People Waiting for Help
"You still look displeased," Bishop Andre said, peering at Aryen's face.
Aryen touched the corner of his mouth and clicked his tongue. The bishop watched him for a moment before turning his gaze forward, as if losing interest.
"There are no wrong choices. Though, if the Hero and Isis's plan succeeds, it might indeed be the ideal one. Well, given how you act as if you have no interest in the affairs of the world, perhaps you find even this matter tedious."
Aryen rubbed the hilt of the sword at his waist.
"Then my choice becomes a relatively cowardly one."
"You shouldn't try to deny that cowardice in front of the Hero. Unlike us, he isn't cowardly. After all, he is the one who ultimately achieved the ideal everyone so desperately wished for. Unless, of course, you're just trying to comfort yourself by brooding over this alone."
Bishop Andre tucked away the daggers and hidden weapons inside his robes. The sensation of the cold blades pressing against his skin jump-started his mind. A cigarette butt—he had lost count of how many he'd smoked today—dropped to the ground. The bishop frowned and picked it back up. A faint orange ember still lingered.
"We are aiming for the lesser evil, not the worst, while the Hero is trying to achieve the absolute best, not just the second-best. But choosing the lesser evil doesn't mean there is no evil in it."
"I don't understand why someone burdened with the duty of saving the world would pursue such an irresponsible 'best'."
"You are still mistaken, Aryen," the bishop said, shaking his head.
"The irresponsible ones are not the Hero, but us. We, who cut off the few for the sake of the many, and keep cutting endlessly—we are the irresponsible ones. Someone who tries to understand the weight of those 'few' can never bring themselves to discard them. Have we ever tried, even once, not to cut them away?"
A twisted smile played on Bishop Andre's lips.
"Since you and I have always had no choice but to discard, and will likely continue to do so in the future, we will never truly know."
The bishop stood up. Before they knew it, the sun had completely set, and twilight was dragging its belly across the horizon. The lingering blue of the sky was swallowed by dark shadows.
The night in Vaktins was dreadful. There was no sky. Only darkness filled the void where the sky should have been. There was no romance here, no moonlight reflecting off the sea to dance upon the swaying black waves.
I pulled my hood over my head and looked back. Isis and my party were waiting.
"Isis, it's better if you ride on Georg's back. We need to move fast."
Isis nodded. I gestured for Daphne to come closer. It was impossible for her to move as quickly and stealthily as the rest of us.
"...Eh? Me too?"
"I'm carrying you myself."
"What do you mean, 'carrying' me? I'm a person, not baggage."
I piggybacked Daphne, who was pouting. Flustered, she flailed her arms in the air for a moment before carefully resting her hands on my shoulders. Looking over at Isis, she was clinging to Georg's broad back as if she were lying flat on a floor mat.
"You remember the location, right?"
"Of course."
Sensing a gaze, I turned my head to find Marianne staring blankly at me. To be precise, she was staring at my back, where Daphne was quietly riding.
"What?"
"..."
Marianne didn't answer, simply turning her head away. Then, she took the lead and set off. I watched Marianne's back as she slowly drifted ahead.
"As midnight approaches, the people will emerge onto the streets and head for the brewery," Bishop Andre said in his usual voice. He was wearing a shabby hood. "One hour. Please remember that we must finish within that time. If any unexpected situations arise in the meantime, I will leave it to the Hero to handle."
With that, Bishop Andre melted into the darkness and vanished. Only our party remained, minus Marianne who had gone ahead. I gave my back a slight shrug to adjust Daphne into a more comfortable position. The hands gripping my shoulders tightened in mild protest.
"Let's go."
My steps felt heavy. Rather than concealing me, the night felt as if it were trying to swallow me whole. Because there was no light, not even shadows could form. The ground beneath my feet felt heavier than usual. Shaking off the unpleasant sensation, I leaped and landed atop a pile of ruined debris overlooking the settlement.
"They're starting to move," Georg said, watching the crowd of people beginning to gather and squirm below.
One by one, people opened the doors of their shanties and stepped out onto the streets. We watched the spectacle in a daze for a moment. There was no life in their steps. It felt like watching rotten logs of wood walking around with limbs attached. I shook my head to clear my mind. There was no time to feel pity for them.
"Let's hurry."
No further words were needed. Georg and I kicked off the ruins simultaneously, leaping down into the settlement. In the windless air, even the sound of our running had to be carefully managed. We leaped across the rooftops of the buildings like thieves before landing on the street.
"You can let me down now," Isis's voice came.
As Georg released his grip, Isis set her feet on the ground and stared at the door in front of her. Steeling herself, she approached the door, which suddenly swung open to reveal a familiar face.
"Saintess? And..."
It was the woman's husband, the man we had first met. He stared at us, unable to hide his confusion, his mouth hanging open. Isis looked up at the man and took a short breath.
"I've come to help you, to heal your son."
The man stood dazed for a moment, gripping the door, before quickly flinging it wide open and gesturing for us to enter.
"Quickly! Come inside."
Thud. The door closed behind us. The man hastily shut all the windows of the house, pulled out a candle, and lit it. The stench of human waste and some unidentified odor inside the house assaulted our nostrils brutally. Every time the man moved, the smells mixed and wafted anew.
Flick. The candle caught fire, and the scruffy-bearded man turned to face us. A trace of distrust and fear lurked in his expression.
"They hate light. If you show any light at night, they'll appear out of nowhere in an instant, clamoring for you to put it out. It's been a month since any light could be seen here at night. Lately, even the moon barely rises."
Having lit the candle, the man held it up to illuminate the back of the room. There, I saw a child lying on a makeshift cot, covered by a blanket.
"My son is over there."
The man shone the candle deeper. That was when I realized where most of the foul stench was coming from. The right side of the cot, beneath the blanket, was swollen to a grotesque degree. That must be where the right arm the boy had been transplanted with was located. The man carefully took hold of the blanket and pulled it back.
"My god..."
"...This is insane," Daphne and Georg muttered simultaneously.
Flesh and tentacles crept up the child's neck. It was like a tumor growing in size by feeding on the child's life force. It was impossible to tell if the child was even conscious or breathing. He might have already become nothing more than soil for the tentacles to grow in.
Isis approached the child with a calm expression.
"It gets worse by the day. Now, it feels like those things are growing by the hour. My wife's mind is slipping; the more grotesque the boy looks, the happier she gets."
The man set the candle down and fell to his knees.
"I don't know what brings you here so suddenly, but if you're here to help us, I'll do anything. Saintess, please save my son."
Isis raised her hand. A golden haze of light began to gather in her palm. It shared the same nature and form as mana, but people had a different name for the Saintess's power. Divine power. That holy, sacred force.
"Elroy." Isis looked at me.
Her blue eyes shone, reflecting the candlelight and the glow of her divine power. They were still imperfect, unstable eyes.
"Please watch the outside."
Yet, they were also the eyes of someone determined never to regret again.
"...Of course."
Isis turned around, immediately placing her hands over the tentacles sprouting from the child's body and channeling her power.
The number of inquisitors Bishop Andre had brought was small. Only four people whom he deemed sufficiently skilled: Aryen, Marianne, himself, and the vice-commander of the inquisitors.
Wearing a hollow smile, the bishop lined up at the brewery, following behind the woman who was guiding him.
"You really came, Minister."
Bishop Andre nodded, and the woman walked with practiced steps through the darkness and the crowd, joining the queue of people entering the brewery. The brewery opened its maw wide. The people filed in, cramming themselves into the darkness of the building.
Focus. Keep your awareness on me at all times.
Bishop Andre sent the signal to his companions before stepping inside. With no way for sound to escape, the footsteps of the entering crowd turned into a low, echoing rumble.
Thud. The doors of the brewery shut tight. Without a word, the people began to plop down onto the floor.
Step. Step. No sooner had the doors closed than the 'Teacher' entered.
Bishop Andre instinctively strained his eyes to look at him, but as the villagers all bowed their heads deeply, he lowered his head in unison. The sound of a thick book being placed on the podium echoed.
"Thank you for gathering here today as well, brothers and sisters."
Flip, flip. Leaving only that greeting, the 'Teacher' flipped through the book before suddenly slamming it shut with a heavy thud.
"Today, I would like to conduct our sermon in a slightly different manner."
Step, step. The sound of the 'Teacher' stepping away from the podium echoed. He scanned the kneeling villagers before speaking.
"I heard that some outsiders visited this village not long ago."
The rustle of the 'Teacher's' robes drifted over. He seemed to have clasped his hands behind his back. He slowly paced, continuing his speech.
"Particularly yesterday, I heard that believers of the God of Light, members of the Holy Church, paid us a visit. And among them was a 'Saintess' of very high standing."
His voice was cold and heavy. Bishop Andre sensed that something ominous was about to happen.
"Today, I would like to ask you directly how well you understand our faith—and my teachings."
Step, step. The 'Teacher', who had been pacing with his hands behind his back, suddenly stopped and raised his voice.
"Now, those among you who were personally healed by the Saintess when she visited the village for her relief work, please raise your heads and look at me."
Silence fell. It was like a collective hesitation rippling through the crowd. And the 'Teacher' was a man who knew how to weaponize silence. He stood perfectly still, maintaining the quiet until the villagers raised their heads. The longer silence lasts, the heavier and more exposing it becomes. When it reached the point where they could hear each other's breathing, the people finally began to move.
Rustle. One person raised her head. It was the woman who had been sitting in front of Bishop Andre. And starting with her, people began to lift their heads one by one.
"Your honesty is truly wonderful to see."
Contrary to his words, his tone was not pleased at all.
"Please come forward and line up. And the rest of you, raise your heads and look at me and your brothers and sisters."
Bishop Andre raised his head. In front of the line of people stood the 'Teacher'. The 'Teacher' walked over to the woman, grabbed her shoulders, and looked her in the eye.
"Do you remember where you were healed?"
The 'Teacher's' voice had a hollow resonance that seemed to scrape at one's insides. The woman nodded with a dazed expression and spoke.
"My left leg was broken, but the Saintess healed it."
"Is is so?" The 'Teacher' let out a long, pitying sigh. "I have told you time and time again that such power is ultimately a deception, an enemy of ours. How have you still not realized this?"
Then, he raised his head again. Before anyone realized it, an iron hammer had appeared in the 'Teacher's' hand.
"Break it."
The woman was handed the hammer.
"Restore your leg to how it was before that power defiled it."
Silence fell. The woman nodded, raising the hammer with trembling hands. Bishop Andre could see both terror and resolve lurking in her eyes.
"Are you afraid?"
"...No."
"Then, let me help you myself."
Crack. The hammer slammed down onto the woman's left leg.