Chapter 32: Return to the Human World
The flesh of the Lord of Crows burned violently. Germain could feel the rush of air and the shifting of its internal organs.
Without hesitation, Germain rubbed his fingers together, and a bronze flamethrower materialized inside the Lord of Crows' abdomen, pressing against its throbbing entrails.
In an instant, as if the Lord of Crows understood its fate, it began pecking at Germain desperately, its beak slashing like a hanging blade.
Germain pulled the trigger.
Fwoosh! an infernal heat surged outward, burning every trace of flesh and blood from within. From the Lord of Crows' gaping beak, a choking stench filled the air immediately.
Only then did Germain loosen his grip and kick off the creature's wings, using the force to push himself toward the ground.
The Lord of Crows did not pursue him; it was engulfed in flames but the crows continued their chase.
With the swarm still on his tail, Germain landed, covering his face with both hands.
Cushioned by the towering reeds taller than trees he crashed into the swampy mud, sinking almost to his thighs.
He lay as still as he could, trying to slow his descent.
Fortunately, the bothersome crows ceased their pecking.
The Lord of Crows, now a blazing fireball, crashed down nearby with a heavy thud, striking the reeds before Germain.
Mud splattered everywhere, and the reeds caught fire. Flames spread instantly, sending thick black smoke billowing into the sky.
The crows circled above, shrieking cries that sounded like grief, or perhaps curses. Rather than land, they retreated to their nests deep within the reeds.
Germain stretched out his hand, grabbed the unmoving Lord of Crows by its wings, and used them to pull his legs free from the mud before climbing out.
Covered in mud and wounds, he stood silently, watching the Lord of Crows burn.
Most of its eyes were closed, but upon closer inspection, the single eye on its head remained open glowing crimson, like a "flame eye."
Germain glanced down at his left arm. The three eyes had vanished completely, leaving behind three narrow slits oozing black pus.
"Thank God I won… But in this condition, I probably can't continue exploring."
The danger of the Dark Continent lay not only in its terrifying, unknown creatures but also in its vastness. Venturing deeper meant stretching the supply lines endlessly.
No one could predict what might happen along this route whether the lead expedition team would ever return, or if the support units could even keep up.
Without the "Third Lantern," Germain would be forced to drag his battered body along the same path.
A body so wounded would inevitably attract attention the very reason countless human expeditions had perished here.
Thus, Germain had been lucky.
After confirming he had received a new "Gift of Resentment," he reached into the Lord of Crows' empty socket and extracted its single eye.
Holding the eyeball in his palm, Germain could sense the lingering curse and malice within it.
Keeping it for a short time posed no problem but prolonged contact would disturb the holder's mind and emit a field of curse energy around them.
Germain didn't know whether the limit was three days, three weeks, or three months, but one thing was certain: the eyeball carried genuine cursed power.
Presumably, only a mental exorcist and their "Hunter's Emblem" could fully purify the eye's resentment.
However, Germain chose not to absorb it. Instead, he stored the "Single Eye of the Lord of Crows" safely in his backpack, planning to sell it later.
He then fastened his pack once more and placed the "Third Lantern" near the muddy ground.
The light and the sprite arrived as promised.
Casting one last look at the burning reed forest, Germain followed the sprite's lead. In the glow of the lantern's light, he was whisked away back to the human world in the blink of an eye.
January 14th, 2:00 a.m.
Silence reigned.
A lantern flickered briefly inside Germain's room at the Opera Hotel then went out.
Without taking a moment to assess his injuries, he stumbled out of the room, walked to the next door, and knocked.
After knocking for a while with no answer, Germain wondered if Machi had fallen into a deep sleep when suddenly, a light turned on and footsteps approached.
The door creaked open.
Machi stood there. Not used to wearing pajamas, she still had her daytime clothes on; her ponytail had come loose, hair falling messily over her shoulders, and she stared at him blankly.
Though Machi was a light sleeper and always alert, being awakened in the middle of the night still annoyed her.
"I really didn't expect you to show up at this hour…"
Her sarcastic remark trailed off when she saw Germain covered in wounds, blood dripping to the floor like rain, his cloak caked in mud.
Had he been fighting an enemy in the swamps?
She swallowed the rest of her words, frowned, and stepped aside. "Come in. Lie down on the sofa."
Machi was always professional when it came to her work.
Germain followed her instructions and entered the room.
The layout was similar to his own. He crossed the short hallway and collapsed onto the long sofa.
Machi took out a small cloth pouch, crouched beside him, and said calmly, "I'll clean and stop the bleeding first. Then I'll perform a mental suture. You must cooperate the entire time and keep your posture steady."
Maintaining posture meant he couldn't use his nen to defend himself the moment when a nen user was most vulnerable.
Without hesitation, Germain agreed and obeyed her orders. He stripped off the wet, sticky hunter's cloak from his upper body and tossed it aside.
He didn't necessarily trust Machi but he trusted his own judgment.
"These wounds and blood loss…" Machi murmured coldly as she examined his torso. "You're lucky you made it to my door."
In truth, it wasn't just luck. Germain's Endurance stat was 20 points. Not quite as high as his Phantom Troupe comrade, Wo-gin, but more than enough to survive.
Lying on the sofa, Germain had been dazed at first but now his dark eyes were open, staring steadily at the ceiling.
"I'll start."
Machi pulled out her needle, and her mental thread passed through the small wound, moving with uncanny precision.
Within seconds, her hands blurred fingers, needle, and thread melting into motion.
"Right shoulder, stitched."
"Left arm, stitched."
"Small forehead wound, done. Turn over."
"All back wounds, stitched."
Machi had treated countless injuries like these before her experience was unmatched.
This time, the wounds were cleaned and closed swiftly and effectively. Her Nen Thread Suture, capable of stitching nerves, would also accelerate recovery.
In less than ten minutes, Machi completed her delicate, almost artistic operation one that would put most surgeons and emergency doctors to shame.
(End of this chapter)