Chapter 706

Chapter 706

Heskal took shelter beneath a dark canopy that held back the torrential downpour. He wondered if this structure was merely another product of sorcery. Though it was a feat that might have stunned others, Heskal offered no praise. Beyond the veil, the gale was so fierce it erased the horizon; the weather was a blinding wall that would challenge even the most seasoned warrior. Yet, remarkably, his clothes remained perfectly dry.

He felt no need to marvel at the magic.

“Was the strategy followed?” a voice inquired from the shadows of the black fabric. Heskal doubted the speaker was truly human. In his eyes, the entity was something else entirely—a sentiment the creature itself seemed to share, as it never claimed mortality.

“It was,” Heskal confirmed.

“Excellent,” the voice replied. “I shall pave the way for the rebirth of Zaun. From the ashes, I will ascend as a deity and dictate a fresh decree for this realm.”

Heskal shifted his gaze toward the figure. The skin looked like brittle, ancient parchment, stretched over a face where the muscle seemed to have simply rotted away. His cheeks were hollow pits, and his eyes bulged precariously from their sockets. Bare bone peeked through the sharp lines of his cheekbones. It was obvious to any observer that this man was a living corpse.

This was Dremule, the legendary alchemist. At the height of his fame, it was said that nearly every practitioner on the continent was his student, either directly or through his writings. He was a relic of a forgotten era, a man who had cheated the grave for far too long. Looking at him, Heskal was reminded of a core truth: survival belonged to those who aligned with the victors. How one lived mattered little if one did not live at all.

Currently, the forces of Zaun were leaderless and ravaged by illness. To Heskal, the outcome of a battle was decided before the first blow was struck, and the current odds were overwhelming. As he pondered this, the pungent, vinegary odor of decaying flesh filled his lungs—Dremule’s signature scent.

The alchemist drew nearer. Had he come any closer, Heskal would have been forced to step out into the rain just to breathe. Dremule was a walking manifestation of perverted power, a man arrogant enough to seek godhood.

“Your companion will lead the charge,” Dremule stated.

Heskal, Lynox, and Andante—they were the three pillars, the swords of Zaun. But Andante had long since perished, only to be dragged back into the light. Through the combined efforts of an alchemist and a dark sorcerer, he had been resurrected as a death knight.

As the storm began to lose its intensity, the army waiting in the deluge became visible. It was a terrifying assembly of nearly a thousand monsters: medusas, owlbears, and scalers. Positioned behind them was a slumped figure with snakes for hair, standing beside a sorcerer who could command pestilence with a flick of his wrist. Beside him was a shaman, his spirit bound by dark enchantments.

Worst of all, the inhabitants of Zaun were crippled by the “seed” Dremule had planted within them. Heskal had secured the cure for himself, but the others were defenseless. The fight was effectively over. By now, they would be collapsing, consumed by fever or choking on their own blood. They would descend into madness or die as their minds succumbed to the heat—just as his own son had died. The plague Dremule crafted was a slow, dehydrating death designed to shatter a warrior’s spirit before the march even began.

“Why go to such extremes for a single girl?” Heskal asked. It seemed beneath a self-proclaimed god to exert such effort on a child. Dremule had manipulated local hunters, woven complex spells, and set lethal traps. While the raw power was Dremule’s, it was Heskal who had expertly positioned the pieces.

“She was an obstacle,” was the only reply.

Before Heskal could press for more, Dremule turned away, signaling the end of the conversation. Two of his pupils stepped into view. A third had been dispatched to Zaun previously but had failed to return, suggesting they had met their end. Ragna had been the girl’s protector. Had Ragna killed the disciple? If so, the knight was likely infected and dying by now. Dremule’s students were formidable; even if Ragna survived the encounter, he wouldn’t be in any condition to fight.

That meant Zaun was down a key defender. Pushing aside his curiosity regarding the girl, Heskal began to mentally map out the impending slaughter. The conclusion was inevitable.

A member of House Zaun doubled over, coughing violently until a spray of crimson hit his cloth. He stared at the red stain with a hollow expression.

“Is this the end for me?” he asked, his voice heavy. He was prepared for a grim answer. He had decided that if he were to die, he would at least fall with a sword in his hand. His resolve hardened.

Then, Anne delivered a sharp smack to his back.

“Don’t be so dramatic. You aren’t dying; it’s just a bit of blood,” she chirped, her casual tone clashing with the tension in the room. Even as she spoke, her hands never stopped moving—sorting plants, grinding ingredients, and preparing tonics.

The man had vomited the blood immediately after taking Anne’s concoction. For days, his lungs had felt heavy and his breath turned foul. He had lost his strength and had been planning to retreat to the village for the retired and infirm. He thought his time as a warrior was over until they told him it was a sickness.

“Stop being such a martyr,” a friend teased from behind him.

The man realized that the suffocating weight in his chest had vanished. “Am I better?”

“You’ll need treatment for a month,” Anne replied as she shoved him aside to reach the next patient. “I don’t have the full supply yet. When the storm breaks, I’ll find the right herbs. Move along.”

She moved through the crowd with clinical efficiency, administering medicine and making small incisions in the skin of the afflicted. In some cases, small, parasite-like entities were extracted from beneath the flesh. The soldiers watched in horror.

“It’s a curse masquerading as a plague,” Anne explained. “They wove the two together.”

It was a brilliant, if morbid, piece of work. A middle-aged man watched as a creature was pulled from his arm, wondering how she could treat a curse without a traditional exorcism.

“A doctor treats what is present,” Anne said simply. “If it manifests in the body, I can fix it. Curse or disease, it still physically changes the host.”

Her confidence was that of a true prodigy. Even Schmidt, the imperial recruiter, was impressed. “Incredible,” he whispered. “Her perspective is entirely unique.”

Despite the looming threat, Schmidt’s instincts as a scout were tingling; he was already imagining bringing her back to the Empire. It was a testament to his dedication, or perhaps his obsession with talent, though he had the tact not to mention it yet.

Anne worked tirelessly. Within twenty-four hours, the epidemic was halted. The coughing stopped, and the fevers broke.

“You need food and sleep,” she told the gathered warriors. “I’d tell you to stay in bed, but I know you won’t listen.”

“We can’t,” Ragna confirmed.

“Then rest while the opportunity exists,” she urged.

A body doesn’t mend in an hour, so they followed her lead. They built massive fires in the mansion’s hearth and in the courtyard to dry their gear and ward off the chill. They ate their rations where they sat, unwilling to waste time in the kitchens. The house was packed; men slept in hallways or spent their rest time sharpening steel.

Enkrid checked his equipment and changed into the undergarments provided by the fairies. They were effective but felt like wearing sandpaper or stiff leaves. He didn’t complain, though; he just accepted the discomfort.

“I’m finished,” Anne announced, her face pale and marked with deep shadows of exhaustion. “I think I’m actually going to die,” she groaned, slumping toward the floor.

Anahera caught her, sliding a pillow under her head, while Lynox appeared with a warm blanket. Others offered their gratitude, promising to fight in her stead. Without her, House Zaun would have been a graveyard. They realized now that Heskal had done something to trigger the illness before fleeing, and Anne was the only reason they weren’t all dead. The enemy had tried to kill Millescia to remove their healing, but Anne had survived, likely thanks to Saho’s stubborn protection. Enkrid made a note to thank him later.

The thunderous rain eventually faded into a light drizzle. The storm was passing, but there was no sunlight to greet the morning—only a cold wind and a gray haze.

“The enemy is here,” the Lord of House Zaun declared.

Enkrid stood up, gauging the hour. It was dawn.

“Every able-bodied warrior, to the gates,” the Lord commanded. He wasn’t a man for grand oratory. He led by example, gripping his massive sword and stepping out into the cold.

Enkrid stood beside Ragna, observing the Lord. Unlike his father, this man’s fury was palpable. He didn’t scream, but his eyes were twin pyres of rage.

“Anger is the correct response,” Enkrid remarked.

The survivors of Zaun filed out. Even Grida, despite a serious abdominal injury, dragged herself toward the line. Anne watched her go, muttering that she should probably knock the woman unconscious for her own good.

Enkrid and Ragna remained for a moment, watching the soldiers vanish into the fog.

“Why would I be angry?” Ragna asked quietly.

Enkrid felt a spark of irritation at the knight’s detachment. “You should try being honest with yourself,” he said softly.

He knew Ragna understood the gravity of the situation. Why had he stalled? Why claim a goal and then fail to move toward it?

“What are you getting at?” Ragna questioned.

“If you walked away now, no one would judge you,” Enkrid said. “I don’t think you’ve failed your oath. But I also don’t believe you can fix a broken world with a single strike of a sword.”

Ragna remained silent.

“When you left this place, did you find peace? Or was it just empty time? Were you resting, or were you simply wandering? Because refusing to look at the truth isn’t being lost—it’s choosing blindness.”

Enkrid knew that regret was a ghost that only appeared when it was too late to change things. Having lived through his own losses, he knew the importance of acting before the end.

“You have every right to be furious,” Enkrid finished.

Ragna paused, the words sinking in. He looked inward. Was he angry?

Yes, he was. Enkrid’s calm, sharp words had stripped away his denial. Someone had poisoned his people and threatened his home. Finally, Ragna felt the fire.