An Incurable Affliction
“You may not understand, Young Duke, but I have my pride as well.”
She had saved another’s life while asking for nothing in return, yet dismissed her own rescue as a mere debt, telling him there was no need to let it sway him. Stumbling precariously through life without ever asking for help, as if she might smile chillingly one day, murmuring, Ah, I made a mistake, and vanish into thin air…
Perhaps that was why.
“Condemn me all you like. Reproach me, curse me—it matters not. In truth, I find myself wishing Her Imperial Highness Titania had condemned me so instead.”
Whenever news of Titania reached his ears, his footsteps halted. When he learned she had endured some terrible ordeal, he burned with the urge to demand what those around her had been doing. And when he heard that no matter what befell her, she never gave in to fury, bearing every burden without resenting a single soul…
He could not even ask her why.
An excuse. Yes, just as the Empress had said, it was an excuse. Yet if he did not pursue her under such pretexts, the empty space left by the woman who had casually offered, “The future Young Duchess will be truly blessed,” felt unbearably hollow. Whenever those memories resurfaced, Raymon found himself questioning his own recollections.
Did Titania always smile like that?
Did Titania always speak in such a manner?
He did not know. Raymon could no longer be certain of anything. He felt as though he were hopelessly lost in an endless labyrinth.
“I simply wish to protect her. As far as I am able.”
All because of a woman who spoke of her own absence as if it meant nothing at all.
The vast majority of demonic beasts originated from beneath the earth. That was common knowledge.
Strictly speaking, any organism that breathed through the medium of a “core” was classified as a demonic beast. They required no ordinary sustenance; merely drawing breath allowed them to generate and wield demonic energy within their cores. For the most part, they harbored sheer hostility toward any living creature that was not of their kind. Incapable of communication, impossible to domesticate or raise as livestock, they were the sworn enemies of mankind, driven solely by the instinct to tear the throats out of the living.
Ironically, their by-products were worth fortunes. Once its core was shattered, a demonic beast almost invariably perished, entirely drained of strength. Yet the remnants left behind held astonishing concentrations of power, and an intact core commanded whatever price the seller cared to name.
Mages were obsessed with studying them, and through their research, they uncovered a great deal. The power extracted from the corpse of a beast stripped of its core was generally harmless. If refined with proper care, it could be utilized just like ordinary mana. Thanks to exhaustive inquiry, magical artifacts powered by demonic remnants had become widely distributed even among ordinary folk.
Yet an absolute taboo governed their work: Never inject refined demonic energy into a living organism.
To do so was to risk triggering a horrific mutation into a demonic beast—whether the subject was an animal or a human.
Of course, fools existed everywhere. Whispers spread that this demonic energy was the true secret behind the natural immortality of demonic beasts, and all manner of perilous contraband was peddled in secret to fuel the myth.
The Empire saw more demonic beasts emerge than any other realm on the continent. Whether the founding legends of sealing their source held truth or not, there had been an era when the Empire eradicated them as effortlessly as drowning newborn mice. Though it now relied almost entirely on the Castrein Duchy for defense, its stockpiles of by-products remained overwhelmingly vast.
The Castreins were unrivaled masters when it came to demonic beasts. The same held true for managing the remnants. When exporting such materials abroad through foreign trade, the duchy enforced ruthless oversight to ensure such hazardous goods never circulated unchecked.
Yet contraband always found a way. Certain mercenaries made immense fortunes through illicit dealings, slipping right past the watchful eyes of the Castrein family.
Inside the quiet chamber, a single voice resonated.
“My family is renowned for commerce,” said Phlux, the Young Count of Cortez, who had now revealed his true identity. He offered an unnervingly brilliant smile. “Naturally, we deal in all manner of merchandise. But we never lay hands on goods so perilous. My father always warned me that drinking water too hastily only leads to choking.”
Phlux paused, his gaze softening with quiet reflection. “Father placed great trust in me, leaving this city in my hands for several years. Even if the practical affairs were handled by adjutants… I knew his profound attachment to this city, and I strove to prove worthy of his faith. So much so that when I learned of the black market auction operating here, I felt I could not simply turn a blind eye.”
Black markets existed everywhere; in the South’s greatest commercial hub, their absence would have been far stranger. Naturally, capable as Phlux was, he had never harbored the foolish notion that he could eradicate or control an underground auction house. One could never guess what towering figures lurked among its clientele, nor whether the Count of Cortez could withstand the consequences of crossing them. Phlux had merely thought: This is my city. At the very least, I must grasp what transpires within its walls.
Moreover, it had proven utterly impossible to uncover who truly ran the underground auction, or what powerful patrons backed them from the shadows. Prodding rashly invited unforeseen catastrophe, leaving him no choice but to watch attentively from afar.
Then came that fateful day.
“I secretly embedded a seasoned mercenary who had served in the North into the auction house. Normally, he was meant to quietly observe and report back with discretion. But one day, he urgently summoned me, insisting that this was something we could no longer afford to overlook.”
A genuinely dangerous item had appeared on the auction block. When Phlux rushed to the site at the behest of the man who recognized the threat…
“All I remember is a deafening blast. By the time I regained my senses, I was already in this wretched state.”
The item in question had detonated, instantly wiping out everyone in the vicinity. Because the mercenary had shielded Phlux at the final instant, Phlux became the sole survivor. Desperate attempts were made afterward to uncover who organized the auction, who had brought the object in, and why it had exploded beneath the earth, but every trace had vanished into thin air, as if wiped clean by magic.
Phlux had suffered horrific injuries—an affliction defying description.
The capillaries in the whites of his eyes had ruptured completely, drowning his vision in blood-red hues. His limbs lost all vigor, and charred, blackened marks crept across his flesh, spreading wider with every passing day. His strength withered, his joints twisted, and his frame grew gaunt and hollow. To any onlooker, it appeared precisely as though he were mutating into a demonic beast while still breathing.
“At first, Father summoned priests. Yet their sacred power proved entirely useless. Isn’t it laughable? They boast that holy power repels demonic beasts and mends human wounds, yet they could not save me. Father lavished astronomical sums upon them, dropping to his knees to beg for any remedy. And that priest told him… that I could only be cured if we used the Holy Relic enshrined within the temple.”
The Holy Relic, safeguarded within the temple and unveiled exclusively during the Offering Festival.
An artifact that only direct imperial royalty were permitted to touch.
Many dismissed the Offering Festival as an empty, unnecessary ritual. In the eyes of ordinary citizens, the Northern and Southern Barrier appeared eternally unyielding. Even when beasts slipped through fissures or rogue creatures raided the interior, people tended to view the incidents as mere attacks by vicious wild beasts.
Count Cortez, however, was no fool. However lightly the masses regarded the ceremony, he understood the profound gravity behind the direct imperial bloodline traveling in person every summer and winter to shed their own blood. What would happen if an anomaly compromised the Southern Barrier? If the demonic beasts flooded in, the entire city would crumble, wrought with unfathomable devastation.
And yet, Phlux was his only son.
The precious, solitary child left behind by his frail, departed wife. Clever, free of frivolous ambition, and exceptionally sharp in business—a successor more than worthy of inheriting the family domain. The Count possessed wealth and intelligence that anyone would envy.
Then we shall simply buy anything that resembles a Holy Relic. That had been his initial thought. Yet obtaining such artifacts was no easy feat. What were deemed true Holy Relics belonged almost exclusively to the temple, and items housing fragments of divine power with similar efficacy were said to be hoarded primarily within the Castrein Duchy.
The Count summoned mages of every discipline in a frantic bid for salvation, yet nothing improved. Some even declared that natural recovery was impossible unless they could summon an ancient elementalist—beings whose very existence had faded into myth. Even when they managed to acquire rare, purported remedies, Phlux’s condition did not improve in the slightest.
Driven to the brink, Count Cortez ultimately bribed a priest of the Southern Temple to smuggle the Holy Relic out. He placed it in Phlux’s hands, intending to utilize its power for a brief time before returning it unnoticed.
Phlux’s condition did show faint signs of improvement. And yet…