The old man's chilling story sent shivers down the spines of the coachmen who were accustomed to facing many dangers on the road, but this creature was their worst nightmare.

"Are you telling the truth?" A moment of silence followed the old man's story, but eventually, someone in the crowd spoke up, seeking confirmation.

"Why would I lie about something like this? Everything I've said is the truth. As someone who faced it head-on and managed to survive, you're lucky to hear it from me," the old man replied with a wry smile.

"As a matter of fact, I even have a souvenir from it," he continued, reaching into his pocket and retrieving a green bottle.

The bottle appeared transparent, but its contents were a vibrant green. The crowd watched in anticipation, eager to learn what it contained.

"This is the gas it releases when it's in dire straits, the Baiturate. I've just liquefied it for safekeeping," the old man explained as he displayed the liquid-filled bottle to the crowd.

"Do you want to know what it smells like?" Suddenly, he posed an unexpected question.

"Yes, please, do it!" The crowd erupted in requests for the old man to open the bottle.

"Haha, if you're all truly curious, how could I refuse?" The old man prepared to open the bottle but then halted.

"But this old man went through hell to obtain this little potion of gas, and if I reveal it like this, it's almost as if my efforts were undervalued," he said with a cunning smile, extending his hand as if he were requesting something in return.

Seeing the empty hand extended by the old man, the crowd quickly understood his intent.

"Here, take it!" Suddenly, a person from the crowd, also dressed as a coachman, tossed a bag that made a satisfying jingling sound as the coins inside clinked together.

The bag landed directly in the old man's hand, and the individual who had thrown it stepped forward through the crowd, making their way to the front to stand and await the old man's demonstration.

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Grasping the bag, the burly old man promptly opened it and peered inside, revealing a look of amazement.

It was evident that gold coins held significant value in their society.

"Now that you've got what you wanted, go ahead and do your thing," the person at the front urged.

"If you're throwing something this substantial, how could I possibly keep you waiting any longer?" the old man replied, taking the bottle and slowly beginning to open it.

As the bottle was gradually unsealed, the air in the tavern underwent a transformation.

Initially, it became foul-smelling, with a pungent odor that bit at the senses.

However, after a few minutes, the scent shifted to something sweet, so potent that it seemed to enhance the intoxication of those present.

After a brief moment, the old man closed the bottle, and the fragrance slowly dissipated.

"Now you know what the smell of the Tulara's Baiturate is like. So, if you ever encounter a scent like this while traveling on the road, you'll know it's the Tulara," the old man concluded.

After this little demonstration, the crowd began to chatter among themselves. At that moment, the old man spoke again.

"Not everyone who becomes a puppet suffers; there are exceptions," the old man continued.

"On some occasions, the one who becomes a puppet willingly submits to the Tulara. If the Tulara deems you valuable, you can keep your life without suffering and retain your consciousness."

"However, from that point onward, you'll serve under the Tulara until either you or it meets its end," the old man explained.

Upon hearing this, the crowd listened with curiosity, and a question arose, "If that's the case, how do we identify someone who has willingly submitted to the Tulara?"

"Well, you can tell from their clothes, because being close to the Tulara and cut off from civilized society tends to damage their attire over time."

"However, this method is a bit crude, as they can always acquire new clothing from the people they've killed for the Tulara."

"But there's a more definitive and clear method," the old man explained.

"It's their eyes. Normal people like us typically have black or brown eyes, but those who've been puppeteered by a Tulara will have a distinctive orange halo in their eye whites, like a circle, in the middle," he added..

The coachman stared into the orange-circle eyeballs of the person who held him captive.

No matter how he struggled, he couldn't break free; it was clear that the person possessed more strength than the coachman.

And At that moment, a loud sound echoed through the air.

"Creak!"

The coachman turned his attention towards his carriage, where the sound had originated.

To his horror, he saw the person he had first encountered tearing apart the carriage door, peering inside like a voracious beast about to devour its prey.

Amidst this chaos, a dreadful realization dawned upon the coachman: his worst nightmare had come true.