Chapter 95 — Preparations Before the Trait Hunt
"Father Gideon, everything you requested is ready."
Skoll gestured toward the ground.
There, rows of iron cages stood in neat formation, each filled with animals—three different species, at least ten of each.
Gideon nodded. "As planned, every Allard clansman gets three."
"Did you all hear that?" Skoll turned to the group behind him.
A dozen young men and women immediately began moving. These were the Allard family's core members—loyal and well-trained.
"Father, I'll go keep an eye on them. Some of the lads get lazy if no one's watching."
Skoll dipped his head slightly, then turned to his daughter.
"Sadie, listen carefully to Father Gideon. Whatever he asks, do your best to provide."
"I understand, Father."
Before leaving, Skoll shot his daughter a meaningful glance—a silent encouragement to spend more time with the priest.
By now, his trust in Gideon was absolute.
After all, one calculated move from this man had thrown Saint Fréyan into utter chaos.
The Dead Dog Tavern poisoning had shaken every faction.
The Hunters' Association tore through the town in their investigation. Families suspected of holding a Trait, the Association's own inner circle, even newer clans that had recently risen in Saint Fréyan—all were now at each other's throats.
Alliances strained. Partners turned rivals.
Even the Coopers quietly reached out to Skoll, suggesting a truce—at least until the crisis passed.
Skoll gave no clear answer, only a vague "we'll see."
The thought of old Cooper's enraged tone made tonight's moonlight shine a little sweeter. Normally, the Allards were the weaker side.
But now, the balance had shifted.
It only deepened his respect for Gideon, and he made sure every one of the priest's requests was met.
Which was why they were here—making preparations before entering the Plague Zone.
Even Skoll himself had left the manor to accompany them.
For one goal, everything was worth it: securing a Trait.
And Gideon was the key.
---
With Skoll directing, the clan members quickly got ready.
Gideon handed out a set of holy relics, instructing them to fasten each one to the animals.
This was no show of piety—it was an experiment. He needed to know exactly how well these relics resisted the Plague Zone's toxic mists.
Charging in blindly wasn't his style. If even the oldest relics couldn't protect them, then there was no point stepping inside at all.
He raised a brass monocular to his eye, studying the entrance ahead.
From the outside, the Plague Zone began not as a cave or portal, but as a winding path into a swamp forest.
Lakes spread out around it, their waters thick with a faint, malevolent energy—water beasts lurking beneath.
The ground itself drew a clear border: beyond it lay the wetlands shrouded in a rolling fog.
The miasma never crossed the line, forming a wall of poison stretching for miles.
The place was deserted. Few hunters were reckless enough to venture near the Plague Zone at night.
Gideon lowered the scope, his plan already formed.
"First group—stop at ten meters."
"Second group—thirty."
"Third group…"
The Allards looped ropes around the animals and guided them forward.
A simple control experiment.
By measuring the relics' depletion and the creatures' survival, Gideon could estimate the dangers within.
Sadie was already scribbling notes, her face alight with curiosity. She'd grown up with firearms and knives—this was a new kind of battle.
---
Through his lens, Gideon observed carefully.
Animals without relics faltered almost immediately. Within thirty seconds of contact, their bodies convulsed, their temperaments turned savage, and some even began to mutate.
But those wearing relics? Still lively, as if nothing had changed.
The Allards stared in awe. They'd been raised on stories of the Plague Zone' horrors, and the high death toll of hunters proved those stories true.
Yet here were ordinary beasts, surviving with nothing but a small cross.
To them, it felt miraculous.
But Gideon saw deeper.
Yes, the relics shielded the creatures—but the sacred energy inside was burning fast.
The older the relic, the slower it drained.
He did the math in neat, precise lines across Sadie's page:
1-year relics — about one day of protection, similar to the "Blackwater Hearts."
5-year relics — roughly three months.
10-year relics — half a year.
20-year relics — nearly three years.
And that was assuming the densest miasma.
Gideon glanced at the pile of relics in his bag—dozens of 10-year and even 20-year ones.
Half a chance of success.
It didn't sound like much, but factoring in the monsters, the competition, and the danger surrounding the Trait itself, fifty percent was already generous.
Still, now that the relics' limits were clear, he could move to the next phase of his plan.
---
Two days later, the town had settled into a brittle calm.
No one wanted to risk another tavern incident, not with the Trait hunt so close. Families recalled their members, tightened security, and watched each other like hawks.
The Hunters' Association never found the poisoner.
Whoever did it was cautious, leaving no trace.
In the end, the Association swallowed its pride and quietly spread the blame across every faction, deepening the distrust.
---
Finally, the day arrived.
At the border of the Plague Zone, the clans assembled—keeping careful distance from one another.
Most stood in trios, but one figure stood alone: Lance Pope Beneck.
Tradition dictated the groups would enter in staggered waves, to prevent a bloodbath at the start and maximize everyone's chances.
In past years, this rule was often ignored.
But this year… after the poisoning?
The air was sharper than the mist itself.
After all, the families of Saint Fréyan had been neighbors for many years—at the very least, they could still observe basic etiquette.
But today, something unusual happened.
All the hunting parties waited patiently, tacitly agreeing to let the tribal priest dictate the order of entry.
Soon, the lots were drawn and the sequence to enter the Plague Zone was set.
Curiously, two names were missing—the Coopers and the Stuarts.
As always, those two clans would only appear once the others had already gone inside. This year proved no different.
Yet the crowd soon noticed another absence.
"Where's the Allard family?"
---
Meanwhile, deep in the forest bordering the Plague Zone.
Ralph stood clutching a precious Blackwater Heart in one hand and a folded map in the other.
Both had been delivered to his home the night before—by Sadie's own messenger.
Along with them came a single line of instruction: "Arrive at this spot before sunrise."
A priceless relic. A marked meeting place.
Ralph's heart pounded wildly. There could be only one explanation—
A secret tryst.
An adventure together into danger itself!
She had thought of him, of all people, in this perilous hour. What greater trust could a man ask for?
His eyes stung. Years of patient waiting hadn't been in vain.
Too excited to sleep, Ralph had set out long before dawn, fueled by dreams of proving himself to the woman he adored.
Following the map's guidance, he trekked through the dark woods.
And at last—he saw her. Sadie's silhouette amidst the trees.
But standing beside her… was that damned priest.