High School of Demon Hunting-Chapter 1585 - 329: The Modified Subplot

Accompanied by that shrill scream, the Drunkard felt a sudden lightness behind him, his feet landing firmly back on the ground, finding once again the sensation of earth beneath him.

Those wet, slippery stone slabs he had cursed a thousand times in the past now seemed inexplicably dear, filling him with an urge to prostrate himself and offer prayers of gratitude.

Provided, of course, he managed to survive the monstrous maw before him.

With his legs to support him, the Drunkard could muster more strength in his arms. He fought desperately, struggling backward. But the jointed limbs wrapped around his waist and shoulders were as immovable as if forged from iron. He could only watch as the creature’s gaping maw drew closer and closer.

"Don’t come any closer! Get away!!" he shouted despairingly.

"Hmm, so this must be the Jorōgumo."

A faint, young man’s voice sounded near his ear, rekindling a flicker of hope in the Drunkard’s heart—a fire called salvation. "Help me! Help me! There’s a monster!!"

"Quiet... and then, close your eyes," the young man’s voice murmured in his ear.

The Drunkard had no intention of heeding such advice—alcohol was inflaming his spirit, propelling him into a state of feverish excitement. All that remained in his mind was one thought: struggle.

The young man’s voice offered no further reminders.

Immediately.

A streak of white light flashed before the Drunkard’s eyes.

Shhh!

The Drunkard suddenly realized his struggles had borne fruit. His upper body felt light, and, under the force pressing his feet, his entire frame arched back heavily. He staggered several steps, falling onto the slick stone floor in a clumsy, butt-first landing.

Only then did he come to his senses and look again at the monster.

The baby stroller had been cleaved cleanly into four or five sections by some sharp weapon, and the monster cradled in its swaddling cloth had also been torn to grotesque shreds. A few skeletal jointed limbs lay scattered chaotically nearby, and pale green blood seeped across the ground like molten wax.

Trembling, the Drunkard sat sprawled on the ground, scooting backward in fear.

Then, he felt something scurrying—nibbling, darting over his fingers, his hand, creeping on his arm. The Drunkard shivered and slowly lowered his gaze.

It was a swarm of white spiders.

Each was no larger than a fingernail, their bodies covered in fine, dense hairs. Their tiny black eyes were striking, numbering far too many, and, as his eyes swept across the area, he realized they covered the ground like rice grains spilled from a bag—each one terrifyingly animate.

The spiders stretched everywhere—from the shop doors on the inner side of the old street, to the fences lining the riverbank outside.

Not far from him, in the center of the street, the white spiders clumped together in an undulating mass, like a small mountain range.

No, not a mountain range.

The Drunkard stared for a long while before the truth sank in—the mound was the shape of someone lying sideways on the ground. As the spiders dispersed, scattering in various directions, their horde thinned and revealed a mummified body—a hollow shell of skin and bones. The Drunkard instantly recognized who it belonged to.

It was the beautiful Witch.

Just like the stroller, she had been sliced cleanly into four or five parts. But there was no trace of blood on the ground. The spiders had crawled out from her dismembered body.

As though the spiders were her blood itself.

"Stay back." The young man’s voice rang out again near the Drunkard’s ear, making him shudder. He turned instinctively toward the sound, spotting a slender figure standing several meters away. Clad in a black robe and hood, with his face obscured, the figure held a Longsword.

The Drunkard thought the silhouette looked familiar.

Swaying his dazed head, he realized the alcohol within his body had been half evaporated by repeated shocks and cold sweat. That faint inebriation was now aiding his scattered thoughts, helping him recall that sometime earlier, drunk on his bravado-stricken courage, he had planned to molest a passerby.

That passerby had been dressed just the same—though he hadn’t been holding a Longsword at the time.

"Sa... Save me," the Drunkard muttered softly, gazing up at the black-robed figure, his voice trembling and weak. He feared this passerby might mistake him for vermin and cut him down just as easily.

Seeing the Drunkard sitting in a daze, the hooded man shook his head, passing a hand over his blade. At once, a faint black Flame ignited along the sword’s length. Then, he swung the blade in arcs before casting thousands of fiery sparks downward. Like torrential rain, they fell upon the swaddle, the stroller, and the scurrying white spiders.

The searing hiss of flames and the spiders’ agonized cries interwove into a hellish symphony—a merciless elegy tinged faintly with liberation.

The hooded man glanced once more at the Drunkard.

"Not leaving yet?" His voice tinged with curiosity.

The Drunkard froze, snapping back to awareness. He dared not linger a moment longer. Without uttering thanks, he scrambled to his feet, crawling and stumbling toward the old street’s end. The black Flame was almost sentient in its restraint, not a trace of heat brushing his skin. On the old street, the white Mist, oblivious to the brief yet brutal conflict, continued its leisurely, unhurried drift across the ground.

Soon, the black Flame consumed everything.

The hooded figure took one last survey of his surroundings, content to find that under the cover of morning mist, no other Wizards had noticed the fleeting skirmish. Sheathing his Longsword, he rounded the corner and disappeared swiftly into the depths of the old street.

...

...

Beta Town North District Port.

Robert Lee, the street patrol captain, strode leisurely along the embankment road, surveying the vicinity with pride.

The brief, ferocious Black Tide from earlier this year had become his new favorite subject to boast about. Even months later, fragments of his so-called "heroic exploits" would intermittently spill from his lips, filling the ears of fresh recruits in the patrol team with fabulous tales.

Like his temporary conscription of the Hunting team from First University. Or his solo venture into Silent Forest to reconnaissance the scale of the Black Tide and Mad Hunt—and surviving the ordeal. Or even the renowned interview with Ms. Pulitzer.

The Beta Town Post, which featured his prominent half-length photo on the front page, was neatly folded into a pristine square, tucked snugly into his coat pocket—ready to introduce any stranger to a true hero at a moment’s notice.

When no one was around, he would pull out the paper to study it yet again, never tiring of the stern, sharp-eyed officer staring back from the headline.

Just like today.

The mist hung heavy, the surroundings tranquil—a perfect time for self-reflection.

"I should’ve worn a red tie that day," Robert Lee muttered, scrutinizing the photo on the paper. He nodded, then shook his head, tone laced with regret. "And the smile... My lips were turned too tightly. Should’ve loosened them a little more."

With this thought, he glanced around and, leaning over the railing, began experimenting with his expression in the still waters below—searching for the perfect balance between seriousness and a smile.

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