High School of Demon Hunting

Chapter 1584: Chapter 328: The Ensnaring Bride

North Beta Town’s port.

A narrow, ancient street outside the Forest Goods Market.

This is one of the oldest streets in the North District. The blue stone slabs paving the street have turned black, riddled with numerous pits and holes, and slippery green moss climbs between the cracks.

On the inner side of the street are uneven storefronts. Due to the constant damp, much of the plaster has already peeled away, exposing pale gray mortar. On the outer side is a row of low guardrails, beneath which lies a flood-protection embankment. The Silent River flows silently below it, resembling a sheet of translucent green glass.

In the early morning, the old street sees few pedestrians. Because of its proximity to the water, a faint, lingering mist hangs over the street, making it appear even emptier and more remote. Besides patrolling Wizards, visitors hurriedly pass through without pause.

Yet amidst this desolation and haste, a young sorceress is gently pushing a baby stroller forward.

The sorceress appears to be around twenty years old, her hair is black and glossy, her skin pale and delicate, stepping lightly in wooden clogs and wearing a loose-fitting black robe with flowing sleeves—remarkably refined attire rarely seen on such dilapidated streets in the North District.

The stroller’s tiny wheels roll over the stone pits, creating a rattling sound, accompanied by the rhythmic creak of the sorceress’s clogs. The sounds stretch far through the morning fog.

As she turns the street corner, a drunken man staggers through the mist, clutching a bottle of Sea Monster Langmu rum.

He hums an unintelligible, chaotic tune, occasionally raising his head to gulp down the spicy liquor. His bloodshot eyes, glazed from indulgence and intoxication, sweep over a world that pays him no heed.

Rattle rattle.

The drunkard hears a peculiar sound. Following it with his gaze, he sees the elegant figure of the young sorceress emerging from the mist, slowly approaching him while pushing the stroller.

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath.

It seems he catches a whiff of something fragrant, instantly reminding him of that girl he ventured into the forest with over ten years ago—her smooth skin, her warmth, and the tense, tremulous moments they shared.

Another gulp of Langmu runs down his throat, reddening his face, burning his esophagus, warming his stomach, and continuing downward, heating up his lower belly.

Crash!

The bottle is smashed against the stone pavement, scattering shards of glass. The drunkard stretches his arm out, blocking the path of the black-robed figure, halting her advance.

”Hey, beauty, hic, drink with me—hic!”

He slurs and mutters, his voice echoing through the empty street: ”Soon—hic—I’ll be a Wizard too! Hic!”

As he speaks, he pats a cloth pouch containing several frogs tied to his waist—a near-extinct tradition among North District residents. Whether or not one had been accepted by Jini Cottage, people here kept such frog-filled pouches, clinging to dreams of someday being chosen.

After all, dreams should never be abandoned—what if they come true?

The sorceress looks startled. Gripping the stroller’s handle tightly, she instinctively takes a step back, uttering a soft cry as she glances around as if expecting someone to help.

Her sound is timid, reminiscent of a frightened kitten—a thought inexplicably strikes the drunkard amidst his clouded mind, reinforcing the burning heat in his belly from the rum’s fiery course.

Following her gaze, he sweeps his own around with a fierce glare.

The mist-covered street is mostly devoid of passersby, though not far away, there is a slender figure cloaked in black, curiously observing the scene. Upon catching the drunkard’s hostile gaze, the figure retreats with a swift motion back to the street corner, vanishing entirely.

The drunkard’s mood lifts even further.

”Don’t be afraid!” he shouts, pulling the stroller closer to himself while reaching out to grab the sorceress’s wrist: ”Just a little drink together... join me, join me—hic!”

The sorceress murmurs something softly, but the drunkard cannot make out her words due to her barely audible voice. She keeps her head lowered, her eyes fixed on the swaddled child in the stroller, keeping her face obscured.

”What did you say?” The drunkard leans forward, tilting his head, attempting to glimpse her face.

The sorceress shrinks back timidly, revealing a gentle, beautiful face—arched brows, crescent-shaped eyes, gleaming teeth, red lips—and her voice sweet and wholesome:

”Would you like to be his father?”

The drunkard finally hears her clearly, bursting into glee: ”Of course! I can do that! If you don’t mind, then starting now, I’m his dad!”

The sorceress’s eyes glimmer with delight. She grabs the drunkard’s arm, her voice anxious: ”Since he’s your child too, you should hold him, kiss him as well.”

The drunkard opens his mouth in confusion, sensing something amiss.

But a beauty’s request cannot be refused. He obediently bends forward, leaning into the stroller, intending to plant a casual kiss on the child’s face.

The swaddle is wound tight, leaving only a pair of pitch-black eyes exposed.

”Can’t kiss him,” the drunkard mumbles. ”His face is too small.”

”Untie the strings, then you can kiss him.” The sorceress’s sweet voice floats from behind him.

The swaddle’s strings are undone, revealing chubby, cherubic cheeks and a tiny mouth. Even an immoral drunkard, upon seeing this angelic little figure, can’t help but smile.

”So beautiful,” he remarks in awe.

”So disgusting,” the child grumbles, reaching out a pudgy hand from beneath the swaddle and groaning: ”This is junk food... eating this could cause diarrhea.”

Contrasting the angelic face, the child’s voice is coarse and guttural, as if it had crawled out of a coffin like a zombie.

In the drunkard’s horrified gaze, the small hand extending from the swaddle grows longer. Its skin mutates from silky fingertips and plump handbacks to sinewy tight-wrapped wrists and skeletal arms, until it reveals withered reverse-jointed limbs coated with fine, white bristles.

And as the hand grows larger, more legs hidden beneath the swaddle emerge, reaching out and curling around the drunkard’s back, dragging him into the stroller.

Meanwhile, the child opens its mouth wide, its plump cheeks stretching and tensing, its tiny mouth expanding to an unimaginable degree. It keeps growing, even surpassing the size of its entire head.

In the gaping maw, the drunkard can see razor-sharp fangs, some still stained with traces of flesh and blood.

”Help... help me!!!”

The drunkard finally realizes the horror of the monster before him, screaming and struggling in desperate attempts to escape the stroller.

But then he feels himself lifted off the ground—a pair of soft hands seizes his legs, pushing him further into the stroller. The drunkard can only grip the stroller’s railing tightly and continue crying for help.

”There’s nobody around,” the beauty’s voice comes from behind, tinged with irritation: ”Even the one passerby earlier was scared off by you... Stop wasting your effort struggling. Letting blood saturate the meat ruins its flavor—it tastes too metallic... oh!”

The beauty lets out a piercing scream.