A man with a weary expression was pushing his motorcycle along a narrow road.
His hair was shaved in a military cut, thick beard framing his face, and squared prescription glasses slipping subtly down the bridge of his nose, slick with accumulated sweat.
He was overweight and wore a rumpled plaid shirt and cargo pants, his look completed by a pair of sneakers worn thin by time.
The motorcycle, a sturdy German model, creaked slightly with each thrust. Although he had a certain disdain for Germany, he couldn't deny it: the Germans knew how to build engines like few others.
Set to the right of the alley stood his modest home. The façade drew no attention, weather-stained, with a rusted gate and fading paint, but inside, it was the very definition of coziness.
He pushed the heavy German motorcycle into the garage with a sigh.
Locked the latch firmly, checked his wristwatch, and cursed.
"Shit… only two hours till midnight. Just enough time for a session of Sublime Celestial Mandate."
Sublime Celestial Mandate is an oriental-themed RPG inspired by Wuxia stories, a Chinese genre that blends martial arts, adventure, and fantasy, featuring historical settings and heroes who have transcended the limits of body and spirit.
Wasting no time, he opened a packet of instant noodles, lit the stove, and while the water heated, turned on the computer with dexterity and swiftness.
He navigated the desktop with practiced ease, clicking the game icon. Without delay, he poured the contents of the packet into the pot.
Clicked "Play" in the main menu.
Then opened the seasoning sachet and sprinkled it over the noodles.
The artificial aroma filled the kitchen. Two minutes later, the food was ready.
And on the monitor highlighted on the screen "match found".
With the plate in his left hand and the fork clenched between his teeth, he controlled the character with his right, as if manipulating a puppet. A foolish grin spread across his face as he surrendered to the game.
Until, suddenly, a sharp pang shot through his chest, making him drop the fork. A brutal headache exploded in his skull right after, as if it were splitting apart.
Staggering, he placed the plate on the table and opened the drawer, searching for a painkiller. He found a pill, grabbed the water bottle by the monitor, and swallowed the capsule.
"I can't play like this…"
He exited the match, closed the game, and carefully removed his glasses. He stood up, limbs heavy, and began walking slowly toward the bed.
That's when he stumbled. His body collapsed to the floor with a dull thud.
"Fuck…"
The pain intensified to unbearable levels. For a brief moment, he wished someone would just rip his head off to end it.
His eyes blinked erratically, vision blurring. He tried to reach out, to call for help, but the body no longer obeyed.
His consciousness faded gradually, like a candle smothered by wind.
"Help…"
And then, everything went dark.
Under the blue sky, seagulls cawed anxiously over the port of Marseille.
At dawn, a ship docked at the pier. Filthy, worn, with torn sails, the banner of the Republic of Genoa fluttered in the wind.
No sailor responded to the dockworkers' calls. The silence was heavy, laden with foreboding.Hours later, they began removing the bodies from the vessel. Blackened skin, inflamed buboes, there was no doubt.
A monk accompanying the harbor officials murmured grimly:"There is no doubt. The plague has reached Marseille."
The news spread like fire, and the crowd quickly erupted in panic, shouting and gesticulating. The nobility was swiftly informed, and overnight, thousands tried to flee the city.Riots and looting spread through the streets.
When the news reached the local administration, the representatives were divided. On the 'secular' side, the consuls whispered among themselves, concerned about the economic impact, yet unable to reach a consensus.
At the Abbey of Saint-Victor, the monks intensified their prayers and began excommunicating the sick.
There was no unified leadership. Each faction waited for the other to act first. With no clear orders, the port remained open. Merchants, fearful, began closing their shops as rumors of contagion spread.
The silence of the administrative chamber contrasted with the chaos in the streets, where fear and despair grew unchecked.
Amid the confusion, a discreet figure stood out. A peasant, newly arrived in the city to sell his goods and return to his village, saw his plans frustrated by the chaos.
Seeking refuge to avoid conflict, he spotted a seemingly empty street in the distance. Not realizing that, in the midst of such turmoil, emptiness was a warning sign, he entered the path.
The air reeked of miasma. He winced but continued. Until, in the middle of the deserted street, something caught his eye: a rat, darting swiftly.
Thinking logically, he muttered to himself:
"If there are rats here, it must be safe for living beings."
He kept walking until he found an abandoned shop. With no one in sight, he left a coin on the counter and took a piece of fruit to eat.
After a few days in the city, he finally managed to return to his village unaware that he carried the terrible plague within him.
Once home, he embraced his wife and son, recounting in a hushed voice the grim events in the city.Weighed by the news, he decided to inform the village chief. In a remote place like theirs, news took weeks to arrive, if it arrived at all.
At Bernat's house, he opened the door hesitantly and delivered the message.
"You're telling me the plague has struck Marseille?" Bernat asked, incredulous.
"Yes, sir," the peasant confirmed, worry in his eyes.
Bernat stroked his chin, thoughtful, pondering the possible consequences.
"We'll have to restrict access to outsiders," he murmured to himself.
Turning to the peasant, he remarked, "We must inform the priest and the vicar."
The man nodded and asked "Shall I tell the Priest?"
Bernat had his back turned but slowly turned to face him, answering firmly:
"No. You'll remain isolated at home. I'm grateful for the news, but if you're ill, you could doom the whole village."
The peasant grew visibly anxious and protested:
"I'm not sick! I saw what it does… their skin gets horrible, covered in black spots. It's fatal!"
To prove it, he opened his tunic and revealed his chest.
Bernat stared coldly and asked "What did you say about the skin?"
The peasant averted his eyes, his voice trembling:
"Damn… I think I'm sick."
Bernat exhaled deeply and said:
"Go home and isolate yourself. You haven't seen your family yet, have you? Stay away from them. I'll make sure they're okay."
The peasant nodded, eyes downcast.
"Very well. I'll send someone to care for your family. Don't worry."
The following week, the peasant succumbed to the plague.So did his family.
Despite attempts to contain the outbreak, others fell ill, and fear spread swiftly, driving many villagers to flee.
In a simple wooden house, shrouded in the damp evening mist, a family watched in silent despair as their only son withered under the plague's cruel grip.
"Maria, we have to cremate him…" said the father, voice hoarse, expression hard. "If we don't, we'll fall ill too."
At that time, such scenes were common. Death haunted the countryside like an old acquaintance.But for that couple, the grief was particular.
The dying boy was their first and only son. Peasant families typically had many, but Robert, a man of few words and even fewer blessings, had never been seen as fertile.
Conceiving a child had already been a miracle. Losing him now, before their eyes, was more than tragedy.
It was almost punishment.
Suddenly, the boy's breathing became perceptible, though faint, startling Maria.
"Wait… he's still breathing," she whispered, hopeful.
Robert paused, looked at the boy, crossed himself, and murmured:
"He's lucky. Maybe… maybe he'll recover." he said, without conviction.
Maria, beside him, began to pray fervently. But they had no idea that the child they raised was already gone. Something else now inhabited that body.
Alexander opened his eyes, groggy.
He blinked once, twice, disoriented, trying to grasp where he was. Above his head was a rustic wooden ceiling. Beneath him, an uncomfortable bed of straw and leather.
The air smelled of smoke, wood, and illness. Discomfort and weakness overwhelmed him.
"This definitely doesn't look like a hospital..." he thought, trying to focus on his surroundings. To his left, strange voices whispered:
"He's awake, Maria! It's a miracle!" exclaimed Robert, surprised at the sudden recovery.
Maria halted her prayer and stared at him. For a moment, amid the relief, she felt something off. A subtle doubt bloomed in her heart.
"Moments ago he was barely breathing… and now he's awake? Is that normal?" she wondered before speaking:
"Robert, call Father Paul. Tell him the boy's awake and ask him to come quickly."
Robert considered objecting, suggesting they celebrate the recovery. But his wife's unease made him yield.
"Alright… I'll be back shortly."
As her husband crossed the doorway, Maria knelt again and resumed her intense prayer.
Alexander, still dizzy, tried to piece together his memory.
"I was home… felt sick… blacked out and now I'm here. Food poisoning?" he thought, before discarding the idea. He clearly remembered the stabbing chest pain, followed by crushing pressure in his head.
"So it was a heart attack? Stroke?"
Confused and tired of guessing, he tried addressing the woman in the room. But looking at her, he saw she was kneeling on the floor, praying fervently.
"What kind of nurse is this? Instead of helping, she's praying like I'm already dead…" he thought, his irritation rising.
He glanced around, trying to understand the place better.
"Wait… this has nothing to do with a hospital… looks more like a hut…"
The voice that came from his mouth surprised him, it was higher-pitched. He touched his body, and a new unease gripped him.
"I… I'm younger? What the hell is going on?" he murmured.
"Ma'am… what's happening?" he asked, nervous.
Maria froze. His way of expressing himself was nothing like her son's.
Terrified, she began to tremble. A dark thought took hold: her son had been possessed by a spirit of the plague.
"Please, Lord, bless this child…" she whispered, praying desperately.
To Alexander, her words were incomprehensible, a strange language. The setting, the body, the feverish sensation: none of it felt like a dream.
"Am I… hallucinating?" he asked, pinching his own arm. The pain and the bruise that followed only unsettled him further.
"No... my dreams are never this vivid. And everything seems so logical here. Nothing seems absurd... except this woman praying, this strange house... and my body."
He looked at his hands fearfully and commented with a hint of irony:
"Well... other than that, everything's perfectly normal."