Chapter 706: Justification
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 706: Justification
Hescal stood beneath a black veil that repelled the torrential rain.
Was this magic as well?
It was certainly a wondrous sight, but Hescal felt no admiration. The storm raged, blurring his vision and turning the world into a gray haze. It was the kind of weather that would blind any man, knight or not.
Yet, not a single raindrop touched his shoulders. Great magic indeed, he thought dryly. He wondered if he should offer praise, but he remained indifferent.
"So, did everything proceed as planned?"
There was another figure within the black veil.
No—to call that thing a person was a stretch. By Hescal’s standards, he was not human. Furthermore, the man himself never claimed to be.
"It did," Hescal replied.
"Good. Yes... I shall secure a place for Zaun, for your sake. And then, I shall ascend as a god and establish a new order upon this land."
Hescal’s gaze drifted to the speaker.
The man’s skin was dry and flaky, like a corpse left in the sun. His facial muscles had necrotized, leaving his appearance grotesque and uneven. His cheeks were sunken, and his eyeballs looked as if they might bulge out of their sockets at any moment. Near his protruding cheekbones, the white of the bone was visible through the rot.
Even without an explanation, the truth was visceral: his body was decomposing while he stood there.
This was the genius alchemist, Demuil.
It was once said that half the continent’s alchemists were his students. They had studied his texts and built their foundations upon his legacy. He was a specter of a distant past—a man who should have died centuries ago.
Looking at him, a single thought echoed in Hescal’s mind.
You must stand on the winning side to survive, Tempe, Hescal murmured inwardly.
How one lived was a problem for later. You had to survive first to even have a discussion about what came next. Currently, House Zaun was leaderless, and every single member was crippled by disease.
Victory or defeat is decided before the first sword is even drawn. That was Hescal’s creed.
As he stood there, a foul, sickly-sweet stench of rot pierced his nose. The smell of a decaying corpse was Demuil’s only perfume. The alchemist took a step closer. If he came any nearer, Hescal felt he would have to bolt out of the veil just to breathe.
The man was dangerous simply to be near. He was the embodiment of an abnormal, twisted power—enough to make his claim of godhood seem like more than just a madman’s rant.
"Your friend shall lead the vanguard."
Hescal, Rynox, and Andante. They were the three swords that represented House Zaun. Among them, Andante had died long ago, only to be brought back.
What does a knight become when they are raised from the grave?
The alchemist and his deviant mages had turned him into a knight reborn from the abyss—a Death Knight.
As the rain began to thin, the army enduring the storm became visible beyond the veil. They were packs of Scalers, Medusas, and Owlbears, numbering nearly a thousand.
An army of monsters.
Behind them stood a creature with its head hung low, its hair composed of writhing, dangling snakes. Beside it was a mage who could spread a plague with a single flick of his wrist, and a shaman whose soul was bound to that very mage.
To top it off, those within House Zaun were already withered, poisoned by the "seeds" Demuil had sown. Hescal had taken the antidote, but the others had not. This was a battle won before it had even begun.
By now, they would all be coughing up blood or burning with high fevers. Some would be lost in the throes of madness. Driven insane by hallucinations or scorched by a fever until their brains simply ceased to function.
Just like my son died.
The disease Demuil spread would slowly wither them from the inside out. It would break their spirits before they could even raise a shield.
"Why were you so intent on killing that girl?" Hescal asked.
Demuil claimed he would become a god, yet he had resorted to petty schemes just to kill a single girl. He had used the people he’d subverted in the Hunter Village and employed dark sorcery for that sole purpose.
Of course, the power was Demuil’s, but it was Hescal’s wisdom that had directed it and kept their presence hidden.
"She was a nuisance," Demuil rasped.
Hescal wanted to press for more, but Demuil had already turned away. It was a clear signal that the conversation was over.
In Demuil’s stead, two of his disciples stepped forward. One of his three disciples had already been sent into House Zaun but had failed to return. Hescal didn't need to see the body to know he was dead; the man was far past his designated check-in time.
Ragna had been guarding the girl.
Did Ragna slay him?
If so, Ragna might have been poisoned in the process. Demuil’s disciples were walking bio-hazards; even in death, they ensured their killers suffered.
Even if he survived, he won't be in any condition to fight.
That would mean one less elite knight to worry about. Putting aside why Demuil cared so much about the girl, Hescal mapped out the coming slaughter in his mind.
Victory was a foregone conclusion.
*
Cough! Cough! Retch!
A man of House Zaun spat a glob of dark blood into a towel. Once the fit subsided, he pulled the blood-stained cloth away and stared at it with hollow eyes.
"Am I... am I dying?"
His voice was solemn. It was the tone of a man who had accepted his end. He was prepared to nod no matter the answer. Even if he was going to die, he just wanted to know if he had enough strength left to swing his sword one last time.
He stoked his fading will, hardening his resolve.
Then, Anne smacked him hard on the back.
Smack!
"What do you mean, 'dying'? I told you, it’s just a little congested blood. Stop being dramatic."
She was working herself to the bone, and his whining was a distraction she didn't need. Even after the smack, Anne’s hands never stopped moving. She was checking vitals, grinding herbs, and mixing volatile medicines with practiced ease.
In truth, the man had coughed up blood precisely because of the medicine Anne had forced down his throat moments ago.
For days, phlegm had been clogging his throat, his breath had turned foul, and his strength had vanished. He had secretly resolved to retire to the Retirees' Village, thinking himself a spent force.
He had prepared for a slow death, only to be told it was a mere illness.
"What a crybaby," a friend behind him muttered, though he looked equally relieved.
After coughing up the blood, the man realized the suffocating sensation in his chest had vanished.
"Am I cured, then?" he asked sheepishly.
"You need to take this medicine for a month. I can't brew the full batch right now, but once the rain stops, I’ll gather the ingredients. Next!"
Anne spoke without looking up, and the man meekly stepped aside.
Anne moved through the ranks, administering medicine or making quick, precise incisions in their skin. Some men watched in horror as leech-like creatures crawled out from beneath their flesh.
What kind of sickness is this? their eyes asked.
"It’s not just a disease," Anne said nonchalantly, though the sight was anything but ordinary. "It’s a curse layered over a plague. A hybrid."
She spoke as if she were describing a common cold, but the complexity of her work was staggering. A middle-aged man who had just watched a parasite pulled from his arm looked at her with newfound awe.
A curse?
Weren't curses supposed to be permanent until the caster was killed or the medium destroyed?
"A healer’s job is to fix physical abnormalities," Anne explained. "If I can see it, I can fix it. Whether it’s a curse or a virus, if it causes a physical change in the body, the treatment is the same."
It was a statement only a true genius—or a madwoman—could make. No ordinary alchemist would ever dare to simplify the arcane so boldly.
Even Schmidt, the Imperial Recruiting Officer, shook his head in amazement.
"Astonishing. Her fundamental approach is entirely different from the Academy's."
Looking at the predatory gleam in his eyes, it was clear he intended to recruit Anne the moment the dust settled. Even in the middle of a siege, his eye for talent never wavered. It was either incredible professional dedication or a complete lack of self-preservation.
At the very least, he had enough tact not to make his pitch while she was covered in blood and bile.
Anne didn't take long to stabilize the house. After a full day of her tireless work, the coughing fits stopped. The high fevers broke. The hallucinations faded.
"You need to eat well and rest. I’d like to tell you to avoid any physical exertion, but I imagine that’s not an option, is it?"
Anne didn't look at anyone specifically, but her meaning was clear.
"It is not," Ragna replied.
"Then rest for whatever time you have left."
Her advice was sincere. A body ravaged by a magical plague doesn't heal in an instant. They needed every second of recovery they could get.
The members of House Zaun did as they were told. They piled firewood into the mansion’s great fireplace until the flames roared, and they built massive bonfires in the courtyard to dry their gear and warm their bones.
They prepared field rations where they sat, not having the luxury of the kitchen. With the entire house gathered in one place, there was barely enough room to sit, let alone move.
Some took desperate catnaps; others obsessively maintained their weapons. For a knight of Zaun, sharpening a blade was the only form of relaxation they knew.
Encrid checked his own sword and changed into dry undergarments—the ones gifted by the elves. They were functional, but the fit was mediocre, feeling a bit like being draped in scratchy leaves.
It would be greedy to expect silk in a place like this.
He didn't complain. He simply noted that the material was a bit rough for his liking.
"That’s the last of them."
Anne finally raised her hands. Beads of sweat matted her hair, and deep dark circles hung under her eyes. She looked utterly spent.
"I’m going to die," she muttered, her knees buckling.
Before her head could hit the stone floor, Anahera slid a pillow underneath her. Encrid wondered when she had even grabbed it. Rynox appeared a moment later, draping a heavy blanket over the sleeping healer.
Others stepped forward, offering to help or promising to swing their swords twice as hard in her honor. Had it not been for Anne, half the men standing here would be corpses by dawn.
Whatever trap Hescal had set, Anne had dismantled it. He had likely counted on the absence of a healer after Milestia’s death, but...
One fatal miscalculation.
Anne was very much alive.
Encrid wondered if he should give the Ferryman some credit. Had the man not insisted so stubbornly on protecting her, they would be lost.
Acknowledged.
Encrid resolved to tell the Ferryman the outcome if they ever crossed paths again.
The sound of the rain, which had been hammering the earth like a drum, shifted to a gentle patter. Before long, the storm ceased entirely.
That didn't mean the sun had risen. The sky remained a bruised purple, and a biting wind whipped a fine drizzle through the air.
"They are coming," the Clan Head announced.
Judging by the light, it was the early hours of dawn. Encrid stood up, silently gauging the time.
The Clan Head spoke again, his voice carrying across the courtyard.
"Everyone who can fight, step forward."
For a man who struggled to put emotion into his words, he was no orator. He didn't rely on speeches to move men. He was a man of action, and his presence alone was the command.
He walked toward the gates, his greatsword resting on his shoulder. Encrid stood beside Ragna, watching the older man’s back. Unlike his father, Ragna’s emotions were written clearly on his face.
He was furious. Though his expression was a mask of stillness, the murderous intent in his eyes was a physical weight.
"It’s alright to be angry," Encrid said softly.
The knights of House Zaun filed out one by one. Grida tried to join them despite the hole in her stomach, but Anne’s voice drifted from the floor: "You have my permission to knock that woman out if she tries to leave." Grida was forced to stay behind.
Encrid and Ragna remained for a moment, watching the line of soldiers.
"Why would I be angry?" Ragna asked, his voice tight.
Encrid felt a flicker of frustration. "You can be honest with yourself, Ragna."
He spoke gently, but firmly. By now, the boy should have understood. It was obvious to anyone watching. Why hadn't he taken Sunrise? Why was he sitting idle when he claimed his only goal was that legendary blade?
"What are you trying to say?" Ragna muttered.
Sometimes, Encrid found these "madmen" of the great houses exhausting.
"Even if you had walked away from this place, no one would have blamed you," Encrid said.
"I am fine," Ragna insisted.
"I don't think you abandoned your duty, but I also don't think a single swing of a sword can undo the past. When you left this place, did you really leave just to play around? Was that time wasted? Was it blurry? Thin? Did you really just 'play,' or did you simply lose your way? Truly?"
Encrid looked him in the eye.
"Refusing to look at what is right in front of you isn't losing your way—it's turning away. Regret is always late to its appointment, Ragna. It’s a ghost that only arrives to torture those who waited too long to act."
Because Encrid had lost everything once, he knew the value of moving before the loss became permanent. Reminded of his own scars, he pressed harder.
"Your anger is justified. Use it."
Ragna blinked, the words sinking in. He looked at the burning bonfires, the weary knights, and the home that was being threatened by a rotting ghost.
Am I angry?
The realization hit him like a physical blow. He wasn't just angry; he was livid.
The speech Encrid had delivered with such calm intensity stripped away the denial Ragna had been using as a shield. Someone had dared to harm his family. Someone had tried to poison his home.
Ragna knew that now. And he knew what he had to do.