Isolation Begins
Icy groundwater poured from the brass faucet in a thick, steady stream.
The dark-red residue crusted to the bottom of the porcelain washbasin would not give way even under the force of the rushing water. It was not blood. It was the residue of the Curse of the Black Magic Sword, the searing heat of Divine Punishment, and the cold that had burrowed deep into the blood vessels — all tangled together and solidified into black sediment.
He worked lye powder onto a brush and pressed it into the basin's corners and the narrow gaps around the drain, scrubbing hard.
Scritch. Scritch.
Gray foam rose with the rough friction. Black blood swirled and was sucked down into the drainpipe. He scrubbed three full passes until not a single stain remained on the white porcelain surface.
If you didn't finish the cleanup, the smell would linger. The Sword Master who occupied the room at the far end of the same corridor was trained to detect even the faintest trace of blood in the air. He could not leave even a whisper of iron behind.
He shut off the faucet and dried his wet hands on a rough linen cloth.
Setting the cloth aside, he opened his palm. Beneath the skin of his right hand, three dark-red veins twisted irregularly. Magic sword, divine punishment, cold — three branches of curse gnawed at each other's territory as they pulsed.
The vessel's limit had already been passed. The internal erosion was still progressing at the expected rate, but the upper threshold this body could withstand would barely carry him through this autumn.
He walked to the solid-oak table at the center of the room.
A topographic map of the southern empire lay spread across it, a single candle burning between the sheets. He gripped a piece of charcoal and drew a thick circle around Bareum Valley, nestled at the southernmost tip of the empire between mountain ranges.
A radius of twelve ri.
That was the distance the demonic thoughts and magic power would reach when the curses inside him reached their limit and burst outward.
He raised his gaze to the top of the map, where the center of the Imperial Capital was marked. What would happen if this circle were drawn right here, in the heart of the capital?
The temple district would be swallowed whole. The barracks and military academy of the Empire's First Knight Order would be swept away, and the central market where merchants gathered every early morning would be consumed.
He could not leave a fuse ticking in the Imperial Capital.
Bareum Valley was ringed on all sides by cliffs hundreds of feet high. The terrain itself was structured to suppress the shockwave of an explosion. There, he could end it without harming a single soul.
Next to the map lay a single sheet of parchment, the ink already dry.
Thank you for everything. My body has always been frail, so I wish to return to my hometown to recuperate. I pray that you all remain safe.
He picked up the paper and pushed the corner of the parchment into the candle flame burning at the edge of the table.
Fssst.
The flame devoured the paper. It flared up and soon crumbled into black ash on the iron tray.
A clumsy letter only left a trace.
They were heroes who had saved the continent. The Empire's strongest Sword Saint, the Church's Saintess, and the First Imperial Princess — the brain of the Empire itself.
The world would not notice a void if a porter who bandaged wounds and brewed medicine behind their backs simply disappeared.
Three days and they'd forget.
At most a week. By the time the royal banquet celebrating the successful extermination was held and the crowd's cheers filled the streets, the empty spot of a low-ranking healer would be pushed to the edge of memory. There was no reason to leave pointless words that would weigh on their conscience.
He crushed the ash scattered on the floor completely with his boot.
He picked up three brown glass bottles from a corner of the table — painkillers made by concentrating the juice of poisonous herbs.
Thirty drops per bottle. One drop each morning and evening, and a single bottle would last half a month. Three bottles gave him forty-five days. He would empty two on the road south, and by the time he settled in Bareum Valley and drained the last one, he would need to find substitute herbs locally.
When the medicine's effect wore off, he would lose consciousness every time the curses collided. What terrified him more than the pain was the internal restraint lines loosening while his mind was gone. He tightened the bottle caps firmly and slid the bottles side by side into a deep inner pocket of the leather backpack.
The rest of his luggage was sparse.
Two worn brown robes, a portable bronze medicine mortar, and a few coin purses.
He left behind the high-grade magic tools issued during the expedition and the royal gifts engraved with the imperial crest. He had arranged them all neatly in the drawers.
He slung the backpack strap over his shoulder and tightened it firmly.
He opened the bedroom door. Thanks to having oiled the hinges the night before, it made no sound.
The second-floor corridor, settled in the dawn's darkness, was silent. To reach the mansion's back door, he had to pass in front of three rooms lined up side by side.
The first door. Elena's room.
He stepped at a point ten paces from the door.
Thump. Thump.
The back of his sternum was pressed. It felt like scraping the bottom of his heart with a sharp piece of metal. A thick metallic smell rose from deep inside his throat. His pulse beat twice fast and skipped once.
It was the curse of the black magic sword that had been eating away at Elena's body. The demonic energy he had extracted from her and imprisoned in his heart was detecting its original owner's presence and reacting.
At that moment, the faint rustle of bedding spread from inside the closed door.
The Sword Master's senses, attuned to any sign of life, were awakening even in sleep. The sound of shifting on the bed, and the shallowing of breath.
He froze as if nailed to the spot. He cut off his breath entirely, not even letting the air in his lungs escape. He pressed down on his chest so hard that the veins on his fingertips stood out white, waiting for the shifting inside to settle back into deep, even breathing.
After dozens of seconds of silence, the breath within lengthened evenly once more.
He pressed his sternum and lifted his foot without a sound. He passed Elena's door.
The second door. Seraphina's room.
When he reached the shadowed doorway, heat erupted from within his bones.
Bone marrow burned. Tinnitus rang in his ears. A sharp sound of scraping metal struck his eardrums, and the dark corridor scenery was momentarily bleached white.
Divine Punishment. The karmic fire branded onto the Saintess's soul for violating the divine commandments. The price of drawing it out through the sacred mark and imprisoning it pierced his brain marrow.
He bit his tongue hard. As the taste of blood spread, his blurred vision snapped back into focus.
The third door. Veronica's room.
The sensation in his fingertips and toes was cut off. His body temperature plummeted, and cold air surged up from deep within his lungs.
Whoosh.
White breath spread long in the early summer dawn air. His lips turned blue.
It was the Freezing Curse that had frozen her magic circuits.
Dizziness overwhelmed him and he staggered, losing his balance. Reflexively, to keep from falling, he pressed his palm against the brass doorknob of Veronica's door.
Fssst.
The cold traveled along the sacred mark and transferred to the brass surface. White frost bloomed like snowflakes on the cold metal in an instant.
He pulled his hand away immediately.
There was no time to erase the frost marks frozen white on the doorknob. He steadied his breathing and stepped onto the stairs, descending to the lower floor.
Even in the brief moment of passing through the corridor, the curses had surged. He could not spend another moment in the same building. The closer he stayed, the shorter the collision cycle became. Leaving the Imperial Capital and heading south was the only way.
He stood before the oak back door in the corner of the mansion's first floor.
He slid the bolt and opened the door.
The back alley, shrouded in dawn mist, was revealed along with the cool air. The city, sleeping in darkness, was quiet. There was not a single soul on the roadside.
He stepped over the threshold onto the damp gravel ground. He gripped the leather strap of the backpack pressing on his shoulder firmly and pulled the hood of his brown robe down deep, below his eyebrows. The dawn wind brushed his cheek, but he did not look up at the second-floor windows of the mansion behind him.
He fixed his gaze only on the stone path at his feet and walked on in silence.
Toward the south.
Toward Bareum Valley.
Thud.
The back door closed, and a dull sound scattered into the air.
4:40 AM.
Inside the Sword Saint's room.
The pitch-black greatsword hanging on the wall began to tremble.
Vrrr. Vrrr.
Elena opened her eyes at the vibrating waves emanating from within the scabbard.
She raised her upper body and clutched her left chest. Her fingers dug into the thin silk nightgown.
Chest pain pressing on her heart.
It was the sensation that had disappeared after the extermination ended. The pain of the magic sword's demonic thoughts eating away at her heart was slowly moving away from the mansion, toward the south.
Elena jumped out of bed.
The door opened and her bare feet stepped onto the cold corridor floor.
Following the direction the chest pain led, she arrived at the smallest room at the end of the corridor.
The room where the healer had stayed.
Creak.
There was no one inside.
A made bed, an iron tray with only black ash remaining, and the royal gifts neatly arranged on top of the dresser.
Elena's gaze wandered through the empty room and stopped.
A piece of memory clicked into place in her mind.
The night in the black forest stained with the blood of magical beasts. At the moment the magic sword's demonic thoughts were tearing at her heart, she had torn at her chest with her own hands, certain of death. But when she opened her eyes at dawn, the hellish pain that had been burning her chest had vanished without a trace.
Beside the bed sat the healer with a bloodless face, silent. A man who had hidden his blood-stained hands behind his sleeves, simply brewing dried herbs.
At that time, she had believed her swordsmanship and will had crushed the magic sword's curse. She had thought him staying up all night beside her was merely a supply officer doing his duties.
Elena's gaze slowly turned toward the washbasin in the corner of the room.
The porcelain basin, wiped clean and gleaming white.
But in the narrow gap of the drainpipe where water had flowed out, a black trace remained — something that had not been washed away.
Elena approached and scraped out the residue with trembling fingertips. Then she brought it to the tip of her nose.
A thick metallic smell.
It was the smell of that very magic sword that had eaten away at her body and disappeared.
Everything clicked into place. There had been no miracle. That weak man had simply transferred the curse of the black magic sword that had been burning her soul into his own chest — intact, in full.
"…"
Elena's lips trembled.
She tried to call his name.
But the inside of her throat dried up completely and her airway clamped shut. Her vocal cords stiffened as if in spasm, and not even a wisp of air could be turned into sound. The moment she spoke his name, the truth that he had been standing beside her, eating away at his own life, would become an irreversible reality.
Only the rough sound of inhaling scattered sharply into the silence of the cold room.