Chapter 26: Ninth Fortress Part 1

The instant the flame ignited, a fierce stinging pain shot through the flesh of her calf.

An He released her grip and quickly rolled up her pant leg. This mycelium was different from what she’d encountered before. Though soft, it pierced her skin like steel needles, burrowing relentlessly deeper.

By rights, blood should have flowed out, but as soon as a trace emerged from the wound, the mycelium absorbed every drop.

They were parasitizing her, feeding on her blood as nourishment, growing vibrantly vivid. Small blisters began rising on her skin, gradually merging into a swath of red rash.

An He had seen this rash before.

On Lady Heli’s neck.

She immediately brought the lighter close to her calf but paused for a moment. In the firelight, she saw bright yellow particles floating in the air—dust-like spores scattered by the dancing mycelium, twirling in the airflow.

Unnoticed by her, the firelight and shadows alike were filled with them.

Spores.

It was too late to cover her mouth and nose now. An He realized she’d already inhaled a massive quantity. She wasn’t afraid of fungal infection, but these spores were clearly off. Soon, she felt her strength draining away, her body as if submerged in water. In no more than two seconds, she let go of the lighter entirely.

The flame vanished, leaving the acrid smell of gasoline and only the flashlight’s pale beam.

The red rash on her leg multiplied, spreading rapidly across her skin until it covered her entire right calf.

At first, An He thought it was following her veins, but soon she realized the pattern formed by the connected rash was profoundly unique—like ancient cuneiform runes. It pulsed, the blisters bubbling in waves like a heartbeat, syncing perfectly with the throbbing sound that echoed once more.

Then, the mycelium slowly dragged her entire body toward the pit ahead.

She couldn’t tell if this was real or mental contamination from the spores.

She felt the weightlessness of falling, yet no pain from impact.

Jagged rocks should have torn her flesh, but she stood unharmed in pitch-black space, her soul adrift in the cosmos. Countless hands tugged at her, suffocating her, trapping her, as if death loomed.

Worse, she saw one, two, three, countless faces identical to her own.

They clustered ahead, hooded and shoulder-to-shoulder, encircling the one in the center. That figure was identical to An He too—hair loose, coat draped perfectly over her. Despite the matching attire, she stood utterly apart from the others.

Like a God.

The God gazed down imperiously, extending her palm to rest on the head of one “An He” ahead—like a king bathed in holy light bestowing grace upon her devoted knight. The God’s lips parted, complex murmurs filling the space, rippling with endless echoes.

Surprisingly, An He remained calm, though she couldn’t discern which was the real her. She seemed to exist in every body, yet none were truly her.

She scanned around: all the “An Hes” except the God bowed their heads in submission, lips moving silently in unison with the God.

The hissing of lips and teeth synchronized, evoking a sacrificial rite. She should have joined in—through countless throats, countless mouths. By the thirtieth syllable, she finally understood the strange words.

It was the prayer Lady Heli had recited.

The God shifted her tone, urging: “Accept me, worship me, and I shall grant you greater blessings to pursue and spread the light.”

An He watched as mycelium sprouted from the God’s fingers, twisting upward into entwined vines.

Moments later, the vines snapped, the airborne mycelium contracting into a peanut-sized, diamond-shaped fungal nucleus.

It pulsed to the same rhythm as the rash on her body.

Empowered by the God’s divine force, the nucleus plummeted toward the “An He” receiving the “blessing,” sinking into her right calf, embedding deep into her flesh, merging inseparably.

A alarm blared deep in An He’s mind. She recalled Gu Xianqing’s warning: There is no such thing as a god.

Don’t believe it!

Don’t accept it!

Yet the “blessed subject” tilted her head submissively, eyes gleaming with gratitude: “Merciful lord, I already have an innate talent. Can I accept more?”

“Of course you can,” the God replied with boundless affection. “You are a special child, humanity’s hope for survival. My blood flows in you. You’ve accepted my grace—I shall be with you always.”

“Am I special?” The subject looked puzzled. “Has Lady Heli accepted your grace too?”

“No, child. Only you and your sisters qualify.” The God whispered, “But I am grateful to that lady—through her, I located you.”

“Sisters? You mean my colleagues?”

“Of course not.” The God said, “Your colleagues are mere uninitiated Nestsouls—irrelevant. Your sisters are those as special as you: your innate talents have no limit. But I’ve lost their signals; I don’t know where they’ve been taken.”

The God’s tone sharpened briefly, then softened as she caressed the one before her: “No matter. Now that I’ve found you, hope returns. Come—spread God’s baptism to more. Your talent will perfect itself; all will sing your praises.”

Her seductive words, like a sugar-coated confection, proved irresistible to the “subjects.” The “An He” devoutly lifted her head: “What must I do?”

“Try your new innate talent.” The God took the “subject’s” hand. “I call it [Parasite], life’s greatest, most primal force—born of the same root as I.”

From the “subject’s” palm sprouted delicate mycelium—so “frail and cute,” floating in the air, pale pink, a tiny cluster like fuzz on a plush toy.

“It lets you briefly parasitize a target, controlling their actions,” the God explained slowly. She leaned down, slicing the “subject’s” calf with her dagger. An He saw the fungal nucleus in the leg split into two.

The God extracted one and handed it over: “Then, implant the true fungal nucleus into humans, washing away their sins, elevating their souls.”

As the “God” spoke, all the “An Hes” raised their heads, staring enviously at that cluster of mycelium—God’s power, God’s own “divine punishment” descended!

They chanted the prayer in unison: “Merciful God, take my soul, grant me endless power. I shall follow and worship you forever.” Fanatical voices echoed, weaving a net; the accelerating litany grated like a curse.

An He felt her consciousness merging with theirs. A crushing urge to submit warred with her survival instinct to flee, nearly tearing her apart. She stared silently at these identical versions of herself, a frantic voice screaming in her depths.

Look—they’re all mad.

I’m mad too.

Then act like the madwoman I am!

An He snapped her eyes open. The scene remained the same, but her vision flickered like an old TV on the fritz. The believers’ faces shattered like glass, then reassembled.

An He roared—though no one could hear her true voice, she bellowed. Damn this hallucination, damn this contamination. She didn’t know how to break free, so kill it.

The “blessed subject” suddenly looked up, abandoning the chant. Her demeanor shifted entirely, radiating undisguised killing intent. Now, she stood one step from the so-called “God.”

No hesitation—she clenched her fist, pivoted her hip, and swung like punching a force-testing machine, smashing into the “God’s” face. That identical face bloomed red, muscles twisting sideways from the impact. An He felt the pain but ignored it; second punch, third followed in barrage.

Dodging the surrounding “believers,” she silently shoved the “God” down, pinning her to the ground, throttling her throat, knee grinding into her waist. Then she grabbed the rifle, battering the “God’s” eyes, forehead, nose bridge with the stock—again and again.

Her head throbbed like a sledgehammer blow, nerves ripping. An He’s awareness blurred, but her eyes stayed sharp.

She struck harder, repaying every imposed pressure onto the “God.”

She didn’t care if a real god existed. Forcing into her mind without consent? That’s the god’s fault.

She trusted only her own judgment.

The crunch of shattering skull felt so real—fist meeting flesh, blood spraying across her face, splattering nearby “believers.” More “subjects'” eyes changed; they joined, pinning their identical selves, striking mercilessly.

If these spores induced empathy for one’s own face, targeting An He was a fatal mistake. She was used to pain—often self-inflicted.

She was stable, in her madness.

At pain’s peak, An He dropped the stock, clamping the “God’s” neck with both hands. Since the “God” granted this “blessing,” let’s see its effect on her.

She activated the new innate talent.

Soft pale-pink mycelium slipped from her fingers into the “God’s” wounds, detaching from An He as “host,” vanishing silently. Then, An He seized control of the “God.”

Her gaze hardened; she inhabited another body. Under her command, the “God” groped for the nearby gun, raising the stock to bash her own ruined head—relentlessly.

But the “God’s” eyes filled with terror.

This was [Parasite].

Seizing bodily control while the target’s consciousness remained—like Bone Erosion Disease patients, puppeteered by fungi into uncontrollable acts while still human.

An He now deeply understood: Nestsouls were another breed of Bone Eaters, wielding power over ordinary lives.

But Nestsouls were stronger—immune, intelligent, communicative, capable of killing far more than Bone Eaters.

An He reined in her thoughts.

The “God” died—in An He’s mind, on her turf, powerless to resist.

It wasn’t invincible; all control stemmed from mental pollution.

Static crackled, replacing the chants. Asta’s voice echoed around: “An He, what sector are you in?”

Much better.

But An He pressed her shoulder radio—no response. She was still trapped in this bizarre scene.

“An He.” Asta’s tone sharpened instantly at the silence, laced with alarm. “Respond immediately. Ten seconds without reply, and I’ll send a med team to search and rescue. Acknowledge!”

“An He!”