing Swamp, the toxic fog was more than ten times thicker than around the camp, with visibility below two meters. An unsettling, sickly-sweet scent of decay threaded through the lurid green mist. From time to time, faint whimpering drifted through the air, like a baby crying in the night, sending chills down the spine.
Leaning on his walking stick, the old doctor stopped in a relatively open clearing. He took a chemical lantern from his pack and hung it on a rock. Its dim yellow glow barely drove back the dense fog within three meters.
Rather than search for plant specimens, he calmly took a simple tea set from his pack.
He lit a charcoal stove, placed a kettle on it, and leisurely began boiling water. It was as though he were enjoying a relaxed afternoon tea in his own back garden rather than standing in a lethally poisonous swamp.
"Come out. You've followed me all this way. Aren't you tired?"
Without even lifting his head, the old doctor spoke mildly to the seemingly empty fog.
After a few seconds of deathly silence, rustling footsteps came from the dense mist.
Calas Typhon's towering figure emerged like a phantom from the lurid green fog.
A sickly, fanatical smile rested on his face. In his hand was a strangely shaped weapon resembling an enormous scythe. Its blade was covered in rust and dried, filthy blood, while vine-like growths of flesh writhed around its shaft, giving off a foul stench. An indescribably vile, evil aura radiated from both him and his weapon.
"Your nose is sharper than a hound's, you old