Hescal stood beneath a black curtain that blocked the pouring rain.
Was this created with magic too?
It was something that could inspire wonder, yet Hescal didn’t express a single thought about it.
The storm raged, making everything in front of him blurry. It was a weather so bad that even Knights would be rendered blind.
And yet, not a single raindrop landed on his shoulder. Oh, great magic—should he sing its praises? But Hescal remained indifferent.
“So, did you do it as planned?”
Another figure stood inside the black curtain. No, could that thing even be called a person?
By Hescal’s standards, that man was no longer human. Even he never called himself one.
“I did.”
Hescal answered.
“Good. Then I will prepare a place for Zaun to rise. And I will become a god, establishing a new law upon this land.”
Hescal’s gaze settled on the speaker.
His flaky skin looked like that of a man about to die. His facial muscles had necrotized, giving his face a grotesque appearance. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyeballs looked like they might fall out at any moment.
His protruding cheekbones revealed glimpses of the bone underneath.
There was no need for explanation—his body was rotting.
Drmule, the genius alchemist.
Once, it was said that half of all alchemists on the continent had learned from him. They read his books, built upon what he had left behind, and crafted their own paths from it.
He was a ghost of the distant past. A man who should have died long ago was still alive today.
Seeing him made Hescal think once more.
‘You only survive if you're on the winning side, Tempe.’
Hescal murmured internally.
How one lives is a question for later—what matters now is simply surviving.
Currently, there was no one in Zaun with any real command experience, and everyone was ill. Victory or defeat is decided before battle. That was Hescal’s belief.
In the middle of his thoughts, the stench of rot and decay stabbed into his nose.
The smell of a decaying corpse was Drmule’s perfume. He took another step forward. Any closer, and Hescal would have to bolt from the curtain.
That man was dangerous even at close range. He was the embodiment of unnatural power, one who dared to proclaim himself a god.
“Your friend will command.”
Hescal, Lynox, and Andante. The three swords representing Zaun.
Among them, Andante had died long ago and been reborn. What does a Knight become when he dies and is reborn?
An alchemist and heretical sorcerer brought him back from death, turning him into a Death Knight.
As the rain lightened, a force enduring the storm appeared beyond the curtain. Scalors, Medusas, and Owlbears—nearly a thousand of them.
A monster army.
Behind them stood figures with lowered heads and snake-hair cascading downward.
There was also a wizard who could unleash a plague with a mere gesture. And sorcerers whose souls were enslaved by that wizard.
Worse yet, the ones inside Zaun were weakened, poisoned by the “seeds” sown by Drmule.
Hescal had taken the antidote, but the others hadn’t. This was a battle won before it even began.
By now, they were probably coughing blood or suffering from extreme fevers. Some might be hallucinating.
Hallucinations that would drive them mad or fevers that would boil their brains and kill them outright.
‘Just like how my son died.’
The disease Drmule spread would slowly wither them to death, crushing their spirits before the fight even started.
“Why did you go so far to kill that girl?”
Hescal asked.
Drmule had claimed he would become a god, yet he had pulled every trick in the book to kill one girl.
He had even used the people he swayed from the hunter’s village and employed cursed rituals.
Most of it came from Drmule’s power, of course—but it was Hescal’s wisdom that ensured it was used in the right place, at the right time.
“She was in the way.”
Hescal wanted to ask why, but Drmule had already turned his back.
That was his signal, he wouldn’t answer. Instead, two of his disciples stepped forward.
One of the three disciples had already been sent into Zaun, but failed. Not because anyone had seen it happen, but because he never returned in time.
Ragna had been guarding the girl.
‘Did Ragna cut him down?’
If so, Ragna may have also been poisoned and killed. Drmule’s disciples were capable enough to do it.
Even if he didn’t die, he wouldn’t be walking around unscathed.
That meant one less Knight for their side. Hescal set aside the question of why Drmule cared so much about that girl and began constructing a mental battle scenario.
Victory was the obvious conclusion.
* * *
Cough, cough, urgh!
A man from Zaun coughed up blood. The cloth pressed to his lips turned bright red.
When the coughing stopped, he removed the cloth and looked at the blood-stained rag.
“Am I dying?”
There was gravity in his voice, more so because it came from someone who had just spat blood. He was prepared to nod no matter what answer he received.
If he had to die, he’d rather swing his sword one more time before going down.
That kind of resolve bolstered his will. Then Ann smacked him on the back.
Smack!
“Oh, stop talking about dying. It’s just a bit of blood.”
Her tone was irritated—understandably so, given how busy she was. Even after hitting him, her hands remained occupied—checking vitals, grinding herbs, mixing medicine.
The man had vomited blood after taking medicine Ann gave him.
For some time now, he had felt phlegm in his throat and developed a foul breath, gradually losing the will to do anything.
These symptoms had dragged on long enough that he had seriously considered leaving for the Retirees’ Village, where all the washed-up people from Zaun gathered. It felt like the right place for him.
He had thought it was just life catching up to him, only to find out it was a disease.
“Drama queen.”
A friend behind him muttered.
The man realized the foreign sensation in his throat had eased after coughing up that blood.
“Am I better now?”
He asked again.
“You’ll need to take the medicine for a month. I can’t make more right now. Once the rain stops, I’ll gather what I need and brew another batch. For now, come with me.”
Ann spoke without pause, and the man quietly stepped aside. Ann either fed people medicine or used a knife to slice open their skin.
Some of them even had leech-like things wriggle out from under their flesh.
‘What kind of disease is this?’
He asked with his eyes.
“It’s not exactly a disease. Seems like some kind of curse mixed into it.”
Ann answered matter-of-factly, and it was indeed a remarkable sight.
Especially for the middle-aged man who had just pulled a leech-like creature from his arm.
A curse, she said?
Weren’t curses supposed to vanish only if you destroyed the medium or killed the sorcerer who cast it?
“Healers treat what can be seen. If I can see it, I can cure it. Curses and diseases—both affect the body, so they’re the same in that regard.”
Only a true genius could say something like that. Why? Because no alchemist would dare say it.
Even those receiving treatment, and even Schmidt, were left speechless.
“Incredible. The way she thinks is different.”
Judging by the gleam in his eyes, he would probably ask Ann to come with him once all this was over.
Even now, the imperial recruiter was spotting talent. Was it professional pride or just responsibility?
Still, he had enough sense not to make a move immediately. Ann wasted no time identifying the disease and treating it.
Within a single day, no one collapsed from coughing up blood, and no one hallucinated from high fevers.
“Eat well, rest properly. I’d tell you not to move around, but I know you won’t listen, right?”
She didn’t direct the comment at anyone in particular, but she said it clearly.
“Of course not.”
Ragna replied.
“Still, try to rest while you can.”
He meant it. A sick body doesn’t heal overnight. They had to follow Ann’s advice. So everyone found their own way to rest.
They stuffed the mansion’s fireplace with firewood and set it ablaze. In front of the estate, they even built a bonfire.
To dry their clothes and warm themselves.
Then they brought out food supplies and had a field meal right where they sat. There was no leisure to sit down in the dining hall and prepare a proper meal.
Most of House Zaun had gathered here, and there wasn’t even enough space to sit.
Some were dozing off, others were checking their weapons. For them, inspecting their weapons was a form of rest.
Encrid checked his blade and changed into a pair of well-dried undergarments.
They were a gift from the fairies.
All was good—except the fabric felt mediocre. Like wearing a bundle of scratchy leaves.
It clung comfortably at first, but the feeling changed over time. It’s greedy to expect silk-like fabric in a place like this.
Knowing that, he had no complaints. He simply recognized it wasn’t a comfortable material for undergarments.
“That’s it for now.”
At some point, Ann raised both hands. Her forehead was dotted with sweat, and her under-eyes were dark. It looked like she had used up all her energy.
“I’m dead tired.”
She said and collapsed onto the floor. Anahera quickly slipped a pillow under her head before it hit the ground.
Where had she even gotten that from?
Lynox brought over a blanket from somewhere and covered her.
Someone else told her to call if she needed anything—perhaps even offered to fight in her place.
If it weren’t for Ann, far fewer people would be standing and speaking coherently right now.
No one knew what tricks Hescal had pulled before he left, but everyone, including Lynox, had felt something off in their bodies.
The disease that had been slowly eating away at them had suddenly accelerated, and it was an outsider—Ann—who had stopped it.
Hescal had likely killed Millestia to exploit the absence of a healer.
A single misjudgment by the enemy. Ann was still alive. Maybe a bit of credit should go to the ferryman as well?
He did keep urging them to protect her, after all.
‘Fair enough.’
Encrid made up his mind to tell him all of this, should they meet again.
The rain that had once poured down with a KWAHHHH! and threatened to pierce the earth now turned into a steady SWAAAAH—eventually, the storm subsided.
That didn’t mean the sun had come out. Though milder than before, harsh winds and thin rain still lashed at them.
“They’re coming.”
The head of the house spoke. Judging by the time, it was probably early dawn.
Encrid quietly stood up, estimating the hour in his mind.
The head of the house spoke again.
“Everyone who can fight—come out.”
He wasn’t the type who could inject emotion into words, so speeches were never his strength.
That’s why he didn’t rely on words. He was a man who always spoke through action. He picked up his greatsword and stepped outside.
Watching him, Encrid stood next to Ragna and observed. Unlike his father, Ragna wore his emotions on his face.
He was furious. His face was expressionless, but the rage in his eyes was unmistakable.
“It’s okay to be angry.”
Encrid said.
One by one, the people of Zaun began stepping outside.
Grida tried to fight with a hole still in her abdomen, and Ann, seeing that, said,
“I wouldn’t mind knocking that woman out cold right now.”
It meant Grida had to stay behind.
Encrid stood quietly beside Ragna, watching the others file out one by one.
“Why would I be angry?”
Ragna asked in return.
Encrid felt a flash of frustration.
“It’s okay to be honest with yourself.”
Still, he kept his tone gentle. He figured Ragna had probably understood by now.
Watching from the side, it was clear. Why didn’t he bring back the Sunrise? If his goal was the Sunrise, why was he doing nothing? Wasn’t it obvious?
“…What are you trying to say?”
Sometimes, Encrid found himself exasperated by madmen. He rarely lost his temper—but this was something else.
“Even if you stepped away, no one would blame you.”
Encrid said.
“I’m fine.”
Ragna replied.
“I don’t think you abandoned your duty. But I also don’t believe a single sword swing can fix everything.”
Ragna said nothing.
“When you walked away from this place, did you really just go off to have fun? Is that why your time felt different? Lighter? Blurrier? Did you waste your time? Did you really enjoy yourself? Or were you just lost? Truly? Because turning your eyes away from something right in front of you isn’t being lost. It’s choosing to ignore.”
Regret after loss comes too late. Regret always arrives late to its appointments and hurts the one who waited.
Encrid had known loss, which is why he understood the importance of moving before it’s too late.
Old memories made him push a little harder.
“Your anger is justified.”
Encrid said. Ragna blinked once. Then he thought:
‘Am I angry?’
He was.
Encrid’s speech, which began with heat and ended in calm, had forced Ragna to face what he had been ignoring.
Someone had hurt his family, his home. Ragna now understood that.
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