Punk activated Microscopic Exploration, carefully observing the gray silk threads intertwined with the bones of the experimental subject.
Under the illumination of Dancing Light Technique, the true nature of the gray silk was laid bare before Punk's eyes. His brows furrowed slightly.
"This is…"
From a microscopic perspective, he saw countless peculiar gray cells, densely packed and interconnected, forming what appeared as "gray silk" to the naked eye.
These cells were smaller than ordinary ones, possessing a semi-energetic structure. This level of energy made them completely impervious to the immune system of mundane creatures.
Unlike normal cells that exchanged matter through membranes, these abominations had a massive maw at their "head"—a mouth lined with virus-sized, energy-infused fangs. They resembled minuscule, primeval beasts, grotesque and vicious.
More importantly, these cells did not absorb nutrients.
They hunted.
With the perception of a formal-level mage, Punk could distinctly sense the formidable power contained within their microscopic jaws. Fueled by their semi-energetic bodies, they could devour bone effortlessly.
Even more terrifying, once the "gray silk cells" consumed bone and multiplied, they would seamlessly fill the voids they created, intertwining their vitality with the host's body.
This property rendered many purification spells ineffective.
To certain low-level magics, these invasive cells were indistinguishable from the host's own tissues.
"A truly troublesome disease… I wonder how Tishachar managed to obtain it."
Discarding the half-cut bone in his hand, Punk narrowed his eyes.
Before succumbing to madness, Tishachar must have been an exceptionally cunning spider—this kind of disease could never be controlled by someone incompetent.
At the same time, Punk had already pieced together the method of transmission.
The sudden disappearance of countless flowers in the forests.
The abrupt rise of a cheap perfume merchant that shattered the monopoly of the Doctor family.
All these pointed to one conclusion.
The initial transmission vector of this disease was none other than cheap perfume.
The widespread use of this inferior perfume among commoners had unwittingly turned them into carriers of the plague.
Now that he had fully dissected the disease, the next step was to experiment with a cure.
At this moment, Punk recalled the two jars he had taken from the High Priest's lair within the spider cave.
Judging from the alchemy equipment left behind, the High Priest had likely been concocting something in the depths of the cave.
The contents of these two jars had to be important.
Punk estimated with 80% certainty that they contained either the priest's experimental potions or, at the very least, crucial raw materials.
Setting the two sealed iron jars on the table, Punk layered himself with three additional spell defenses, including Mental Barrier, before remotely opening the lids with Mage Hand.
With a crisp clang, the lids fell to the ground, revealing the jars' contents.
The leftmost jar held a dark yellow, bubbling liquid.
The translucent, crystalline substance emanated faint fluctuations of faith energy.
The right jar contained an emerald green, gelatinous fluid.
Unlike the first, it radiated an unusual energy field, akin to a magnetic pulse.
The moment its energy wave brushed over the diseased bones, the "gray silk cells" reacted in panic.
They twisted frantically, writhing as if trying to escape.
On a macroscopic level, the gray silk strands visibly squirmed.
"It seems this is the antidote for the 'gray silk' disease."
A faint smirk formed on Punk's lips.
He had expected to spend considerable time formulating a cure, yet Tishachar had already prepared one for him.
On deeper thought, this was reasonable.
After all, Tishachar's goal was not indiscriminate slaughter, but forced conversion.
She needed to ensure the survival of her followers in order to harvest their faith.
As for the dark yellow liquid, it was undoubtedly the brainwashing agent.
The faith energy contained within was more than enough to assimilate an ordinary person's soul, eroding the will of anyone lacking a firm mind.
"So, this so-called 'Divine Water' is nothing more than a mixture of these two potions, diluted with ordinary water to create a faith-infused healing drug."
Now that he had unraveled the secret of the "Divine Water," Punk's plan to use the church of Tishachar against itself became even clearer.
These two jars alone were sufficient proof to brand Tishachar's church as a heretical cult.
And with that, the Church of the Gods had ample justification to strike.
Although the priests stationed in Dolazi were nothing more than small fry with limited power, they were still useful as disposable scouting cannon fodder.
A cold glint flickered in Punk's eyes.
Those self-righteous priests likely had no idea they had already been marked as sacrificial pawns in his scheme.
Their inevitable "selfless dedication" was practically set in stone.
As for the antidote and disease information?
Naturally, Punk had no intention of releasing them.
The current state of chaos in Dolazi was perfect for his plans.
The more turmoil, the better.
After all…
"The legendary equipment is mine."
— Split Line —
Bahanger Heavyhammer, like all dwarves, had two great loves—smithing and ale.
He despised giants and elves.
As a formal-level warrior, he had settled in Dolazi to fulfill a promise made in his youth, guarding the Hyde family.
Over the years, his desire for adventure had faded.
But if he were to be honest, Bahanger found himself quite content with this life—unlimited access to liquor and an endless supply of metal to forge.
Even the so-called "divine kingdom of Moradin" didn't seem like much of an upgrade in his eyes.
Lately, he had been in particularly high spirits.
The reason?
A small piece of mithril he had acquired on the black market.
This was an incredibly precious alchemical metal.
It was said that refining even a single gram required the extraction of over 1.5 tons of pure silver, using a convoluted and arduous process.
The scarcity and value of mithril were self-evident.
For months, Bahanger had been meticulously forging this tiny piece of mithril, intending to reinforce his beloved warhammer.
As for the so-called plague?
That had nothing to do with him.
As long as his master, Gothra, was fine, he had no interest in meddling with other people's affairs.
But just because Bahanger didn't seek trouble…
Didn't mean trouble wouldn't seek him.
Right after dealing with that greedy bastard Hutt, yet another unwelcome visitor had arrived.
Just as Bahanger was about to temper the mithril, his combat instincts suddenly flared.
Through his warrior's senses, he detected an imposing presence standing outside his forge.
A figure—tall, slender, yet radiating explosive power.
"Damn it, which idiot is disturbing Old Bahanger now?"
Fuming, the dwarf hefted his hammer and stomped toward the door.
"If you don't give me a good reason, I swear I'll shove your head straight into the forge!"
Yet, despite his grumbling, he still opened the door.
Because the visitor wasn't some two-bit thug like Hutt.
It was a true formal-level powerhouse.