Chapter 0004: The Whispering Garden

Taking advantage of the monsters’ fear of the magical fire in his hand, Grimm quickly stepped off the narrow path, pried away the earth at the foot of a man-eating tree, and drove apart the thick roots with the fire’s threat. Only then did he see the materials he needed to harvest today.

Nestled among the tangled roots and gleaming white human bones were thumb-sized tubers—some white, some red, some purple. Grimm suppressed his disgust, used his small knife to carefully gather three purple beads, and placed them gently in his belt pouch before hastily retreating to the path.

There was no other choice—this was a required task during patrol, one he would never undertake willingly if not for the obligation. Even though he had moved with such speed, the monsters that had scattered moments before were already converging again, and the bloodsucking vines parasitizing the man-eating tree where he had crouched were lowering their tendrils.

Had his movements been the least bit slower, he would have had to fight his way out.

Earlier, by using elemental vision, he had found the single man-eating tree bearing mature tubers among the many, but usually, it required repeated forays off the path and constant searching to gain any harvest. Each step off the path dramatically increased the risk.

Continuing down the grim, shadowed trail for another two hundred meters, he finally left the realm of man-eating trees behind. Ahead lay a horrifying ghost tree spanning the gravel road, its dangling vines and branches writhing as if alive.

Grimm drew from his neck the magical amulet that marked his identity and softly recited the incantation every apprentice wizard was required to master.

“Muhantolia Sinro.”

As the incantation ended, an intangible, mysterious force burst forth from the black cross-shaped amulet, sweeping rapidly through every inch of the surrounding space.

A warning sounded sharply in Grimm’s mind.

“Anomalous energy field detected; chip functions disrupted…”

The voice of the chip grew weaker and weaker until it dissolved into nothing but harsh static, falling silent.

Grimm paid it no mind and strode forward, holding the amulet high. As he approached, the vines recoiled, pulling back to reveal a barren, desolate road.

With the territories of the man-eating trees and vampiric vines behind him, he was now entering the playground of the infant fiends—a place that filled Grimm with an inescapable dread.

Beyond the ghost tree lay the Whispering Garden, a domain of monsters. On both sides of the path stretched abandoned flowerbeds and ruined gardens, gray and lifeless, teeming with all manner of creatures.

The unique climate of the magical swamp had made this a haven for infant fiends, banshees, and flower spirits—a gathering ground for twisted monsters that cared only for their own appetites. Any living creature that entered would inevitably fall to their endless malice and the temptations of their illusions, becoming fertilizer for the many plants that thrived on death and resentment.

Clusters of mushroom folk with human faces lined the path, hand in hand, singing cheerful songs and inviting Grimm to join their ranks. These small creatures looked like tiny mushrooms with arms and legs, their caps marked with patterns eerily reminiscent of human faces.

Though these mushroom folk, even when standing upright, barely reached the height of a child’s calf, their dancing and laughter sent a deep chill through Grimm’s body.

“Warning… Warning… Special energy field detected, affecting the subject… Please leave the area immediately…”

Grimm retreated step by step, and only when he had put some distance between himself and the mushroom folk did the chill begin to fade.

They looked harmless, but were in fact true carnivorous monsters, so cruel they wouldn’t even spare a victim’s soul. Their bodies were white mushrooms drenched in dark elemental energy. Individually, each had only a weak hallucinogenic power—insufficient to catch a human, a “large” creature by their standards.

But they were pack creatures.

In groups of hundreds, they could generate a mirage-like field of illusion, lulling prey into a dream from which they never woke. When a swarm of mushroom folk pounced, the victim would still be smiling in bliss, lost in some unknown fantasy, even as they were devoured.

To a true wizard, these mushrooms were nothing more than useful potion ingredients. But for an apprentice like Grimm, every patrol was a deadly risk—a constant temptation to fall prey to these little monsters.

If he succumbed to their illusions and stepped into the flowerbeds, the mushroom folk could feast on him without breaking any contracts.

Facing their grinning, insidious approach, Grimm sneered and drew an egg-sized stone from his pouch, tossing it into their midst.

A moment later, a pale blue spark flashed, and five of the mushroom folk collapsed in silence. The survivors scattered in terror, diving into distant grass, shrubs, and behind trees.

Grimm quickly gathered up the five fallen mushrooms, tucked them into his pouch, and snatched up the stone before hurrying back to the gravel path.

He had bought this thunderstone at great expense from Rex, a fellow apprentice. Once shaken, it released a five-point burst of forked lightning—perfect for dealing with fragile mushroom folk. After all, his own spell, Burning Hand, was too destructive for this task, so he had to improvise.

The frightened mushrooms dared not show themselves again, but countless cold, watchful eyes and a chorus of whispered voices followed Grimm, sending shivers down his spine.

Collecting these mushrooms was also a required task for every patrol, so as soon as he finished, Grimm moved swiftly along the winding path, not daring to linger.

To be frank, this was the deadliest area for apprentice wizards.

Once past the mushroom beds, Grimm soon reached the territory of the infant fiends.

These creatures, withered and shriveled like human infants, trailed umbilical cords behind them. They crawled on the ground with astonishing speed, their voices shrill and piercing like the cries of babies.

But they were not true infants. They were something far more terrifying, gifted at birth with an innate curse—words that, through the resonance of their warped wills, could become reality. It was, in effect, an unlimited wish spell.

Unfortunately, their minds were twisted and evil, full of curses and spite. One could not hope for any blessing from them—only a torrent of maledictions.

When dozens of infant fiends gathered to curse a target, even a mighty earth behemoth would be reduced to a quivering wreck, helpless before them.

To survive among such lunatics required an iron will and an unshakeable mind; otherwise, one’s flesh would be flayed, bones dismantled, and soul lost among the many wandering spirits of the Whispering Garden.

Each kind of monster kept to its own domain, rarely crossing boundaries, for war between monster tribes was not unheard of.

As Grimm hurried along the winding track, the desolate gardens and wild grass on every side rustled with strange sounds. He dared not pause, gripping the amulet at his chest and pressing on with head bowed.

At last, before the chorus of shrill infant wailing could engulf him, Grimm burst out of the Whispering Garden and turned down another path.

For an apprentice on patrol, the task was simple: every seven days, survey the area around the tower, monitor the monsters’ movements, and collect some magical materials. That was the entirety of his mission.

The region he patrolled was still considered the inner zone of the magical swamp—a place where few outsiders ever ventured. The creatures bred by wizards were so dangerous that even apprentices, with their amulets, could not guarantee safety. Any ordinary intruder seeking to steal the wizards’ treasures was simply gambling with their life.

In truth, ordinary mortals could scarcely reach even the outermost parts of the swamp.

Yet, Grimm knew, there were times when the wizard’s tower would deliberately lift the outer wards, even luring mortals deep into the swamp. That was when the inner monsters feasted—a time of wild revelry.

The wizard’s tower was a colossal ring-shaped structure, its base surrounded by a complex landscape and an intricate distribution of monsters. Every patrol required at least two apprentices, one clockwise, one counterclockwise, each following a set route through the monster territories. Setting out from the main gate and meeting at the rear, they would complete a closed circuit, fulfilling their duty.

Each successful patrol earned them four knowledge points and a handful of gold coins. Compared to other tower tasks, this was a generous reward. Yet even so, most knowledge-hungry apprentices avoided patrol duty whenever possible.

The reason was simple: patrol had the highest mortality rate of all the tower’s tasks—without exception.

This time, Grimm had taken the counterclockwise route, passing the man-eating forest, mushroom beds, and the Whispering Garden. The other apprentice, Tony, had taken the clockwise route, which was no safer—after all, the swamp crocodiles, old hags, and parasite mothers were all deadly in their own right.

Especially when collecting crocodile eggs or insect cocoons, which meant venturing into the heart of their lairs—the risk soared.

Thus, when Grimm saw Tony at the rear gate of the tower, he felt genuine relief for his comrade’s luck.

The two exchanged no more than a nod before stepping inside.

Awaiting them was the head apprentice, Anxos. After handing over their collected items, the next six days were theirs to enjoy in freedom. As for the knowledge points, Anxos recorded them through special means into their magical amulets.

For the tower’s apprentices, the amulet was as good as their identity badge.