The game has become a real alternate world

Chapter 1222 - 832: Torn Apart (Part 2)

They aren’t even cannon fodder.Their Levels generally stay at Level Three, no different from those infected in the native world, just smaller in size.

Following closely are the "Screamers," who appear as monstrous amalgamations with exposed deformed bones, thin crystal layers growing on their surface, emitting unbearable shrill screams meant to unnerve.

These are the arbitrary assemblages of those creatures destroying worlds.

They are aggregations of Void useless junk, an existence made of waste.

They can actually be considered cannon fodder.

The Level of these creatures seems no different from Void Combat Beasts, but their combat power is obviously much less; each Void Combat Beast, despite differing shapes, is an overwhelmingly powerful presence, more akin to Warriors.

The last to squeeze through are clumsy Void Power Warriors, who once caused them great trouble when first confronting the Void, slow-moving, yet immensely strong.

Old Jack’s pupils contract, yet he snorts disdainfully.

"Vanguard? Just trash! Don’t be fooled by their numbers! Eira, pointy ears! Keep an eye on the left wing!"

"Leave it to me!"

Eira’s voice carries a hint of release after tension; her arrow flies off the string, precisely striking the exposed core crevice of a "Screamer," silencing its scream, turning the monster into ash.

Her fingers fly, unleashing a string of Archery, targeting the vital or joints of crystal-footed bugs and Screamers.

"Bran! Ignite!" Old Jack shouts.

"Alright! Let’s give them a taste of the heat." Bran grins, though his beard trembles nervously.

He swiftly pulls out several palm-sized metal balls from his arms and throws them into the densest area of crystal-footed bugs.

"Boom! Boom! Boom!"

The balls explode, not with flames, but with sticky, specially formulated high-temperature burning gel, instantly engulfing a dozen crystal-footed bugs, igniting them into wildly screaming purple fireballs.

A scorching and pungent scent pervades the air.

"Ha! Jack, look at that big one, doesn’t it look like drunk Old George from yesterday’s tavern, running wild?"

Bran, while tossing Alchemy Bombs, points at an awkward infected bear knocking down a small tree, still managing to joke, trying to dispel the chill in everyone’s hearts.

Old Jack grins: "Shut up, Bran, Old George isn’t as stinky!" As he speaks, he charges forward, footsteps heavy yet exceptionally steady.

The Warrior’s Sword, carrying the sound of slicing through the wind, fiercely strikes the crystal connection of the infected bear’s support limb.

He’s not fighting rigidly but using technique to find the most Fragile points.

With a crisp crack, the crystal shatters, exposing filthy purple-black flesh, the infected bear stumbles, entangled by Mog’s heavy roots on its hind legs, forcibly flipping it over.

Bran seizes the opportunity, a sticky burning bomb accurately hits the exposed Weak point of its crystal armor due to the fall, and it ignites fiercely.

In the first few dozen minutes, just as Old Jack said, the battle remains manageable.

The four form a solid small line-up, backs against each other.

Eira’s arrows are like deadly swarms of bees, precisely eliminating distant harassers.

Bran’s alchemical tools effectively obstruct the group Charge.

Old Jack’s sword is steady as a Rock, always appearing to Block or counterattack at critical moments.

Mog’s huge body and Resilient roots are a mobile barrier and powerful control; each time he stomps, faintly resonates with the earth, providing a slight shelter for the team.

Watching the fallen Low Level creatures in droves, everyone’s taut nerves slightly relax, Bran even takes out a water pouch for a quick gulp.

However, ease is but an illusion.

The rift silently enlarges.

From the size of a carriage, to enough room for a small house to pass through.

The Level of emerging monsters quietly elevates.

"Clawed Combat Beasts" appear, differing from the various shapes seen before.

All these Combat Beasts seem to belong to one type; like a mix of skinless leopards and mantises, their streamlined bodies supported by four insect-like Sharp lower limbs, while their forelimbs evolved into huge bone scythes covered in reflective crystal clusters, moving as swift as wind.

Their screech directly impacts Spirit, causing Eira and Bran to stagger in dizziness.

More terrifying is the environmental change.

Centered around the rift, deadly purple spreads across the earth like a plague.

The grass turns gray, withers, disintegrates into white-gray crystal dust visibly.

The fruit-laden apple trees, once symbols of Life and harvest, now have leaves instantly yellowing and curling, their fruit rapidly dehydrating and shriveling, yet eerily condensing small, sickly purple granules on the surface.

The land rich with Life Force grows hard, cold, and cracked, even small crystal clusters sprouting from gaps like poisonous mushrooms, emitting faint purple light.

The ground no longer pulses with life beneath their feet but sucks greedily at Life Force, barren and void.

"Damn it... the land cries..." Mog’s deep buzzing voice is filled with pain and anger, able to directly feel the earth’s lament, causing him to momentarily hesitate.

"Watch out!"

Old Jack shouts, slicing away a Clawed Combat Beast attacking Eira.

Yet another swiftly pounces from Bran’s blind spot, its Sharp crystal scythe brushing past his left side.

"Argh!"

Bran emits a piercing scream.

The area hit doesn’t just bring slicing pain, but a deep, soul-burning agony.

As if cold flames and tearing spikes twist within his wound simultaneously.

The sensation blacks out his vision momentarily, almost dropping his Alchemy bottle.

Looking down, the flesh around the wound turns ominous dark purple, slowly "encroaching" surrounding healthy tissue like a living thing, faintly buzzing.

Datafication prevents him from collapsing due to massive blood loss, doesn’t hinder movement due to the wound.

But the destructive pain and the empty feeling from having Life Force brutally torn out nearly shatter him.

"Potion! Use the inhibitor quickly!" Old Jack stands before Bran, sword strokes heavy, forcing back subsequent monsters.

Bran’s face is ghastly pale, beads of sweat mixed with blood run from his forehead.

With trembling hands, nearly by willpower, he extracts a special sealed metal tube from his waist pouch.

Bites off the cap, fiercely applying the emitting soft white light viscous liquid onto the horrific dark purple wound.

"Hsss—!"

As the potion contacts the wound, gray-white smoke rises; a pain more intense than the injury itself rushes in, feeling as though his flesh is being burned away by strong acid.

Bran’s body convulses; his teeth grind near fracturing, yet he endures without screaming.

He stares silently at the wound, the ominous dark purple rapidly fading, retreating under Divine Power’s Purification, ultimately solidifying into a black scab.

The encroachment halts, yet the flesh appears devoid of moisture and vitality, leaving an unsightly scar, and data indicates Life Force cap reduced, requiring complete excision of the Void infection for recovery.

These potions only temporarily suppress pain; although due to Datafication, Night Watchers generally endure pain well, the pain caused by Void wounds remains intolerable.

For this Power is meant to Break Spirit, prepared to plunge it into the Void.

He breathes heavily, eyes filled with lingering fright.

Only three doses of potion remain.

Noone feels like joking anymore.

Conversation grows brief, serious, laden with the scent of blood.

"Eira! Three Claws headed your way!"

"Copy!"

"Mog! Roots! Block the right side!"

"Buzz!"

"Jack, my shock bombs are gone!"

"Use the burning agent! Sparingly!"

Enemies increase as the rift continues expanding.

The amount and threat of foes become increasingly unmanageable, despite being only four, their Level entirely higher than emerging Void creatures.

Numbers too great, Void adapts the surrounding environment, wound-induced pain agonizing.

Situation rapidly worsens.