Chapter 706 - Righteousness
Hescal stood beneath the black veil that shielded him from the pouring rain.
Was this created with magic too?
It might've been something to marvel at, but Hescal made no remark.
A storm raged, blurring everything before his eyes.
Knight or not, visibility was nearly zero.
Yet not a single drop touched his shoulder.
Oh, great magic—was he supposed to offer praise?
But Hescal remained indifferent.
"You did it as planned?"
The voice came from within the dark veil.
Another person stood there.
No—was it really right to call him a person?
By Hescal's standards, the figure before him was not human.
In fact, the man himself never referred to himself as such.
"I did."
Hescal replied.
"Good. Then I'll prepare a place for Yohan to rise. And I, as a god, shall establish new laws in this land."
Hescal turned his eyes toward the speaker.
Dry, cracked skin—like a man on the verge of death.
Facial muscles had decayed, giving his face a grotesque shape.
His cheeks were hollow, his eyeballs looked ready to fall out.
His cheekbones jutted, parts of the skull exposed.
No one needed to explain—it was clear the man's body was rotting.
The legendary alchemist Dmule.
Once, it was said that half the alchemists on the continent learned from him.
They studied his books, built upon the knowledge he left behind.
A ghost of an age long gone.
In other words, someone who should've died long ago—yet still lived.
Looking at him, Hescal felt the thought rise again:
"To survive, you have to be on the winning side. Tempest."
How one lives afterward—that's a problem for later.
Survival comes first.
Currently, Yohan had no experienced commanders left, and every member was infected.
Victory or defeat is decided before the battle begins—that was Hescal's belief.
While he thought this, a pungent stench—rancid and sour—pierced his nose.
The smell of rotting corpses—Dmule's natural perfume.
He stepped closer.
Any nearer and Hescal would have to leap outside the veil.
That man was dangerous simply by proximity.
A being powerful enough to claim godhood with no shame.
"Your friend will command them."
Hescal.
Rhinox.
And Andante.
The three swords that once represented Yohan.
Among them, Andante had died—and been reborn.
What does a knight become, when resurrected?
The alchemist, one who defied nature, turned him into a death-knight reborn from death.
As the rain thinned, behind the veil emerged a force enduring the storm:
Scalers, Medusas, and Owlbears—nearly a thousand strong.
A monster army.
Behind them stood a being with serpent hair drooping down, head lowered.
A single gesture would unleash plague.
There was also a warlock whose soul was chained to the plague-caster.
And within Yohan, the people were weakened by the "seeds" Dmule had scattered.
Heskal had taken an antidote—but they had not.
This was a battle won before it even began.
By now, they were likely coughing up blood or burning with fever.
Some would hallucinate.
Others would go mad in that delirium.
And if the fever cooked their brains, they would die just like that.
"Just like my son did."
The disease Dmule had spread would slowly wither them—break their spirits before the fight even began.
"Why were you so desperate to kill that girl?"
Heskal asked.
Dmule had declared himself a god.
And yet, he had pulled every trick in the book just to kill a single girl.
He even used those he'd lured from the hunter village and cast curses to pursue her.
Sure, the power behind it all was Dmule's—but Hescal's cunning had placed it where needed and kept it hidden.
"She annoyed me."
Heskal wanted to ask, "Why, really?"—but Dmule had already turned away.
That was the signal: no answer coming.
In his place, two of his disciples stepped forward.
Of the three disciples, one had already been sent into Yohan.
That one had failed—not because anyone had seen it happen, but because the expected return never came.
Ragna had been by the girl's side.
'Could Ragna have cut him down?'
If so, Ragna might have been poisoned and died as well.
Dmule's disciple was capable of such things.
'Even if he didn't die, he wouldn't be walking around unscathed.'
That would mean one less knight in their force.
Hescal pushed aside his curiosity about why Dmule was so concerned about that girl, and began constructing an imaginary battle scenario in his mind.
Victory was a given.
***
Cough, cough, hurk!
One of the men from the Yohan family coughed up blood.
The towel he had over his mouth was stained bright red.
When the coughing subsided, he pulled the towel away and stared at it.
"Am I dying?"
He sounded grim.
And coming from a man who had just spat blood, it felt even more dire.
Whatever the answer, he was prepared to nod.
If he was going to die, he might as well swing his sword one more time before going.
His resolve was firm.
His will strengthened.
And then, Anne smacked him on the back.
Smack!
"Oh please, you're not dying. You just coughed up a little blood."
What a grating tone, especially when everyone was busy trying to survive.
Even after hitting him, Anne's hands didn't stop moving.
She went on checking things here and there, grinding herbs, and mixing medicines.
The man had just taken some medicine Anne had given him—and that's what had made him cough up the blood.
He'd been dealing with phlegm building up in his throat and a rotten breath for a while now, and eventually lost all drive to do anything.
This had gone on so long, he'd secretly made up his mind to move to the Retiree's Village—a place where those who couldn't survive in Yohan gathered.
He figured it suited him perfectly.
That's what he thought, and yet, this turned out to be an illness?
"You whiny brat."
One of his friends behind him muttered.
The man realized that the foreign sensation in his throat had lessened now that he'd vomited the blood.
"Am I better now?"
he asked again.
"You'll need to take medicine for at least a month. I can't make it now, but once this rain stops, I'll go get what I need and make it for you. Now go."
Anne spoke without pause, and the man obediently stepped back.
She either fed the others medicine or sliced into their skin with a knife.
Some even saw leech-like creatures being pulled from under their flesh.
What kind of illness was this?
They looked at her with that question in their eyes.
"It's not a disease—it's more like a curse. A disease with a curse mixed in."
Anne explained it as calmly as if she were talking about the weather.
It really was a strange sight.
Even the middle-aged man who had just pulled a leech-like thing from his own arm couldn't help but think the same.
'A curse, she says?'
Weren't curses only removable by destroying the medium or killing the sorcerer who cast it?
"Healers fix visible abnormalities. If I can see it, I can fix it. In terms of altering the body, curses and diseases are essentially the same."
Only a genius could say something like that.
Why?
Because no alchemist would ever think that way.
Not just the patients—Schmit, too, was stunned.
"Amazing. Her way of thinking is different."
Judging by the look in his eyes, he was probably planning to ask Anne to come with them once this ordeal was over.
Even at a time like this, the Empire's recruiting officer had an eye for talent.
Whether that was professional dedication or a sense of duty, who could say.
At least he had the sense not to start making moves just yet.
Anne didn't take long to identify and treat the illness.
And within just one day, no one was coughing up blood, collapsing, or suffering from high fevers and hallucinations.
"Eat well and rest plenty. I'd love to tell you not to move your bodies, but that's not happening, is it?"
Anne didn't point to anyone specific, but she made that comment nonetheless.
"It's not," came the reply.
It was Ragna who spoke.
"Even if there's little time left, try to get some rest."
Well, she meant it, at least.
Sick bodies don't just bounce back in a flash.
So everyone had to do as Anne said.
And so, they all took rest in their own ways.
They piled as much firewood as they could into the mansion's central fireplace and lit it ablaze.
They even built a bonfire out front—to dry clothes and stay warm.
They brought out rations and ate them right where they sat.
There was no time or space to go into the dining room and cook leisurely.
With most of the Yohan family holed up here, there wasn't even enough room to sit comfortably.
Some dozed in place.
Others checked their weapons.
For them, maintaining their blades was a form of rest.
Enkrid also checked his sword and changed into dry underclothes—gifts from the fairies.
They were fine and all, but the feel wasn't exactly great.
It was like wrapping oneself in scratchy leaves.
At first it hugged the body nicely, but as time passed, that feeling changed.
'Expecting silk in a place like this is just greedy.'
Knowing that, he didn't complain.
Just acknowledged the discomfort.
"That's it for now."
At some point, Anne raised her hands.
Sweat beaded on her forehead and dark circles hung beneath her eyes.
She looked completely drained.
"I'm beat."
And with that, Anne collapsed into a lying position.
Ana Hera slipped a pillow under her head before it hit the ground.
Where did that come from?
Then Rhinox appeared with a blanket and tucked her in.
Others told her to call them if she needed anything.
Some even offered to swing a blade in her place.
If not for Anne, few of them would be standing here, talking like this.
Whatever Hescal had done before he left, something had affected everyone's bodies—including Rhinox.
They could all feel it: the symptoms that had been eating away at them suddenly accelerating.
And it was an outsider named Anne who stopped it cold.
Hescal had probably killed Mileschia banking on the absence of a healer.
'A single bad call from the enemy.'
Anne had survived.
And perhaps they owed that partly to the Ferryman.
He'd been constantly urging them to protect her.
'Fair enough.'
Enkrid made up his mind to tell the Ferryman the full story if they ever met again.
The storm that had pounded the earth like it wanted to crack it open with a KWAHHH—! had eventually softened into a shaaa—, and then died down entirely.
That didn't mean the sun had come out.
Even without the storm, the wind was still strong, and fine rain continued to lash sideways.
"They're coming."
The family head spoke.
Judging by the time, it was likely just before dawn.
Enkrid stood up, quietly estimating the hour in his mind.
The family head spoke again.
"All who can fight—come out."
A man who couldn't put emotion into his voice wasn't made for stirring speeches.
Which was why the family head didn't rely on words.
He always led by example.
He picked up his greatsword and stepped outside.
Enkrid stood beside Ragna and watched him for a moment.
Unlike his father, Ragna wore his emotions plainly.
He was furious.
His face was blank, but the killing intent in his eyes was sharp and cold.
"It's okay to be angry."
Enkrid said.
The Yohan family members began filing out one by one.
Grida tried to fight with a hole in her stomach.
Anne, seeing that, said, "I give full permission to knock her out immediately."
Meaning: Grida should stay behind.
Enkrid stood with Ragna, silently watching the others walk out.
"Why would I be angry?"
Ragna asked in return.
Enkrid felt a pang of frustration.
"It's okay to be honest with yourself."
He still spoke gently.
By now, surely this kid understood.
From up close, he could see it clearly.
Why hadn't Ragna taken the Sunrise?
Why, when he said his goal was the Sunrise, was he now doing nothing?
Isn't it obvious?
"…What are you trying to say?"
Sometimes, Enkrid felt frustrated watching these madmen.
He didn't get angry at them, but this was too much.
"Even if you left, no one would blame you."
Enkrid said.
"I'm fine."
Ragna replied.
"I don't think you abandoned your duty. But I also don't think you can fix everything with a single swing of your sword."
Ragna said nothing.
"When you left this place—were you really just trying to have fun? Is that why your time felt thinner? Shallower? Blurred? Did you waste it? Or were you just lost? Truly? Not seeing what's right in front of your eyes—that's not being lost. That's just turning away."
If you regret it after you lose something, it's too late.
Regret always arrives late to its promises—and leaves the ones who wait behind, hurting.
Enkrid knew that from experience.
That's why you had to move before the loss.
Memories of the past made him push a bit harder than he meant to.
"Your anger is justified."
Enkrid said.
Ragna blinked once.
Then thought—
'Am I angry?'
He was.
Enkrid's impassioned yet calm speech had brought the truth Ragna had tried to avoid right in front of him.
Someone had hurt his family—his home.
And now, Ragna knew it.
***
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