Winter Has Come (3)
Roughly thirty years had passed since the Undying King Incident shook the continent.
The Undying King was born in the Balkan Kingdom, and countless clergymen were deployed to subjugate him. Yet even the most devout were utterly helpless before the hallmark and greatest asset of necromancy: sheer, overwhelming numbers. No matter how powerful the priests and paladins were, they were vastly outmatched by an inexhaustible sea of corpses.
In the end, the Previous Generation Hero and Kadir, the Wizard King, had no choice but to infiltrate the very heart of the kingdom like an elite strike force. And while they carved a desperate path toward the core, the Holy Knights threw their bodies on the line to hold back the undead legion.
People say they held the line, but let's be real—they were basically human shields.
Especially considering the Undying King didn't even bother turning back; he just hurled every single soldier he had straight at El Dorado.
Countless men and women of the cloth fell in that desperate struggle before the Undying King was finally brought down. Though it left scars upon El Dorado that time could never fully heal, their sacrifices had always been deemed noble. They had given their lives for their motherland, carrying the sacred mission of the Goddess Aris to purge the world of evil.
Because of that belief, even those surviving veterans who returned home maimed and crippled carried virtually no mental anguish. The people of El Dorado revered their heroic sacrifices, offering every measure of support they could muster—economic relief, social honors, and boundless respect for the families left behind. It had been an enduring source of national pride.
Until the truth was dragged into the light—a reality not merely shocking, but utterly hideous.
“You bastard dogs! My father was a proud, honorable Holy Knight! He gave everything to this country! And is this how you repay him?! Is this what his loyalty was worth?!”
“My mother was the gentlest person in the world! I can still see her smiling face when she said goodbye! Why did my mother have to die for your lies?!”
Some among the fallen had been beloved parents, the heroes their children aspired to become.
“I spent years resenting my husband for leaving me and our children behind! But why did he have to die?! Tell me why!”
“My wife didn't deserve an end like that! She should have lived a long, full life! She was supposed to outlive all of us!”
Others were cherished partners, bound by vows of lifelong love.
“My boy…! Cough! My son…! Why did he… why did my child have to die…?! Cough, cough!”
“Give me back my daughter! Give her back to me!! Bring my daughter back to life!!!”
And others still were precious children, for whom their parents would have traded their own lives without a second thought.
They had clung steadfastly to the belief that those deaths were not in vain. Yet the truth was cold and monstrous. Their loved ones were merely scapegoats, slaughtered in a meat grinder born from their own government's sin. It was a catastrophe that could have been prevented—not an honorable martyrdom, but an utterly senseless, grotesque waste of life. Those who devoted their entire lives to the realm had been fed to the grave just to bury the state's corruption.
Who could blame them for burning with rage? Who could fault them for weeping tears of blood?
Such was the fire fueling the protest consuming the capital of El Dorado. This was no desperate struggle for survival; it was the raw, unrestrained wailing of people overwhelmed by boundless fury and grief.
“The… the crowd…”
“…It’s unbelievable,” Reina murmured. “Seeing it on the Gallery was wild enough, but in person…”
Asella and Reina took in the scene with their own eyes. To call it a sea of humanity barely did it justice. The grounds fronting the Papal Palace, the central plaza, and every avenue branching off were packed shoulder to shoulder. The vast majority of the citizenry had brought all commercial activity to a screeching halt to join the demonstration, united by a singular, unyielding demand: to force the Pope himself to admit his crimes.
Having endured the constant shadow of the Demon King, the people of El Dorado had historically rallied together whenever a national crisis arose. Yet never before had such a terrifying multitude gathered in one place. It was living proof that their disappointment and sense of betrayal had breached the breaking point.
‘And despite all this, they still refuse to say a word…?’
Asella watched the roaring tide of people, her mind wandering back to the official stance of the Papacy. Up to this moment, the Holy See’s response had been obstinate to the point of absurdity. They insisted they were in the right, claiming the protesters had been duped by malicious lies—a falsehood nobody in their right mind could swallow. Hearing it only stoked the fury further. In truth, the Papacy was merely pouring fresh firewood onto its own pyre.
“Asella. Just in case, keep your hood pulled low the entire time.”
“Pardon?”
“Your hair is way too noticeable. At least I blend into the background.”
“You’re very pretty too, Sister.”
“My, hearing you say that makes me blush. But still, I don't stand out like you do, do I?”
Reina was being modest. Her features were striking in their own right, but Asella possessed a radiant, almost otherworldly presence that drew every eye. There was really no arguing against that.
“Let's push our way to the front line for now. We need to hear what kind of garbage they're spewing.”
“Understood.”
Part of Asella wished she could simply lay low until the unrest subsided. The foot of the candlestick was always the darkest place, after all; the Papal Palace likely never dreamed that the Hero they banished was walking the streets of their own capital.
“Excuse us. Pardon me, coming through.”
“Pardon us, please.”
The two women squeezed their way through the surging crowd. With every step forward, the roar of the demonstrators grew louder, rumbling against their chests. While such dense packing carried a serious risk of a stampede, the sheer expanse of the plaza offered surprising breathing room.
“—#$%^%$!”
A voice amplified by magic thundered over the square, rattling their eardrums. They were drawing close to the vanguard. To be safe, Asella tugged her cowl even lower over her brow.
The moment they slipped through the front row, a booming declaration rang out.
“—You are being deceived! We swear before the heavens that no falsehood has ever crossed our lips!”
A voice soaked through with barefaced lies.
Carried by the sonic enchantment, every deceitful syllable rang out with agonizing clarity. A wave of revulsion rose in Asella’s chest before she could stop it. Ever since Ludwig’s public exposure, whatever trust she harbored for the Holy See had cratered into the abyss. She had wondered if they could possibly sink any lower, yet here they were, proving there was no bottom.
‘Why did El Dorado have to come to this…?’
Just as Asella felt her heart sinking further into turmoil—
Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!
The sharp, rhythmic cadence of disciplined marching resonated from the palace gates. With her heightened senses, Asella pinpointed the origin of the footsteps instantly.
“H-huh?”
“Th-the Holy Knights? Why are the knights coming out…?”
The voices of the demonstrators at the front line, thick with righteous sorrow and rage, suddenly hitched with bewilderment.
“Battalion! Form ranks!”
A fully armored detachment of Holy Knights took up positions before the crowd. Under normal circumstances, having paladins maintain a cordon before a protest was standard procedure—it preserved crowd safety and prevented riots from flaring up. But this was no mere security squad. This was an entire military formation arrayed for war.
“Has that lunatic of a Pope mobilized an entire army?!”
“A-are they really trying to start a civil war?!”
“Aris have mercy… How could our kingdom fall so far…?”
Worst-case scenarios flashed through the minds of the citizens, and Asella felt the exact same dread. Her expression turned grim, her fingers drifting toward the hilt of the Holy Sword at her hip. If the unthinkable occurred, she fully intended to step forward and shield the innocent with her own life.
“Beloved citizens of El Dorado! Lend me your ears!”
Thankfully, the soldiers made no offensive move. Instead, an ecclesiastic stepped out from behind the steel line. He was no ordinary priest. Within the hierarchy of the cloth, rank was unmistakably distinguished by clerical vestments—particularly the structure of their headwear. The man addressing them wore a towering, elongated miter.
“A… a Cardinal?”
“His Eminence has personally stepped forward?”
A Cardinal answered directly to the Pope himself, wielding authority second only to the pontiff. The direct intervention of such a high prelate threw the crowd into instant confusion. And that hesitation was precisely what the Papacy had engineered.
“We are well aware of your profound disappointment. Yet we maintain, with clean consciences, that we have spoken no untruths.”
Before the crowd could boil over at the shameless evasion, the Cardinal raised his hands, raising his voice to a dramatic crescendo.
“More importantly, we have just uncovered a truth far more terrifying than any worldly dispute. Each and every one of you gathered here… has fallen victim to a vile curse!”
“What? A curse?”
“What the hell is he talking about now?!”
“The only curse around here is the Pope drawing breath!”
The sheer absurdity of the claim left the demonstrators caught between disbelief and dumbfounded shock. Asella was just as taken aback. She was deeply versed in curses; by divine design, only ordained clergy could break them, with higher holy power yielding greater efficacy.
“The foul remnants of the Undying King still linger!” the Cardinal bellowed, his voice laced with practiced urgency. “In his malice, he fashioned undead through abhorrent, insidious means. As you stand here today, every soul among you teeters on the brink of turning into mindless walking corpses!”
“Wh-what?! Undead?!”
“We’re turning into monsters?! Is that true?!”
The horrifying notion that the living could be transformed into the undead sent ripples of panic through the masses. People turned frantically to their neighbors for answers, and the first to speak were the grizzled veterans of the war.
“…What he says is true. I saw it happen with my own two eyes.”
“The Undying King’s necromancy was vile enough to twist living flesh into the restless dead. That much is no fabrication.”
As testimonies from decorated veterans spread through the ranks, unease metastasized into genuine terror. Yet Asella’s brow furrowed in deep skepticism. If a curse was truly spreading, why hadn't the clergy simply purified them? That was the entire purpose of the church, yet the Papacy had lifted not a single finger to heal anyone. Instead, they were deliberately stoking mass hysteria. It made no sense at all.
“Therefore, a complete purification is imperative!” the Cardinal proclaimed. “If you remain clustered together in this mob, our holy rites cannot save you!”
He was telling them to cooperate. He was ordering the protest to disband.
And if they refused…
“Should you fail to comply, we will be forced to enact the most drastic of measures to contain the spread of this dark blight!”
Clank!
At his cue, the Holy Knights stomped their sabatons forward in unison, leveling their shields. It was an unmistakable declaration of force. Behind their armored ranks, rows of archers had already notched arrows to their bowstrings. The crowd descended into profound turmoil. If the military was taking such a terrifyingly firm stance, had the citizens truly been mistaken? Even the boy who cried wolf told the truth in the end. Could they dare to trust the church just one more time?
Just as the demonstrators wavered in helpless indecision, a hand shot into the air.
“Hold on a second! Answer me one question!”
The voice was rough, booming, yet carried a familiar, earthy warmth. The crowd parted readily to make way for the speaker, allowing Asella to catch a clear view of his face.
‘Uncle Hans…?’
It was a man she knew well. He ran a fruit stall in the central plaza, beloved across the capital for his generous demeanor and hearty sense of humor. He was a pillar of the common folk; it was hard to find anyone residing in the royal capital who hadn't bought a basket of fruit from him at least once.
Hans strode boldly to the very edge of the square, standing eye to eye with the Cardinal.
“You claim we’ve all been cursed?”
“That is correct.”
“I don't know where you pulled that nonsense from, but let's say I believe you for a second. Then it's simple enough, isn't it? Just check whether I’m cursed right here and now. Go on, prove it.”
If they were cursed, demonstrate it on the spot. They were holy men, were they not?
It was an unassailable, razor-sharp point of logic. Yet the Cardinal merely adopted an expression of deep, tragic remorse.
“The Undying King’s malediction is unimaginably potent—and insidious beyond measure. Its trace is so thoroughly concealed that it cannot be detected through ordinary means. It requires an extensive, direct examination.”
“Even with a Cardinal’s holy power, you can’t manage it?”
“It grieves me to admit it, but yes. His Holiness the Pope must verify it in person.”
It meant a private, closed-door audience with the supreme pontiff himself—a proposition fraught with immense peril. Yet Hans merely let out a derisive snort and puffed out his barrel chest.
“Even better. I’ll go in myself.”
“……”
The crowd fell dead silent at his fearless declaration. Despite the dark foreboding in the air, everyone harbored a sliver of desperate hope to know if the curse was real. With the church deploying troops and taking such extreme measures, surely they wouldn't resort to blatant lies on this scale.
“We thank you for your cooperation. This way, please.”
The Cardinal offered a polite bow and gestured toward the great doors of the Papal Palace. As Hans marched inside behind the guards, the fever pitch of the demonstration began to subside, settling into an anxious lull.
“Wh-what should we do?”
“I suppose we have no choice but to wait for Uncle Hans’s results.”
“Let’s disperse for now. We can regroup once we know where we stand.”
The protesters gradually trickled away, but Asella lingered, her gaze fixed intently on the closed palace gates. Could the Holy See really be telling the truth? Those same men whose lips had produced nothing but deceit?
A foul, heavy unease coiled in her gut.
‘Not yet, but…’
Her fingers brushed against the pommel of her blade. It was a weapon she refused to draw unless the situation was utterly dire.
Asella stared at the imposing stone facade for a long moment before finally turning away. Beside her, Reina turned as well.
“Hey. Asella.”
“Yes, Sister.”
“If Uncle Hans doesn't come out tomorrow… what will you do?”
Without an instant’s hesitation, Asella gave her answer.
“I will break in. In secret.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
Dispelling a curse was a swift affair, provided the caster possessed sufficient mastery. An ecclesiastic of the Pope's caliber could unravel ordinary maledictions in a matter of heartbeats. If Hans failed to emerge by tomorrow, it meant only one thing: foul play was afoot.
‘Goddess Aris…’
Asella offered a desperate, silent plea from the depths of her soul.
‘Please… protect Uncle Hans…’
Even as Asella offered her fervent prayer—
“Wh-what is the meaning of this?! How dare you…!”
“Shut your mouth! Blindfold him, quickly!”
The moment Hans crossed the palace threshold, he had been violently brought to his knees by armored paladins. Though he possessed a sturdy, broad frame compared to ordinary men, against elite knights fortified by holy mana, his strength amounted to nothing. His arms were bound behind him in heavy restraints, and a thick blindfold was lashed across his eyes, completely severing his vision to prevent any access to the Gallery interface.
Dragged roughly across cold stone floors, Hans had no way of knowing where he was being taken.
“He has arrived.”
The guards hauled him into a damp, subterranean interrogation chamber. The cloth still bound his eyes. Hearing the voice before him, Hans snapped his chin up and roared with every ounce of fury in his chest.
“What in the realm do you think you’re doing?! Do you truly believe Goddess Aris will forgive such treachery?!”
There was no tremor of fear in his voice—only the scorching heat of betrayal and outrage. Yet the Cardinal seated across from him did not so much as flinch. Instead, he spoke in a measured, chilling tone.
“Now then. From this moment onward…”
Hans froze as the Cardinal continued.
“…you are a thrall of the Undying King. Do you understand?”
“Wh… what…?”
Hans felt as though he were staring directly into a bottomless abyss beneath the earth.
Clack—
“Hm?”
Grylls turned his head at the sudden sound.
Over in the corner of the shelter sat the Cain Statue, nestled quietly inside the mutant mimic chest. It wasn't as if the miniature paladin had legs to wander around on its own, so why had it suddenly rattled against the wood?
‘Did I hear things?’
Regardless, there were far more pressing matters at hand. Grylls shifted his gaze back to the crackling fireplace. Gathered beside him were the shelter's beastly residents, their eyes locked onto the hearth with identical expressions of rapt fascination.
“Ought to be done by now, right?”
Reaching into the glowing embers with a pair of metal tongs, Grylls pulled out several dark, piping-hot parcels: roasted sweet potatoes, cooked to charred perfection. He carefully peeled back the blackened skin, revealing the steaming, brilliant golden flesh beneath.
“Ooh, baby. Look at that color.”
“Peeeeep! Peep!”
“All right, all right, hold your horses.”
When the bitter cold of winter arrived, nothing in the world hit the spot quite like roasted sweet potatoes fresh from the hearth.