Wizard: Start with Biological Transformation to Grind Experience Chapter 604 - 8: The Face

The atmosphere in the dining hall of the Guardian Tower was exquisite and eerie. Soft magic crystal lamps cast a warm yellow glow, illuminating the long dining table covered with snow-white linen. The air was filled with the aroma of roasted at mixed with so kind of... preservative spice, an indescribable, chilling scent.

The waiters moved silently. They were not the living, but skeletons dressed in well-tailored, neatly-pressed black tailcoats, with small black bow ties.

White, bony fingers steadily held silver trays, their movents sowhat stiff, yet they carried a peculiar, rigid elegance. In the hollows of their eye sockets danced ghostly blue soul fires, quietly serving dishes to their master.

A spectral orchestra, composed of similarly dressed skeletons with finer fras (perhaps musicians in life?), played in a corner of the dining hall. Using bone flutes, bone harps, and percussive instrunts made of rib-like structures, they perford an ethereal, lingering nocturne tinged with a faint chill of loneliness.

Lynch sat at one end of the long table, with Kong at the other. The dark red wine in the crystal goblet refracted a gemstone-like luster under the light. A skeleton waiter silently poured the wine, and the contact between bone fingers and crystal glass emitted a crisp, subtle sound.

Kong extended her slender fingers, elegantly lifting the goblet to her lips. She seed unconcerned about the nature of the waiter, sipping gently. The dark red wine starkly contrasted with her skin, pale to the point of transparency.

She set down the glass, picking up the edge of a napkin to ticulously wipe away the non-existent wine stain from the corner of her mouth. This action, perford by her, carried an inhuman, ceremonial precision.

At the dining table, the conversation flowed like a moonlit stream, seemingly casual. They discussed the newly sprouted Magic Plants of the Jade Land, shared curiosities about astrological observations from the Land of Fran, and talked about the practical application efficiency of spatial folding theory in long-distance travel...

Lynch strived to play the role of the host, answering Kong’s questions, seemingly casual but actually intricate, while subtly probing for more information about the "master" she ntioned.

However, as the skeleton orchestra’s performance entered a smooth interlude, Kong’s whirlpool-like silver eyes suddenly lifted, looking across the table’s centerpieces—luminescent magical ferns—directly at Lynch. Her voice remained ethereal, yet like a stone dropped into a tranquil lake, it shattered the previously maintained courteous facade:

"That girl, she’s pretty, isn’t she?"

Lynch’s hand holding the knife and fork paused slightly, a perfectly cooked piece of moonlight fish halted mid-air. He lifted his head, a trace of genuine puzzlent flashing through his gray eyes: "What?"

Kong’s lips seed to curve into that familiar, insightful arc. "I ant the girl you admire. The one carved from ice and snow."

She had been in the Jade Land for so ti now.

Due to tasks and orders, her gaze had always followed Lynch during this period, watching him cultivate, conduct experints, study magic, and so on...

During this ti, she also witnessed so rare yet intriguing scenes.

Like one certain winter.

Beside the ice-bound lake outside the Guardian Tower. The cold wind swept up fine snowflakes, the world a blurred expanse of whiteness. Lynch stood alone in the thick snow, using neither spells nor magic. Like an ordinary person, he piled up a snow mound as tall as a person with his bare hands. Then, he took out a sharp dagger—not a magic dagger, just a plain fine steel dagger.

His actions were focused, almost reverent. The dagger sliced through the cold air, fine snow sifting down. The snow mound gradually took on the shape of a human form: a slender neck, gentle shoulders, a head slightly turned... His carving was exceptionally detailed, capturing the texture of hair, the folds of skirts...

However, when the dagger was about to touch that most important face, his movents halted.

Once, twice... he attempted to bring down the blade, sketching the lines of eyes, nose, lips, but each ti, only a few hesitant marks were left, soon covered by new snowflakes or smoothed out by his restless hand. In the end, that lifelike snow figure possessed an exquisite body and posture, yet the face was a blank, smooth snowfield.

The wind howled, tousling his fringe, his gaze complicatedly fixed upon the faceless snow figure, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the cold handle of the dagger. Snowflakes fell on his shoulders, and upon that blank face.

Kong began to explain: "...In winter, by the lake, you built a snowman. You carved for a long ti; the body and dress were beautiful, like a work of art. Only... it had no face." She paused, her whirlpool-like eyes seeming to penetrate ti, "You tried many tis, but ultimately couldn’t carve her visage."

Lynch was startled.

In the dining hall, only the ethereal, lonely music of the skeleton orchestra remained. Lynch set down the knife and fork, the silverware producing a slight clinking against the bone china plate. He was silent for a mont, his body leaning slightly back into the chair, eting Kong’s probing gaze without evasion.

"Yes," his voice was calm, carrying a serenity that cos with ti, "very beautiful."

"Why?" Kong inquired further, her tone purely curious, like a child questioning an unsolved riddle, "With your spiritual power, your mory, it’s impossible to forget. Even the tiniest features should be imprinted like a brand."

Lynch’s gaze lowered slightly, resting on the untouched glass of red wine before him. The dark red liquid swayed slightly, reflecting the twisted reflection of the magic crystal lamp on the ceiling.

"I rember." He slowly spoke, his voice sinking lower, "I rember the curve of her eyes when she smiled, the slight wrinkle of her nose when angry, the golden sheen in her hair under the sun... every detail is rembered."

He lifted his head, once again looking at Kong, complex emotions simring in the depths of his gray eyes: nostalgia, struggle, and more deeply... a sense of powerlessness.

"But," he emphasized, "no matter what thod I attempt to recreate her—snow and ice, earth, magic crystals, even the most stable mithril... no matter how powerful a spiritual force I use to guide the shaping, even projecting the image from mory directly—failures, all of them."

His fingers unconsciously drew circles on the tablecloth, seemingly repeating those unsuccessful attempts.

"I am unable to... truly bring ’her’ before . The visage I carve, no matter how similar, is rely an empty shell, lacking her spirit, the light in her eyes. The projected image is also just a cold magical creation... it isn’t her, rely a clumsy replica, a symbol reminding of what I’ve lost."

Lynch’s voice carried a subtle hoarseness and self-mockery.

"So, I prefer the blank slate. At least with that faceless snowman... I can still imagine what she might look like standing there."

Lynch smiled slightly.