"The Legendary All-Purpose Potion"
"The universal potion that can heal anything. As long as they don't die, it saves anyone and cures any disease... that legendary potion."
"……."
"Word is it's somewhere up north."
"……."
"That's why we've been scouring the Celt Mountains."
Loki kept his mouth shut, feeling a pang of guilt. That potion was most likely one he'd created himself. Everyone who'd used it called it a miracle from the gods, after all. Even in Loki's eyes, it could perfectly heal not just severed limbs but old scars too—so it was understandable why it was seen as truly 'universal.'
But why were they looking for it?
Could it be?
"To cure the plague?"
"Huh? Oh! No. We're just trying to heal one crazy old man...."
"Rapilta!"
Alber's sharp rebuke made Rapilta clamp her mouth shut.
'Crazy old man?'
Contrary to Rapilta's denial, Pol offered an awkward smile.
"Yes, it's the plague. We're scared we might catch it anytime too."
Loki knew it was a lie, but he had no intention of pressing further. They seemed to have their own circumstances, just like him.
"...I see. No cure, then?"
"The Holy Church claims their holy water can heal it, but...."
Pol glanced around before leaning in to whisper to Loki.
"Truth is, only the high priests' top-grade holy water works. The lower stuff is just a scam the priests peddle to make money—"
"Ahem...!"
Alber cleared his throat. Insulting Holy Church priests was a sensitive matter.
"Watch your words, Pol."
"...Yes, sir."
Pol didn't entirely disagree. He'd badmouthed the priests to Loki because he was a Nord. Priests checked mages, and mages resented them in turn. With Nords persecuted by the Holy Church, Pol wanted to vent his built-up grudge and get closer to him.
"Whoa, for real?"
"I'm telling you! An elf! An elf! A dark elf, even!"
Sudden commotion erupted among the mercenaries. Loki glanced sideways. They were pointing at a cart a bit removed from the group.
"There's a dark elf! Man, to see a fairy-tale creature in the flesh!?"
"But... isn't she kinda off? A dark elf, not even a regular one? I heard they worship darkness, descendants of demons. That makes 'em demonkin, right? What if we get cursed just being near her?"
"Pfft, so what? She's a slave right now. Cursed by livestock or a tool? Ridiculous."
They looked almost human, yet branded demons' spawn just for being different?
A twisted world.
It was a brutal place with warped values, unlike the world Loki and Yun Sirin had known. He clenched his fist, vowing to find her as quickly as possible.
***
The struggling donkey finally halted. The one who stopped it was Azar. He gazed joyfully at the small fief ahead.
"We're here! Finally arrived!"
The fief looked more like a village—shabby and tiny. Patchy farmlands surrounded clusters of houses where the owners presumably lived. Even combined, there were barely thirty buildings, suggesting around a hundred residents at most. The castle atop the distant hill was equally quaint and pathetic, hardly deserving the name.
For a settlement next to the Monster Mountains, security seemed laughably lax—surprisingly peaceful. Yet an unnatural emptiness hung in the air, the mood somber. Thick fog clung to the surroundings, the sky choked with storm clouds ready to burst.
"Let's go! Sick of camping out. Deliver the goods quick and move on!"
Azar cracked his whip at the donkey as he shouted. It brayed in protest and lurched forward, the mercenaries following.
As they entered the village, Loki felt an odd dissonance.
...No vitality.
Life signs were there, but... no people in sight. A strange stench assaulted his nose too. Scattered on the streets: rice husks dropped during harvest, vomit-like filth, even a dead stray cat's corpse left to rot.
The mercenaries and Azar marched on silently, implying this was normal to them. Loki asked Pol, walking beside him.
"Is... every mainland village this filthy?"
"Pardon? Oh, no, not at all."
Pol shook his head.
"Small fiefs like this, maybe... but cities are the nobles' face, so they're meticulously maintained. Lords hire managers and cleaners. Tiny villages like this only get spruced up for events."
"I see."
But something felt off. Rapilta chimed in.
"Still weird, right? Where's everyone? Houses don't look lit for bed either. Too early to sleep, isn't it?"
"True. Even if they turn in early, not a soul in sight."
"Yeah. Hey, there's one over there?"
Pol pointed to the fields. Amid rice stalks grown to adult height stood a lone man.
"Hello there~!"
Pol waved enthusiastically, but the figure in the rice just sagged, staring blankly. It tilted its head, then feebly flailed a hand.
"Whoa! He waved back!"
"...A wave?"
Loki frowned. Hard to see through the stalks, but the farmer seemed unsteady, weak. He lurched toward them, collapsed, struggled up, fell again. Harsh, gurgling breaths rattled in Loki's ears.
Sick?
No, before that...
Something's wrong.
Life energy pulsed, but twisted somehow. An alien sensation.
What is this feeling?
Loki was about to ask Pol again when—
"Hey! You lot! Hurry up if you're escorts!"
Rapilta's group grumbled and quickened their pace at Azar's yell.
"Damn, who said we were escorts? We doing this for free? World's gone mad!"
"Eh, we did get some help. No complaints, Rapilta."
"What now, though? No more coin. Hunt another job?"
"……."
Loki missed his chance amid their chatter. A rotten stench wafted past his nose.
As the caravan pulled away, the farmer from the rice finally staggered upright. Twisted face. Clothes shredded, exposing skin pitted like something had gnawed it. Amid the rotting flesh, blood-red worms writhed, filling the voids.
It cocked its head at the departing caravan.
***
"What the hell! Where is everyone?!"
Azar reached the castle gate. Frustrated and exhausted, he kicked it, but no response. Even for a minor lord's keep, no guards at the gate was bizarre.
Loki glanced at Pol, who scanned around in equal confusion.
"This is odd. Even a small lord needs soldiers to defend the fief... not one in sight."
Not few—none!
Near the Celt Mountains, monster haven, and frozen Nord raider lands, it was bafflingly defenseless. Even if attacks were rare, this was too exposed.
Loki strained his ears for sounds inside, but nothing.
"Seems... no one's here?"
Presences came from the village, not here. A fully abandoned fortress.
"No way! That's too weird."
Loki's curiosity piqued at Pol's dismayed denial. He wondered about staffing for such a minor keep.
"How many usually in a place like this?"
Pol explained in detail, amiably.
"For a tiny fief, a knight or baron. Maybe ten private soldiers? Twenty tops... Servants are commoners unless royal, so a few villagers hired. One or two knights at most."
"You know your stuff."
Pol smiled.
"Gotta learn all sorts in my line."
Drip...Drip.
Rain began falling, swiftly turning torrential. Mercenaries scowled skyward. No inn in a hamlet this small. Normally, they'd pitch tents in the castle with permission—but no lord. No people at all. Meant camping outside despite shelter ahead.
Azar startled at the downpour, pounding the gate.
"Hey! Open up! No one home?! Where's the lord? Slave trader Azar here! Goods'll spoil if we don't get inside!"
Worried for his slaves, Azar shoved the gate with all his might. It swung open easily.
"Huh?"
Azar peeked in, eyes widening. Weed-choked stone paths forked three ways. Right: a church. Center: modest castle. Left: 10m training yard, warehouse atop, small stairs descending underground.
Not grand, nor ornate. Far from game or movie fantasy architecture Loki knew.
Might be more realistic this way.
Rapilta toured the grounds, clicking her tongue.
"What a puny castle. Smaller than most noble mansions. Sure a lord lives here?"
"Overkill for rural nobles. You'd start in one if you got a title and land."
Rapilta stuck out her tongue at Alber.
"Argh! Where's the damn lord?! Can't hand off goods, feeding you lot costs extra!"
Azar wailed, cheap even with spoiled bread crumbs, jabbing fingers at the mercenaries.
"Hey! Find him quick! Earn your pay!"
They muttered complaints at his rage.
"Damn, thinks we're slaves?"
"Yeah, we're people too. Not like slaves."
'But you see slaves as people.'
If Yun Sirin were enslaved, she might face that treatment. Worse if known non-human.
But because she's not, she might still be alive.
Three centuries traversing this horrific continent—she'd endured countless ordeals and wounds. Loki gazed at the window. If she was in Ronia, she might be staring at the rain like him now.