Chapter 82: Good Friends and Design Blueprints

Combining all available intelligence, her “soul” should be imprisoned beneath the Temple of Suffering. Hm, all the others are called churches, but this one is called a temple… Colin didn’t even consider it; he was ready to let that matter gather dust for now. If there was to be any crusade in the near future, it would most likely be against the “Witch’s Head” at Silvermoon Bay. For the time being, there was no need to pay further attention to this.

Without dwelling on it, Colin prepared to lead his group out of the area and into the next sector. But just as the team emerged from the coffin and was about to pass Kiminor and leave the cavern, he suddenly remembered something important he had neglected.

The “Bloodthirst Stigmata” had not yet been distributed…

He hesitated briefly, then decided to take care of the allocation first. In a sense, it was the only healing item in his possession with actual restorative powers. Aside from healing cards, the system had not provided him with anything capable of treating wounds; the only other remedies with healing effects were simple potions some survivors had cobbled together after trial and error with various wild herbs. The results were lackluster, the prices exorbitant, and as soon as any were put up for sale, they were immediately snatched up—Colin himself had never managed to get any. He had gained the recipes through system prompts, but unfortunately, the necessary materials were nowhere nearby, so he had to leave it at that.

Another thing that worked on injuries was the Mist Point, but that only offered purification or anti-inflammatory effects—basically, it served as alcohol or an anti-swelling balm. Still, unless the survivors were poisoned or something similar, infections were rare, rendering the Mist Point rather useless. As for swelling, a meal and a night’s rest would usually be enough to recover. This seemed to be an intentional “adjustment,” granting them bodies that, in some sense, bordered on “perfection”—perhaps the only kindness this world offered its survivors.

But that only applied to minor scrapes. With more serious injuries—like when Colin had his flesh gouged out—even if he survived, most of his arm would be left useless.

Now, with the “Bloodthirst Stigmata” replicas in hand, even though five or one percent per minute sounded modest, as long as one didn’t lose a limb or suffer permanent constitution loss, most fatal wounds could be salvaged—provided the monster’s damage didn’t outpace the healing.

Without further hesitation, Colin drew out ten “Thorns of Suffering” from his backpack, holding them in his right hand. Each of these black brambles was half a meter long, as thick as a finger, bristling with sharp spikes. Typically, they grew straight out of the spines of the afflicted who had transformed into abominations.

At that moment, a strange, crimson bracelet woven of thorns appeared on Colin’s wrist, emitting a faint warmth and a red mist, like a bloody vapor. The blood mist enveloped the Thorns of Suffering, and in the next instant, something miraculous occurred.

The black thorns began to melt.

They softened like heated iron wire, fusing together in Colin’s hand instead of dripping away.

They bubbled, shifted, and finally solidified.

In the end, a finely crafted black metal bracelet appeared. Its style was almost identical to the stigmata on Colin’s own wrist, with jagged spikes along the outside and a smooth interior.

“It’s like a title,” Colin mused to himself, “The basic title is like a medal you wear. When it upgrades, it becomes a tattoo… I wonder what form it’ll take after the next upgrade…” He pushed the thought aside and fastened the first “Bloodthirst Stigmata Replica” onto Shana’s wrist, then moved on to the next.

Manufacturing these copies wasn’t particularly troublesome, nor did it take much time—a minute or two for each. However, it did consume a fair bit of energy. Doing it once or twice was fine, but if he operated too frequently—especially thirty times in a row—it became exhausting.

After nearly forty minutes, Colin was pale and woozy, his legs weak as he sat down on a stone to rest. His body was clearly fine, but his spirit felt utterly drained, an uncomfortable exhaustion. He wanted to sleep, but as soon as he closed his eyes, his mind became agitated again. Yet with his eyes open, he felt utterly weary.

“If Kiminor weren’t already my good friend, I’d be tempted to stab him a couple times just to restore my strength…” He glanced at Kiminor, who had taken on the form of a great tree, and the thought flashed unbidden through his mind, though he knew it was just idle musing. Though their acquaintance was brief, Colin already considered Kiminor a close companion, a true friend.

Beside him, Shana summoned the Wind of Renewal, helping to dispel the soul-deep fatigue.

Now, everyone in the exploration party wore a “Bloodthirst Stigmata Replica.” For this batch, Colin hadn’t taken any cut for himself. He understood well that, compared to his own position at the center of the formation, his servants were the true front-line members, the ones who would shield him with their flesh and blood. The stigmata were meant to raise the team’s overall strength; this was no time for selfishness.

Still, there were ten more “Bloodthirst Stigmata” left. Colin intended to hand those over to the outside world for research—and that batch, he could afford to skim a little from.

Even as exhaustion weighed on him, Colin took out a sheepskin scroll and contacted Li Hang.

“What’s up, boss? We’re in a meeting…” came Li Hang’s reply.

“A meeting?” Colin asked, curious.

“Yeah.”

At that moment, they were in the level-three territory, in the midst of a discussion about the “Level One Custom Blueprint” Colin had sent back not long ago—

They were debating what kind of weapon to produce as the standard armament for everyone.

Guns had already been ruled out.

The only options available for firearms were those outdated, simple pistols—or perhaps flintlocks. Anything more complex would run into computational limitations and result in failed designs. And even if they chose such weapons, they’d be useless against abominations—an axe would be far more effective. Besides, bullets were their own headache…

New gunpowder was still being formulated, which might take another day or two, or even longer. Fortunately, with a saltpeter mine at their disposal, most of the necessary materials could be sourced locally. Ancillary equipment, like smelting furnaces, was also under construction. For now, Huang Weiyang’s main effort was in optimizing the production sequence.

For example, black powder now had a dedicated synthesis protocol for the workstations, already several generations more efficient than Colin’s original approach. It was nearly as simple as “one-two-three-four, mix, done”—the whole process took less than ten minutes, regardless of whether they were working with a few kilos or several tons of raw materials.

Of course, that was only because black powder was so simple to make. Anything more advanced would be another story.

Still, while most survivors were using the workstation to synthesize oat porridge and the like, only this small group had discovered its true, terrifying potential. At present, the only one truly capable of unlocking its potential for war was Colin; the others, even if they realized it, simply lacked the materials.

Regrettably, black powder was still the only thing Colin’s side could produce in bulk. And as a propellant for bullets, it was fine against people—but against abominations, the firepower was simply too weak. Unless you landed a headshot with every round, but that was clearly unrealistic.

Too many factors limited the utility of firearms.

Thus, guns were ruled out.