Chapter 427 - 403: Gray Rat Messenger

Chapter 427: Chapter 403: Gray Rat Messenger

The mine’s disguise gave way to its true face here.

The once-narrow tunnels had been forcibly widened and paved with smooth stone slabs. Every ten meters, a ghastly white fluorite stone was embedded in the rock wall, illuminating the subterranean world with the stark clarity of a morgue.

Thomas discreetly scanned his surroundings.

’Where are the miners? The pickaxes? The coal carts?’

As far as the eye could see were hundreds, if not thousands, of enormous alchemy vats sealed with lead plates. They were arranged in neat rows in the cavern’s depths, interlinked by a complex network of copper pipes. An unknown substance flowed within, letting out an unsettling gurgle from time to time.

’This is clearly a cursed assembly line.’

"AHHH—! Kill me! O merciful Lord of Eternal Radiance, kill me!"

A bloodcurdling scream tore through the subterranean silence, reverberating through the enclosed space and making one’s skin crawl.

Thomas stopped. "Is that a survivor?"

"Survivor? Hah." Barros spat on the ground, his face a mask of impatience. "That’s a reject. Its brain is fried, and all it does is howl all day. Father, head over there. A few just expired and need to be handled. The stench is keeping the men from their work."

He pointed to a makeshift morgue in the corner.

Thomas walked over compliantly.

A dozen or so bodies were piled there. Some were haphazardly covered with burlap, while others were left stripped bare and exposed to the air.

Thomas lifted a burlap cloth.

It was the corpse of a young man. His skin had taken on an eerie, ashen-gray hue, and his veins bulged like black roots, crawling in a dense network across his entire body. Most horrifying of all was his chest—a palm-sized black patch was writhing slowly, as if the cells beneath were still dividing uncontrollably.

’This is beyond the scope of any plague.’

His expression solemn, Thomas opened the leather satchel he carried and took out a short white candle and an exquisite silver oil flask.

"May Radiance illuminate this shadowed place."

He first lit the candle and set it beside the corpse’s head. Then, he uncorked the flask and poured out a bit of Holy Oil that exuded the rich fragrance of roses. He dipped his thumb in the oil—his movements as precise as if he were celebrating Mass in a great cathedral—and drew the sun sigil symbolizing the Lord of Eternal Radiance on the corpse’s forehead and chest.

"In the name of Radiance, I dispel the shadows and cleanse this filth."

Thomas loudly recited the common exorcism prayer from the Church’s Holy Scripture of Radiance. As the syllables fell, the sigil he had traced with the Holy Oil lit up with a soft white light. The light was faint, but it seemed to have a natural suppressive effect on the dark power.

The black patch convulsed violently, then emitted a puff of black smoke before falling completely still.

"Hey, you lot! Look lively!"

Barros bellowed from a distance, brandishing an iron-clad club as he raged at several laborers pushing a four-wheeled cart. "All of you, be careful! This is the ’raw slurry’ His Lordship the Marquis went to great trouble to obtain! If you break a single flask, not one living soul on this level will be spared!"

Thomas’s fingers paused for a moment. He discreetly turned to the side, and under the pretense of adjusting his sacred vestments, he glanced out of the corner of his eye at the special cart that had just been brought down on the lift.

The cart was neatly stacked with translucent metal canisters, each sealed tight with complex alchemical clay and lead wire. Even from several meters away, Thomas could feel a chill emanating from the cargo—one that seemed to pierce the very soul.

’It was pure, unadulterated malice, directed at life itself.’

"Supervisor, this stuff is... it’s just wrong..." a mover stammered. His face was deathly pale, and his hands trembled uncontrollably inside their thick leather gloves. "A moment ago, old Jack just tore his glove a little. He touched the side of the canister, and his whole arm just... instantly..."

"Shut up! Old Jack was asking to die!" Barros kicked the worker in the ass, sending spittle flying. "If he’s dead, drag him to the incinerator! Don’t be an eyesore! His Lordship the Marquis gave us a direct order: this batch of ’catalyst’ must be injected into the core reactor before tonight!"

He glanced at his pocket watch, his expression turning ferocious.

"Listen up, you pigs! The previous work stoppage is over! As long as this batch gets loaded, our assembly line can run at full power! When it does, we’ll call down a fresh batch of recruits, and you all can go back to your damn kennels!"

To the laborers, however, this tirade sounded like a song from the heavens.

Cheers actually erupted from the bottom of the mine. Their freshly dead companion, the ichor smoking from his corpse, the deadly gas—all of it paled in comparison to the allure of "going home."

"We can leave once we load it in!"

"We can finally go home..."

"Hurry! Move it, move it!"

A feverish light burst from their dull eyes as they scrambled over each other, lunging for the cart of cursed slurry. A torn glove might mean death, the canisters might be full of poison, but they didn’t care—as long as they could stuff the canisters into the reactor, they could leave this hell.

One man even stepped over a still-warm corpse, humming a little tune. In that moment, the poisonous gas, death, and curses were all insignificant. The only thought filling their minds was "home."

Nearby, Thomas felt his heart clench.

’Highly concentrated catalyst. Full-power operation.’

’There’s no mistake. This is the heart of Hector’s operation to spread the plague—the legendary "Plague Workshop."’

Once the contents of these Black Crystal canisters were made into weapons and unleashed on the battlefield, the plague across all of Haiti would flare up once more.

Just then, the worker who had been kicked lost his footing, his body slamming heavily into the edge of the cart. The violent jolt caused one of the crystal canisters to let out a sickening CRACK, and a hairline fracture appeared on its side.

HSSSS—

A wisp of violet-black smoke snaked out, as if alive.

The mover didn’t even have time to scream. Before Thomas’s horrified eyes, the living, able-bodied man looked as if all the moisture had been sucked from his body. His skin instantly shriveled and blackened, and his eyeballs melted into two pools of black liquid within their sockets. His mouth gaped open, a rattling sound like a broken bellows escaping his throat. He toppled backward, stiff as a board, and hit the ground with the brittle CRACK of a snapping tree branch.

’Dead. In a single instant.’

"Dammit! Containment team! Get the containment team over here!" Barros shrieked, scrambling backward in a panic. He waved frantically at a group of Alchemists in full protective suits. "Don’t let that smoke spread! That’s money! That’s His Lordship the Marquis’s money!"

Chaos erupted.

’This is the perfect opportunity,’ Thomas realized instantly. ’It might also be the last.’

’Once these raw materials are put into production, the consequences will be unimaginable. The intel must be sent out immediately.’

’But three hundred meters underground, the rock and an anti-magic ward blocked all communication Magic. Fortunately, he didn’t have to escape himself—he just needed to get the location out.’

Thomas took a deep breath. While everyone’s attention was fixed on the desiccated corpse and the leak, he quickly retreated, ducking into the shadows of a pile of discarded mine supports.

He crouched down and pulled a specially prepared sheet of parchment from his robes. The paper was incredibly thin and would dissolve on contact with water. He bit his finger open and used his blood to quickly sketch a simple coordinate map, writing a few alarming words beside it:

"Plague Workshop confirmed. High-purity cursed slurry has been received. Location..."

Once finished, he rolled the slip of paper into a thin, needle-like shape.

"Come on out, little one."

Thomas called softly to the darkness in the corner, a glint of gold flaring deep within his pupils. This was a power from his bloodline—All-Spirit Empathy.

An enormous Gray Rat covered in coal dust poked its head out from a drainage gutter. It instinctively wanted to scurry away, but after a moment under the gaze of Thomas’s dark eyes, it froze, then obediently crawled into his palm.

Thomas tucked the paper roll into the Gray Rat’s cheek pouch. As he gently stroked its head, he forced a powerful, direct command into the rodent’s simple brain.

’Go to the surface.’

’Go to the dead old oak tree.’

"Go," Thomas whispered, his voice filled with grim resolve. "Run fast, for the sake of those still living up there."

The Gray Rat let out a squeak, its eyes growing unnaturally lucid. It turned and scurried into the complex network of ventilation ducts, shooting toward the surface like a gray flash of lightning.

Thomas wiped the blood from his finger, rose to his feet, and brushed the dust from his robes. He put his mask of the compassionate Priest back on and turned toward the chaotic scene of the accident.

"Supervisor! Please, let me through! I know the Purification Skill! Let me handle the body before the curse can spread!"

He shouted, striding resolutely toward the source of the leak and its overwhelming stench of death. ’To buy time for the messenger rat, I have to make this act even more convincing.’