Chapter 739: Chapter 627: Examination

The blacksmith Hans’ house is on the east side of the town, a two-story stone house with a yard.

The anvil sign at the yard’s entrance is already rusted, and half-finished farm tools and some scrap iron are piled in the yard.

The lively sound of iron forging is completely absent, only the wailing of the wind through the eaves remains.

Old Herman walks in front, his hunched figure casting a long shadow on the stone path.

He stops at the yard gate, turning to look at the nine wizards behind him.

"Hans’ youngest son is inside." The old man’s voice is hoarse and calm, "His name is Carl. Fourteen years old. This morning, he watched his mother and sister breathe their last, and now he stays alone, refusing to come out."

The warlock in the deep blue robe nods: "Let’s go in. Be careful not to startle him."

The group crosses the yard and pushes open the slightly ajar wooden door.

The first floor is the kitchen and the living room, with a salty and fishy smell permeating the air.

Jeming notices that the iron pot on the stove still has half a pot of soup left, with a gray-white film congealing on the surface.

The dishes on the dining table have not been cleaned up, utensils scatter on the floor, and a chair is overturned nearby... possibly knocked over when someone suddenly stood up.

In the corner of the living room, a young boy curls up on a chair.

He looks younger than his actual age, his thin frame wrapped in an oversized coarse cloth shirt, his hands tightly hugging his knees, face buried in them, and his shoulders trembling slightly.

Hearing footsteps, the boy suddenly lifts his head.

His face is streaked with tears, his eyes swollen, and in his pupils is something beyond fear—a doubt towards the world itself after personally witnessing his family die one after another.

He looks at the nine wizards who walked in, his lips quivering a bit, no sound coming out.

"Carl." Old Herman steps in front of him, his voice surprisingly gentle, "These people are here to help us. They are very skilled, able to resolve that damned finger."

The boy says nothing, merely staring at Jeming and the others, his gaze as if looking at some unfamiliar and incomprehensible creature.

The wizards don’t rush to approach, exchanging glances before Jeming, who appears the most amiable, and another female wizard step forward as representatives.

Jeming retrieves a clean cloth from his storage space, pours a glass of water from the table, and places it on the coffee table next to the boy.

"Have some water." His voice is soft, carrying a calming steadiness.

The boy hesitates for a moment, reaching out to take the cup, but retracts his fingers upon touching the cup’s edge, as if fearing the cup also contains that salty, bitter thing.

"Where’s the kitchen?" the young witch asks.

Old Herman points to a door beside the living room.

The wizards enter the kitchen.

It is a typical craftsman’s kitchen, with a stove, sink, and cabinets, all very plain.

The cabinet doors are open, and the seasoning bottles inside are toppled over, clearly rummaged through.

Jeming’s gaze lands on the salt jar by the stove.

It’s a rough clay jar, its glaze uneven, the lid half open.

From the jar’s condition, it is clearly newly purchased.

Through the lid’s gap, white salt grains can be seen inside.

And protruding from the salt grains is half of a finger.

With ghastly pale skin, riddled with age spots, and damp under the nails, as if just fished out from water.

It’s inserted in the salt jar just like that, a foreign object casually tossed in.

Identical to the description in the report.

Jeming does not rush forward but stands with the other wizards around the salt jar.

Nine people, nine directions, surrounding the small clay pot.

"I’ll go first." The warlock in the deep blue robe extends his hand, palm facing the salt jar, and closes his eyes.

A pale cyan light spreads from his palm, enveloping the entire jar.

The light persists steadily for several seconds, then he opens his eyes, frowning slightly.

"Energy detection shows no response." He says, "It emits no form of energy fluctuation. The spiritual power scan results... it’s just an ordinary dead finger."

The witch beside him casts a detection spell. Blue glimmers sweep over the jar; she shakes her head: "No anomalies on the Law level either. In my perception, it’s just a piece of dead organic matter, with no entanglement of any laws."

Jeming remains silent, quietly activating the Fate System.

The information processing network constructed by the Incense Fire Divine Dao operates at high speed deep within his consciousness.

Relying on the knowledge he’s already grasped from the Destiny Element, Jeming "sees" countless streams of information converging from all directions, weaving into a massive causal network.

He focuses this network on the finger in the salt jar, attempting to capture its fate trajectory, causal clues, and any possible abnormal information flow.

The result makes him frown.

There is nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

This finger in the Fate System is like a blank slate, without past or future, having no causal connection with anything.

It exists, but its existence generates no information.

Jeming further activates the All-Purpose Eye.

After advancing to Refining Void Perfection, the sensory precision of the All-Purpose Eye has reached a new level.

A golden gleam flashes through the depths of his pupils.

Everything in the kitchen changes in his view: the walls become a translucent energy grid, the embers in the stove reveal the flow trajectory of the Fire Element, and countless tiny Element particles shuttle through the air.

But the finger in the salt jar...

It has no energy flow.

Nothing that can be captured by the All-Purpose Eye as "special."

It just looks like an ordinary, dead, slowly decaying human finger.

Jeming closed the ocular technique, shaking his head.

"I can’t see anything unusual either," he said.

The nine wizards simultaneously furrowed their brows.

If one person can’t detect anything, it might be that their means are insufficient.

But nine people, each skilled in different areas, using different detection methods, all reached the same conclusion: the finger has no abnormalities.

And yet it clearly was in the salt jar and killed forty-nine people.

Silence persisted for a few seconds.

"Wait a minute." The thin-faced warlock suddenly spoke, wearing a gray robe.

Since earlier, he had been analyzing the microscopic structure of the finger with some kind of witchcraft, and his expression showed subtle changes.

"I tested its genetic material."

All eyes turned to him.

"What’s with the genetic material?" asked the warlock in the dark blue robe.

The thin-faced warlock raised his head, sweeping his gaze over everyone’s faces, his tone cautious: "Its genetic material is highly similar to the people of the Hans Family—the living youngest son included. Although not identical, the similarity far exceeds the level between ordinary strangers."

The air in the kitchen stagnated for a moment.

A thought quickly flashed through Jeming’s mind. He looked at the thin-faced warlock: "Tell me more."

"Simply put, if we perform a genetic material analysis, this finger is blood-related to the Hans Clan."

"That’s impossible," the young witch frowned, "unless this finger belongs to a member of the Hans Family."

"Is there anyone missing a finger in the Hans Family?" another wizard asked.

Jeming recalled the corpses he had seen in the basement earlier.

Never mind the entire Hans Family, he had scanned all forty-nine corpses with Spiritual Power, and during the autopsies, there was no indication of any missing finger.

He looked towards Old Herman.

The old man shook his head: "All five members of the Hans Family have their fingers intact. I’ve also checked the other deceased, and no one is missing a finger."

So the finger does not belong to any of the deceased.

Yet it is highly similar to the genetic material of the Hans Family.

Jeming roughly understood the operating principle of the finger.

"Let me see." A deep voice rang out from the crowd.

The speaker was a burly warlock clad in snug leather attire.

He had been silent throughout, not even participating in the detection earlier.

The burly warlock stepped forward, unhesitatingly reaching into the salt jar and pinching the ghastly finger out.

The finger swayed slightly between his fingers, water drops from its nail seams falling onto the stove, emitting a subtle "plop" sound.

"What are you going to do?" the warlock in the dark blue robe asked.

The burly warlock did not answer.

He stared at the finger in his hand for a moment, then, under everyone’s gaze, opened his mouth and stuffed the finger inside.

The wizards present were somewhat surprised at his action, but considering the finger would reappear even if damaged, no one stopped him.

Yet the wizards’ composure did not imply everyone could accept it.

Old Herman stepped back, his amber eyes wide open.

Even more shocked was Carl in the living room.

While the wizards were detecting, the young man had quietly walked to the kitchen door, witnessing the scene.

Seeing a stranger shove the terrifying finger into his mouth, Carl’s face turned pale, his lips quivering, unable to utter a sound.

Jeming glanced at the young man, unable to resist recalling his own clumsy past when he first encountered anatomy.

He thus stepped sideways to block the young man’s view, his voice remaining calm: "It’s okay, he’s examining the finger. Don’t be afraid."

The burly warlock chewed twice, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed the finger.

Then he closed his eyes, pressing his hands against his abdomen, his palms glowing with a dark green light.

Apparently, this wizard is using his body as an experiment platform, directly perceiving the nature and response of the consumed matter.

The kitchen was so quiet one could hear the faint sound of salt grains rolling in the clay jar.

A few seconds later, the burly warlock opened his eyes, his expression somewhat strange.

"It’s been digested," he said.

"What?" several voices asked simultaneously.

"After I swallowed the finger, it was digested in my stomach. But before being completely digested... it directly turned into a clump of salt." He extended his right hand, palm open, a small pinch of white salt grains seeped out from the pores of his skin, falling into his palm.

The salt grains glistened, appearing no different from ordinary table salt.

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