The Perfectly Healed Leg
Pol stared blankly at his own leg.
'My leg...'
It was there? And it was perfectly intact! As if the monster hadn't devoured it clean up to the thigh, his leg stood whole and unmarred.
Was all of this just a dream? But no, it couldn't possibly be. His pants, shredded up to the thigh, proved every bit of it had been real.
Pol glanced down at the blue potion clutched in his hand. A mana potion. It had restored his mana completely, with the recovery effect lingering continuously.
'This is the all-purpose potion!'
In this world... a potion that replenished mana? The very item alchemists had dreamed of for ages was right there in his grasp. The recovery had now faded away, but even so—if word of this got out to the mages, it would spark a massive uproar. No, the entire continent would be turned upside down!
The value of mages would skyrocket, utterly reshaping the tide of wars raging across the land by 180 degrees. And if a nation could mass-produce these mana potions... With mages backed by a mere protective army, they could conquer the continent itself. Perhaps even birth a great empire to rival the Holy Church.
"It really existed! The all-purpose potion... and the one who possessed it...!"
The legendary alchemist! No, not an alchemist—a devil.
Pol recalled Hoon. That figure he'd glimpsed as consciousness slipped away. It had been the very image of a devil.
"...A potion crafted by a devil? But... its power is truly astonishing. Like a miracle from the gods themselves?"
Pol reeled in shock, doubts swirling. 'No, is he really a devil?'
If he was, then why save me? Pol pondered for a moment before shaking his head. To be precise, it wasn't just 'me'. It was 'us'.
Pol turned to Rapilta and Alber, slumped nearby in the dim secret passage. They weren't writhing in agony—they slept peacefully, one even snoring softly while scratching his belly. Their wounds from the wights had vanished entirely, as if never inflicted.
The secret passage ended deep in a distant forest on the far side of the territory. Loki, still disguised in his crow helm, shook his head.
"...Did I heal them for nothing?"
He'd used recovery potions on Pol, Rapilta, and Alber. They'd been useful allies, but now his potions might leak into the world. And by this point, Aum's pursuers were likely hunting him down. He regretted leaving any trace.
'I need to find Yun Sirin as quickly as possible. Before I get dragged into more bizarre messes...'
"But..."
Loki paused mid-stride through the woods and glanced back.
"......?!"
A familiar girl yelped in surprise and ducked behind a tree. She peeked out cautiously, stealing glances at him from afar—as if she'd been tailing him at a distance.
Loki let out a small sigh at the sight of the dark elf, Salat. For reasons unknown, she kept following him.
'Well, she'll wander off eventually.'
Ignoring her, Loki pressed on without a destination in mind.
In the pitch-black basement, the only light came from a hazy, damp lantern.
The monk, who appeared to be in his eighties, clutched the lantern while hooded in his robe, a large leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He descended the stairs unsteadily, footfalls echoing.
Reaching the basement, he set the lantern on a shelf and rolled up his sleeves. He worked the pump connected to a deep well, drawing water into a carefully prepared bowl, then set it over a flame to boil. Thick steam billowed up as it bubbled.
"...Phew. It's fine. I'm used to it now."
The monk drew a deep breath and plunged his bare hand into the boiling water.
"Argh... ugh..."
His hand flushed red from the scalding heat, but he gritted through it, washing meticulously. Once done, he withdrew it and finely chopped the herbs he'd brought, stuffing them into a mask.
He inspected the long, beak-shaped bird mask from every angle. The eye slits were glass, with breathing holes at the tip of the beak—but even those now felt stifled by the fresh herbs. Undeterred, he donned it, layered another robe over himself, pulled on leather gloves, and secured everything with leather straps.
After checking for gaps repeatedly, he nodded.
"Phew— phew—!"
Breathing grew labored under the mask, his chest heaving roughly. Yet the familiar routine steadied him as he snatched the lantern and proceeded down the long, shadowy corridor.
He arrived at a door, set the lantern down, and wrenched open the heavy steel barrier with both hands.
As a crack formed, a thick, rotten stench seeped in despite the herbs. The old man shook his head and spoke.
"...Children. Forgive me. Monsters have been thick around here lately—took longer avoiding them."
His voice strained, yet laced with warmth. He reached into his leather bag and pulled out two captured rabbits.
"Your favorite—cute little rabbits. They die if lonely, the poor dears. You hate being alone too, don't you? So play with them."
He untied their bound legs and tossed them into the dark room. The rabbits vanished into the shadows.
And then...
Crunch!
...Eek—!
A sound like tearing flesh, followed by the rabbits' faint screams. Blood splattered across the door.
Raaargh!
The darkness revealed their forms: small monsters with grotesquely twisted heads. They lunged at the monk—but chains around their necks yanked them back before they could reach him.
The monk gave a wry smile.
"...It's alright. I'll fix you up. Just bear with it a little longer."
With those words, he shut the door.
It was just another ordinary day for Priest Alex.
Long ago, Salat's days had been blissfully happy.
A grand palace, kind and gentle servants and maids. Stern soldiers who watched protectively from behind. Everyone shared smiles and joyful times.
Seeing those smiles let her know how mighty her nation was. From short dwarves to long-eared elves, beast-eared folk... races of every kind gathered for one purpose: home. A safe haven where they could dream of the future without fear.
Her father stood at their center, soothing and shielding them. He fought off human invaders. To protect all that was precious, he crowned himself king, marched to the battlefield, crushed the aggressors, and tended his people.
Because of him, every nation on the continent feared her homeland.
But that happiness didn't last.
To safeguard his people, he forged a peace treaty—exchanging prisoners as promised. Then the incident occurred.
Raaargh!
Monsters?!
No, no—undead! Block them all!
No one knew how they appeared. The prison holding thousands of human POWs overflowed with the restless dead. They burst out, rampaging and destroying everything.
Subraces far stronger than humans—but even they were helpless against beings swords and spears couldn't slay.
The nation plunged into chaos in an instant.
Her father, the subrace king, barely contained the undead and restored order. But the real trouble came afterward.
In slaying the wights, every last human POW perished. Even the Holy Church delegates—emissaries for the treaty—were lost.
The humans demanded accountability.
Under the Holy Emperor's banner, the continent's forces united and marched on her kingdom.
Her happy homeland turned to hell overnight.
Streets echoed with subrace screams, wails, and sobs. Amid the horror, only the humans smiled.
"In the name of the Azelan Constellation, purge the heretics!"
"Glory to the Azelan Church!"
"Iron fist for heretics!"
"Judgment upon the devils!"
Devils? You are the devils!
Salat witnessed it all. Her people reduced to toys, to prey. Raped, corpses strung up, burned alive. Humans justifying atrocities under the guise of constellation grace.
Salat fled to find her father.
Daddy? Daddy...!
She ran. Daddy could drive them out. He could avert this disaster, return them to those happy days. In her eyes, he was as great as a god!
With the mightiest spirit, Ifrit, at his side!
But her hopes shattered.
"...D...addy?"
All she found was her father's brutally torn corpse.
Her dazed murmur drew the humans' gaze.
"...Catch her."
She fled desperately. Her only memory: escaping the palace until she collapsed.
When she awoke, her home—the Hanes Empire—lay in smoldering ruins, utterly destroyed.
So she was...
—...Lo...ok.
Salat cracked her eyes open.
—Hey!
"......?!"
She stared at the faintly flickering fire spirit before her. Its flame-wreathed body brushed branches without igniting them. Rain from the sky simply evaporated on contact as the spirit gazed silently at Salat.
—Planning to sleep forever?
Irritation laced the voice. Salat rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. Exhaustion still tugged at her, but if Ifrit had woken her, there was a reason.
"...How long... did I sleep?"
—About ten minutes.
"Re...ally?"
Salat shook her head, forcing her heavy eyelids open to clear her mind. She'd dozed briefly in the tree to guard against monsters or beasts.
She glanced at the sky. Still night. Clouds veiled the moon, and rain poured steadily. Her slave rags—barely more than tatters—soaked through, sapping her body heat. She shivered, physical fatigue pushed to its limit.
She wanted to sleep more. Truth be told, she could have rested comfortably. With elven agility, sight, and hearing, finding a nearby cave would be simple.
Salat weighed it seriously. She craved real rest.
—He's gone.
But Ifrit's words jolted her fully awake.