The man was gone.
In his place was a shapeless, quivering mass of flesh. Skin, muscle, and bone had been warped and fused into a single, pulsing lump of a sickening, bruised purple-black. The tattered scraps of clothing scattered around it were the only clue that this pile of rotting offal was the man who’d called himself the “Warden.”
Besides his “person,” Pandora noticed other traces.
Words were written in blood on the walls, the floor, everywhere.
“Die!”
“Curse you!!”
“Why… why…”
“Kill you!!!”
The handwriting was a spastic, desperate scrawl, the last act of a man who’d used his final moments to scratch his hatred into the very bones of the room. It was testament to the immense pain and despair he’d suffered, a deep hatred for her broken promise.
But Pandora just looked at the scene, her expression perfectly calm.
It was like looking at a pile of worthless trash on the side of the road. Nobody feels particularly emotional about trash hating them.
Her gaze swept over the familiar, understandable… words.
That’s right, this was an interesting point. She could read the dying words of this "Warden," a man who should have been a stranger, even though the words, twisted by pain and hate, were nearly illegible.
Ever since arriving in this world, she’d noticed it. This world had a strange "linguistic unity."
It didn't have the language barrier problems of her old world, where different regions and races created a chaotic mix of tongues.
Language, one of the most complex products of civilization, shaped by geography and history, was here, somehow… "standardized."
Even in the most remote villages, they spoke a language that was almost universally understood.
And nobles like the Viscount, or knowledgeable priests, didn't use a more "advanced" official or religious language, similar to Latin. They just used the common tongue, at most with more ornate vocabulary and complex sentences. Fundamentally, it was all the same.
Now, this strange "linguistic unity" had appeared again with this mysterious "Warden."
It was one more piece of evidence that this world was under the thumb of some powerful, unseen controlling force.
Pandora’s thoughts fluctuated.
She ignored the pile of rotting flesh that was already starting to stink and circled around to other, unknown areas of the room. This was basic precaution. A healthy respect for that so-called "insurance measure."
Whether it existed or not, she knew one thing for sure: he had more information than she did. She admitted it freely.
So, for things she didn't understand, the most basic respect was to not approach, not to touch.
As for why not just have the System "package and extract" this unsightly pile of rotting flesh and the zombie corpses downstairs?
The reason was the same as why she hadn't extracted the bodies of the ordinary zombies.
The System was her greatest secret. The foundation of her survival in this strange world. She would not, under any circumstances, risk its existence being leaked.
So, without being able to guarantee there were no other monitoring devices here, she refused to use the System on their turf. Simple as that. Unless it was like the “Frenzy Mist,” where even if it was extracted, it would be hard to detect...
Coming back to her senses, Pandora and Elsa had already finished a thorough inspection of the room.
It was a mess, with shattered glass everywhere and clear signs of Dulles’s frantic struggle before his death.
But besides the pile of unidentifiable rotting flesh and the bloody words on the wall, there wasn't much else.
Only two items in the mess caught her attention.
One was an empty, round-bottomed flask lying quietly in a corner. On its inner wall, a faint, barely perceptible fluorescence, like the sheen of red moonlight, still lingered. It was clearly not a normal item here, but a relic left behind after the man's final madness.
The other was a letter of appointment, placed solemnly on the console, unharmed due to its special material…
Pandora picked it up. It was a type of paper she’d never seen before, tough and smooth. The words on it were written with a substance similar to ink, but with a metallic sheen.
When she saw the contents, even with everything she’d seen, even with her mind growing numb to the constant shocks, the letter made her breath catch in her throat. A cold knot formed in her stomach.
This single document, this one glimpse behind the curtain, was enough to inspire a profound, soul-deep terror.
——————
Letter of Appointment
By the authority of the Corpse-Plague Furnace, and with the permission of the Flesh-Shaping Foundry (Permit No. AF0076037619), it is hereby appointed that:
Bradley Dulles is the Warden of “MS06871, ‘The Viscount of Douglas’s Fiefdom.’”
His duties include, but are not limited to: Supervising the Fruit cultivation plan, Live Iron Golem Project, and Great Demon Containment Measures within the designated territory, ensuring compliance with the standards and ethics of the Academy and the Foundry; Submitting regular reports to the Academy and the Foundry; Exercising special disposal authority in the event of an emergency as stipulated in Regulation No. 895.
This appointment is effective from the date of signing. Term of Validity: One Year
Office of the Apprentice, Corpse-Plague Furnace: (Seal of the Apprentice Office)
Representative of the Flesh-Shaping Foundry at the Plague Academy: (Seal of the Representative)
——————
Pandora’s fingertips traced the cold, metallic words. Every single one was a hammer blow, shattering her understanding of the world.
Fruit Cultivation Program?
Did that mean… them? The children? Were they fruit? Grown only to be harvested?
And the Live Iron Golem Project? That was the zombies. It all clicked into place. No wonder the Alchemical Elements from them contained so much Salt-Gold.
And the Great Demon Containment Measures? Great Demons? What in God's name were those? What could be so terrifying that the "Academy" itself needed special measures to contain it, right here in this carefully designed "Orchard"?
And this…
MS06871, “Viscount Douglas’s Fief.”