8. Curse Plague (4)
8. Curse Plague (4)
The Isumi Hills referred to the highland coastal region wedged between the Sierra Madre Mountains and Hughes Bay.
On paper, it was a frontier development saga waiting to happen. A border at its doorstep, a dragon at its back, hardy mountain folk as neighbors, and untapped resources within its own bounds.
In practice, that border proximity scared off investors. The dragon threat gutted its safety rating. Its stubborn neighbors dragged it into endless disputes, and the dense forests and rolling hills turned development into a waking nightmare.
Still, this was the sole overland route connecting Kiev to Charlotia.
A few decades ago, the region had been far more prosperous—it had thrived as a bridge between the two nations. But advances in seafaring, the construction of canals large and small, and the discovery of new routes over the mountains had stripped it of its former glory and left it to decay.
The one consolation came in winter, when drift ice began clogging Hughes Bay and crippling shipping. Travelers would trickle back to the hill roads then.
But it was late July now. Anyone who could take a ship did. No one was about to brave the winding hill trails of the Isumi Hills by choice.
Dvalchev was one of the villages scattered across those hills. At any other time, its people would have been busy harvesting summer cabbages from the highland fields.
A few days ago, though, an unwelcome visitor had arrived, and all normality had shattered.
The Curse Plague. The dreadful calamity known only through rumor had begun spreading through this frontier village.
The lord who governed the Isumi Hills had dispatched knights and soldiers the instant word reached him.
Their orders: save whoever could be saved, burn the bodies, and seal off all outside access.
Despite its name, the Curse Plague was not contagious. It was less an epidemic than a curse phenomenon localized to a specific area. So long as on-site protective measures were strictly observed, there was no risk of it spreading outward.
People newly infected by Devolut could have the affected areas restored if they were injected with Milky Way quickly enough. The problem was that Milky Way was not a stockpiled supply—the Curse Plague could erupt anywhere, anytime, without warning. Only about ten percent of the village's population could be saved by medication.
The rest had no choice but to watch parts of their own bodies degenerate uncontrollably. Eventually, their bodies could no longer endure the transformation, and they died. Once death was confirmed, soldiers dragged the corpses away and set them alight.
Burning the dead during an epidemic was no trivial matter. Corpses twisted by disease radiated waves of negative spirit energy, which wore away at the barrier between the Abyss and this world.
Small woodland villages like this were especially vulnerable to spiritual breaches. Once the daily death toll climbed into the double digits, demons strong enough to harm the living could begin to manifest.
Knight Ivanenko had admitted two visitors through the palisade. They introduced themselves as mages and claimed they could defend against Devolut. With every hand desperately needed, there was no reason to refuse anyone offering aid.
Ivanenko descended from the palisade and surveyed the village interior, exhaling heavily. The fire he had fed with kindling earlier was finally dying down, spitting cold smoke. Thirty bodies today alone. And over five hundred infected still remained.
Residents whose conditions had not yet turned severe were helping, but it wasn't nearly enough. Dvalchev's population approached a thousand.
From the outset, he and his ten soldiers had never stood a chance of managing this on their own. Yet here they were anyway—each of them injected with Milky Way, a substance rumored to be more toxic than the plague itself.
Ivanenko had sized up his men and recognized immediately how they had been selected. Men with no ability and no connections. Men who nonetheless could not refuse orders because they had families to support.
A knight he might be, but his situation was no different. His rigid, by-the-book nature had earned him his superiors' disfavor, and he had a wife and three children. Refusing orders was not an option. He had signed the waiver acknowledging the side effects—hair loss, impotence, permanent liver damage—and taken the injection.
He watched the two visitors step inside the palisade. In the darkness earlier he hadn't gotten a clear look, but now their faces stood out.
One was a handsome young man who appeared to be in his mid-twenties. The other was a girl as pretty as a doll, her white hair particularly striking. They gave off more the impression of nobles than of circus performers.
He briefed them on the situation.
"Unless you've brought a whole wagonload of Milky Way, I'm not certain how many you can save. The village priest managed about twenty Sacred Stakes before he collapsed with a nosebleed."
Three methods existed for treating the Curse Plague.
The first was injection with Milky Way, a remedy manufactured by the Alchemy Guild. The second was driving a Stake of Light—wielded by priests of the Holy Church—into the body to purge the curse factors. The third, admittedly cruder, was to physically excise the infected tissue.
For that last method, a doctor was required: to identify the transmuted areas, amputate, and then manage the post-operative care.
As misfortune would have it, this village's doctor had been among the earliest victims and was already dead. That was why Ivanenko had been forced to abandon the third option entirely.
So it was nothing short of luck that a mage versed in the medical arts had now stepped forward to help. With his aid, they might manage to save at least a few people by removing hands or feet.
Wonderstein followed Ivanenko deeper into the village, taking in the surroundings.
The doors of every house were plastered with paper inscribed in the Ancient Imperial Language. He knew what they were. They were familiar.
Bandik—the troupe member who played the Plague-stricken Mummy—used the exact same thing for his costume props.
Saint Victor, was it? A man canonized by the Holy Church for eradicating the Black Death and vanquishing the demon called the Plague Lord. His treatise on plague relief was revered as one of the Church's official canonical texts, and it was custom, during any outbreak, to post verses from his scripture.
Soldiers raked crumbling bone fragments from the ash piles and crushed them. Agonized groans could be heard from every house. The stench of death hung heavy everywhere.
Ivanenko had expected the pair to tense up or show some sign of fear. Yet Wonderstein kept smiling, and Maya watched the bodies being tossed onto the pyre with an expression of cool detachment.
Their demeanor, so at odds with their wholesome appearances, unnerved him instead. There was something chilling underneath.
Ivanenko led them to the village meeting hall. Residents in relatively good condition—those whose transmutations were confined to their extremities—had gathered there to assist with relief work.
Amputation was useless for the critically ill anyway. The two mages' efforts would be directed here, he decided.
An elderly man handling ration distribution rushed over, startled by the unfamiliar faces.
"S-sir Knight... these people...?"
"Traveling acro— no, mages. They say they're adept in medicine. I intend to entrust your treatment to them."
"Treatment, you mean... that?"
"Yes. The transmuted parts will be cut away."
The old man hurriedly hid his hands behind his back. His transmutation was in both hands. He had little time left regardless, and living with a disability was preferable. Treating the disease was one thing, but he could not allow these to be severed.
The knight understood and nodded.
"I have no intention of taking your hands, elder. Instead, please gather those in the best condition."
Several people soon stepped forward. Their transmutations were limited—an ear, a couple of fingers, a patch of thigh, part of a shoulder.
Wonderstein looked at the exposed flesh they offered, suppressing a groan.
Their skin writhed as though hundreds of insects were crawling beneath it, its very shape shifting moment by moment.
Even the areas where the transformation had stabilized were not a pleasant sight. Tentacle-like protuberances sprouted, toothed orifices gaped, and something resembling an eyeball occasionally blinked.
Only then did Wonderstein understand what the Curse Plague truly meant. Ordinary citizens, victims of Wonderstein's power—a sight he'd seen ad nauseam in the game. These people looked exactly the same.
The name 'Devolut' was no coincidence.
The victims in the game had looked far more wretched, of course. Dozens of octopus-like legs would burst through the abdomen and writhe, snake-tongues flickered from eye sockets where eyeballs once sat, and fingers stretched meters long, tangled together with skin and flesh fused into a single mass.
Compared to victims directly attacked by Wonderstein, these people had it mild—though, having been blindsided by disaster, they certainly wouldn't see it that way.
In any case, this was a problem he could handle. In fact, he might very well be the only person in the world who could handle it properly.
"Nnnggh, j-just get on with it! If you're going to cut it off, then cut!"
Wonderstein studied the patient standing before him.
Something resembling a crab shell had grown over the man's shoulder. It buried itself under the skin, then periodically split the flesh wide open as it surged upward, thrusting out a blood-caked muscle mass like a tongue. The crimson thing crawled out on eight squirming tentacles, vomited a wad of foam, and then retreated back under its carapace to conceal itself again.
In the game, he'd breezed past sights far more brutal than this. Seeing it unfold right before his eyes made him want to retch. The Smiling Man was the only reason he could manage to keep a smile fixed on his face.
Wonderstein steadied his breathing. He attuned his emotions to the calm the Smiling Man feigned.
What was the Curse Plague? Why was Devolut acting on these people?
He shelved those questions for later and focused on the treatment.
He laid his hand on the patient's body and attempted a diagnosis. Before he could even issue the command, his Status Window reacted on its own.
[Free Devolut detected. Beginning absorption.]
Ngh—
A sudden pain shot up his arm. It felt as if dozens of needles had pierced his palm and were burrowing inward.
[You have acquired 14 Devolut.]
[Beginning subordination of absorbed Devolut.]
[During subordinat%i&on, strain will be imposed on the bod?y and sy^%tem.]
The Status Window flickered like a malfunctioning monitor. Malware had gotten in, it seemed. The Devolut he possessed was thoroughly obedient to him, but the Devolut he had just absorbed was a wild animal—rampaging savagely inside his body.