novelbin Chapter 513 It's chilly outside, this chapter is about the hospital ward.
Chapter 513 It's chilly outside, this chapter is about the hospital ward.
Meanwhile, Wasim and Derek (the Black Chosen One from Pretty Country) were patrolling the gravel path in the hospital courtyard.
Their role is security.
Wasim walked ahead at a moderate pace, his gaze sweeping from the bushes to the wall, and then to the tightly closed iron gate of the inpatient department.
Derek followed behind him, the gravel road crunching softly beneath his feet.
The two walked through a long corridor covered with wisteria trellises. At the end of the corridor was a semi-circular sunken plaza with a long-dried-up fountain in the center. A few withered leaves and a thin layer of ash were piled up at the bottom of the pool.
They stopped here for a moment.
Wasim glanced at the fountain pool to make sure there was nothing out of the ordinary, then turned to head towards the parking lot.
Just then, Derek nudged him lightly with his elbow.
Wasim followed Derek's gaze.
There is a row of cast iron benches on the east side of the small square. At this moment, a person is sitting on the innermost bench.
No, that's not right—to be precise, it was something sitting in a human shape.
He was wearing a wrinkled hospital gown, the buttons were fastened incorrectly, one corner of the hem was tucked into his waistband, and the other corner was hanging out.
His head was bowed, his chin almost touching his chest, and he remained motionless, like a wooden stake forgotten on a chair.
But what truly made Wasim's pupils constrict was its feet.
Those two feet dangled under the bench, their toes barely touching the ground.
But from the ankle down, the outline of that thing began to blur, as if someone had repeatedly erased the lines on a drawing paper with an eraser, turning them into a chaotic mess.
The area around the soles of the feet had no three-dimensionality; it was just a grayish-black, semi-transparent shadow, softly spread across the road, gradually blurring outwards.
Like ink spreading in water.
Wasim and Derek both stopped in their tracks.
The two exchanged a glance.
[Patrol Rule 4: If you encounter a patient leaving the hospital grounds, immediately ask them to return.]
Derek clenched his fist, his knuckles cracking. "I'll go and scare it with my fist so it'll hurry back to its ward."
Wasim quickly raised his hand to stop him, giving Derek a disapproving look:
"You're really ignorant and fearless. That's a monster; no matter how good your boxing is, it's all for naught against it."
Derek opened his mouth, but then remained silent.
The two stood there for a full minute, observing.
The figure in the hospital gown remained motionless.
"What do we do now?" Derek asked in a low voice.
Wasim frowned.
"Go over and take a look. Open your fist; it can sense your hostility even from 200 meters away."
Derek glanced down at his right hand, which was still half-clenched, and slowly unfolded his fingers one by one until they finally hung down at his side in the most natural position.
He deliberately relaxed his shoulders to make himself look less like a volcano that could erupt at any moment.
"Follow me," Vassim said. "Do not act rashly without my instructions."
He started walking forward, at a moderate pace, without even trying to lighten his steps.
The crunching sound of the gravel on the soles of my shoes was exactly the same as before, with the same rhythm and volume.
Derek followed behind him.
The two of them got closer and closer to the bench.
Twenty meters.
Fifteen meters.
ten meters.
Wasim noticed that on the ground around the bench, the grayish-black shadows clung to the surface of the gravel, like a thin, sticky layer of moss, or some kind of slowly dissolving biological tissue.
Derek saw it too.
He could feel the hairs on the back of his head standing on end, but he didn't run.
He was a boxer who had been fighting for over a decade. He had broken ribs, had his eyebrow stitched up, and had been knocked unconscious in the ring only to get back up and keep fighting.
He was afraid of many people, but he never escaped any of them.
A boxer's ferocity isn't about not being afraid; it's about clenching his fists tighter when he's scared.
The two approached step by step, stopping when they were about three steps away from the humanoid figure.
Derek also stopped, standing half a step behind Wasim to the left, like a silent human shield.
"Hello," Vassim said in a flat tone, "It's chilly outside, you should go back to your ward."
silence.
The humanoid figure did not move.
It still had its head down, its hospital gown wrinkled and wrapped around its body, making it impossible to tell whether it was fat or thin, male or female.
The gray-black shadow beneath its feet was slowly, slowly spreading outwards, and Vassim could feel a damp, decaying chill rising from the ground.
About three seconds passed.
The humanoid head started to move.
It was very slow, like a rusty machine being forcibly started.
Its chin was raised from its chest, its neck tilted back, and its face was revealed.
It has no facial features.
The entire surface of that face was a uniform, dull color, like the surface of a stagnant pool.
But Vassim and Derek simultaneously sensed something—it was watching them.
Then it laughed.
A smile appeared out of nowhere on that blank face.
The chill suddenly intensified.
The gravel pavement beneath Wasim's feet made a slight hissing sound—
The dark gray shadow had spread to the tips of his shoes, as if something was licking the soles.
He stood there, motionless.
Derek's rationality was like a string stretched to its limit; his fist, as big as a sandbag, clenched again, and this time he didn't let go.
He slightly bent his knees, lowered his center of gravity, and was ready to fight at any moment.
Or at least, he could grab the back of his collar before Wasim was dragged over.
"Derek." Wasim didn't turn around, but merely tilted his head slightly, his voice neither loud nor soft, "Don't move."
Derek gritted his teeth, staring at the faceless man, clenching and unclenching his fists repeatedly, finally managing to loosen his fingers one by one, as if he had used all his strength.
Wasim stretched his right hand to his side, his five fingers making a grasping motion in the air—
There seemed to be a brief pause in the air.
Then he had a revolver in his hand.
With a six-round magazine, the dark silver gun body gleamed coldly in the afternoon light, and the grip was engraved with fine, ancient patterns.
It was the reward I received when I cleared the previous dungeon – Funeral Song.
No reloading is required; after firing, the bullets automatically regenerate in the cylinder, never running out.
Bullets deal an additional 150% damage to bizarre creatures and inflict a brief burning effect upon hit, which can interrupt the regeneration ability of low-level monsters.
Derek's pupils contracted sharply.
When he was picking up his equipment at the security room, he saw with his own eyes that Wasim only took a portable baton and a bottle of pepper spray, exactly the same as what he had taken.
But now, that revolver is blatantly in Vassim's hand.
Where did he take it from?
Wasim ignored Derek's gaze.
He gripped the gun in his right hand and began to spin it.
The pistol danced between his fingers, from the base of his hand to the back of his hand, then back to his palm, before completing a 360-degree spin in the air and landing steadily back in place.
His movements were fluid and graceful, like a cowboy in a Western movie, or a seasoned gun enthusiast stretching his knuckles...