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墨書 Inktalez
According to Urahesa's instructions, the area around the vehicle was quickly cordoned off. Several mercenaries set up a temporary perimeter around the car, preventing anyone from entering or leaving freely. The vehicle was surrounded by warning tape, and through the dim light of the fire, one could see the body covered by a blue cube, still lying quietly inside the car as if waiting for some deeper revelation.
The tribe's residents were arranged in neat rows, their faces marked with tension and unease. The Old Witch stood at the front of the line, her gaze stern and focused, as if searching for some elusive clue. This elderly Shaman exuded an unusual authority at that moment; she held a staff adorned with charms and occasionally sniffed the air, as if seeking some hidden scent.
Whenever someone stepped before her, the Old Witch began to examine them closely. Her movements were exceptionally professional; her fingers deftly pressed on each person's shoulders, backs, necks, and limbs, as if checking the condition of their bones. Her eyes were sharp and penetrating, sometimes lowering to sniff their skin and sometimes closing as if sensing an invisible force.
Everyone in line obediently accepted the examination, not daring to resist or slack off. The Old Witch's actions were ritualistic and filled with mystery; her fingers glided over each person's bones, occasionally pausing for a moment as if sensing some unusual sign. She gently sniffed with her nose, trying to capture any abnormal scent in the air, as if searching for some concealed essence. Occasionally, she would emit a soft murmur, continuing her inspection.
Urahesa stood nearby throughout the process, nervously watching every detail. He knew that this examination was crucial for them; any anomaly could be a sign of lurking dark forces that needed to be detected and dealt with promptly.
Though everything seemed steeped in ritual and mystery, for the mercenaries it was just another tedious primitive tribal ceremony. They either stood or sat idly watching the Old Witch conduct her checks; some even began to whisper among themselves, treating the examination lightly. However, for the tribe's residents and Urahesa, this moment was exceptionally serious; everyone quietly accepted the inspection while the atmosphere felt oppressive and heavy, as if every breath could reveal hidden disaster.
The Old Witch continued her work, her fingers gliding over each person's skeleton with meticulous care and focus. Each sniff and touch felt like an ancient and mysterious quest to uncover traces of dark power within their bodies. The people in line held their breath, waiting for her judgment while the entire tribe silently awaited the outcome in this stifling atmosphere.
Inside a tent, Allison busily tended to Samuel, who had just awakened. Samuel lay on a makeshift cot, his eyes blankly staring at the top of the tent, appearing somewhat sluggish as if he had not fully recovered from his earlier shock. His breathing was somewhat rapid; his gaze flickered between clarity and confusion as he struggled to piece together fragmented memories but could never quite make sense of it all. Occasionally he would mumble softly to himself, his tone filled with confusion and fear.
Allison gently placed a damp cloth on his forehead in an attempt to soothe him. Her voice was soft and patient: "Samuel, relax; you are safe now. I will stay here with you; it's okay—don't worry."
Samuel seemed to hear her words; his gaze sharpened slightly but soon fell back into confusion. His lips trembled slightly as if he wanted to say something but found his words stuck in his throat. Allison gently patted his hand and continued to reassure him in a soothing tone despite her own doubts and anxieties.
Meanwhile, Mocus sat in a corner of the tent on a chair, his face pale and filled with deep fatigue and fear. He rested his hands on his head, his fingertips occasionally pressing against his temples as if trying to calm his inner turmoil. However, ever since being ensnared by that monster, Mocus had been shrouded in an indescribable fear. Everything around him felt unnaturally terrifying; every slight sound sent him into panic as if something ominous could happen at any moment.
What troubled him most was that strange itch on his body. Mocus constantly felt a part of him itching uncontrollably; yet no matter how much he scratched, he could never locate the exact spot of irritation. It felt as though something was writhing beneath his skin but remained out of reach, driving him into distress. His fingers roamed over his arms, neck, and back repeatedly but could never quell that peculiar itch.
"Damn it... what the hell is going on?" Mocus muttered under his breath, a hint of frantic anxiety flickering in his eyes. His fingers dug deeper into his skin, but no matter how hard he tried, the itch clung to him like a shadow, amplifying his unease.
Alison noticed Mocus's distress and cast a worried glance his way. Tentatively, she asked, "Mocus, are you okay? Do you need my help?"
Mocus's gaze was filled with agitation and doubt, his voice trembling slightly. "No, I... I just feel so itchy, and no matter how much I scratch, I can't get rid of it. I don't know what's happening, but I... I feel something's off."
Alison furrowed her brow, her concern deepening. She understood that this mission had placed immense pressure on everyone, and Mocus's current behavior was clearly a lingering effect of their terrifying encounter. She spoke softly, "Mocus, maybe you should let Old Witch take a look at you; perhaps she can find something."
Just as Mocus was about to respond, his mouth seemed to move uncontrollably, words spilling out that were entirely different from what he intended to say: "No... I don't believe in these strange metaphysics." The words carried a tone of coldness and rejection, starkly contrasting with the anxiety and unease brewing within him.
Hearing this, Alison couldn't help but chuckle lightly, teasing him with a hint of kindness. "Dr. Mocus, you're an expert in ancient civilizations! These tribal rituals should be a great opportunity for you, right? You could learn about some intangible cultural heritage."
Before Alison finished speaking, an inexplicable wave of fear and confusion surged within Mocus. This was not what he wanted to say! What he truly wished to express was his anxiety over the itch and the profound discomfort he felt about everything happening around him. Yet he sensed that some invisible force was controlling his mouth, forcing out those indifferent and dismissive words.
In that moment, a voice suddenly echoed in Mocus's mind—deep and chilling, carrying an irresistible authority: "Listen to me... listen to me..."
The voice seemed to emanate from the depths of his consciousness, wielding an unyielding power that reverberated through his thoughts, suppressing his will and reason to the point of near helplessness. Mocus's fingers began to tremble involuntarily as a strong sense of fear rose within him, as if some unseen force was eroding him from within, gradually robbing him of control over his own body.
"This can't be happening..." Mocus thought in terror as he struggled against the grip of that power. But the voice coiled around his awareness like a venomous snake, tightly entwining itself with his thoughts and leaving him unable to escape.
Alison remained oblivious to Mocus's inner turmoil; she simply patted him gently on the shoulder and reassured him, "Don't worry; we'll find a solution together. It might just be too much mental stress; this kind of thing isn't uncommon."
Mocus forced himself to nod in response but couldn't shake off the fear gnawing at him. His heart raced as if something were stirring inside him, while that deep voice continued to echo in his mind, attempting to draw his consciousness into deeper darkness.
"Listen to me..." The voice whispered again, filled with endless temptation and pressure, weighing down Mocus's thoughts even further. He felt himself gradually losing control, and that strange itch grew more intense, as if something was writhing beneath his skin, trying to break through his defenses.
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