The news fell like thunder upon them all.
The cured had fallen ill again.
Only yesterday, the town echoed with laughter—songs, dances, prayers of thanks to the gods. And now? Wails pierced the sky. Mothers clutched at their children. Fathers held trembling hands. Faces once glowing with hope were twisted with dread.
"Didn't we cure them?" Lucas whispered, his voice cracking. "Didn't we burn the source?"
No one answered.
They returned to the well.
And there it was again—that same murky water, dark as tar. But this time, there was nothing inside. No creature. No tainted relic.
Just water.
But somehow, that made it worse.
It meant the curse had taken root.
It meant the land itself was sick.
Without hesitation, the Saintess broke into a sprint. Her cloak whipped behind her as she went house to house, room to room, pouring all she had into healing those who could still be saved. She didn't pause. Didn't rest. But even so—some were already too far gone.
A few recovered, barely clinging to life.
Most did not.
And then came the boy.
No older than ten. His skin pale, eyes sunken with fever. But he stood straight. His gaze found Lucas, and held.
"You're gonna save us, right?" he asked, voice soft. "Prince Lucas?"
Lucas couldn't answer.
He couldn't lie.
He just… nodded.
And the boy smiled. Despite everything—despite the pain in his limbs, the heat in his skull, the fact that he was alone—he smiled.
None of the others did.
They knew.
Even if they couldn't say it, they felt it: their time was slipping away. The Saintess could delay death—but she could not stop it. Not this time.
They were cursed.
And death was coming for them.
The boy—Renin—tugged gently at Lucas's cloak.
"Will you play with me?" he asked, holding a worn, patchwork leather ball in his thin hands. "I used to play every day with my brothers... before they got sick. Before they went to sleep and never woke up."
Lucas's throat tightened. His hand hovered above the boy's head for a moment before resting gently on it.
"…Alright," he said softly.
Together with a few knights, Lucas played in the empty square. The boy laughed, weak but joyful, his thin legs wobbling yet determined as he chased the ball across cracked cobblestone. That smile—radiant and genuine—shone like a final ray of sunlight before a storm.
And all the while, the Saintess worked. From house to house she moved, sleeves soaked with sweat and blood, healing what she could. But it was never enough.
Night fell. Day broke. Then night again.
And those who had been healed—fell sick once more.
The Saintess didn't stop. She refused to give in. Again and again, she poured her sacred blessings into the suffering. Her breath grew ragged. Her hands trembled. Her voice cracked from the prayers.
Lucas played with Renin again.
The boy's frame had grown even thinner. His steps are slower. But his smile—his damn smile—never faded.
"I'm still alive, see?" he beamed. "'Cause you're here, Prince Lucas. You keep your promises, right?"
Lucas turned his face away, afraid the boy would see the tears forming in his eyes.
Then—suddenly—a cry.
The Saintess collapsed to her knees, coughing violently. Crimson splattered the ground as blood gushed from her mouth.
Her knights rushed to her side, carrying her out of the cursed town.
But the moment she awoke, she fought to return.
And she did.
Over and over again. Until the fifth day.
That morning, she did not fall—she crumbled. Her knees gave out. Her divine aura flickered like a dying flame. Her skin pale as ash.
Even blessed by the gods, she had pushed too far.
Lucas stood paralyzed as she was carried away once more. He—who had conquered monsters, led armies, and wielded flames as his birthright—could do nothing.
Nothing.
For the first time in his life, he was powerless.
No sword, no spell, no fire could fix what was happening here.
The plague worsened. Now even the soldiers, protected by aura, began to fall. Knight after knight dropped. People died with vacant, hopeless stares.
Irvin, once proud and steadfast, now walked the city with shoulders hunched like a man crushed under invisible weight. Eventually, he left the cursed streets and summoned Lucas to his tent.
There, with the Saintess seated weakly at the table, they spoke.
She believed still—desperately, foolishly—that she could save them all. That her light could outshine the shadow.
But Irvin's voice, though hoarse and heavy, cut through.
"It's no use," he said. "Even if you heal them a thousand times, the curse will not lift. This plague... it is not just disease. It is a mark—branded upon the land and its people. They are cursed. And they are carriers."
He looked Lucas dead in the eyes.
"If we let even one of them walk free, this plague will spread. Not just to the next village. Not just the next city. The whole Empire will fall."
Silence fell like a blade.
"Then… what do you propose?" Lucas asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Irvin looked up slowly, as if the weight of his words were crushing him.
"We… we annihilate them all."
The tent fell into a suffocating silence.
The Saintess's eyes widened in disbelief, her breath catching. "You're joking. You must be joking."
Her voice quivered—not with fear, but fury. She turned sharply to Lucas, hope flickering in her gaze, desperate for his support. "Tell him, Lucas. Tell him there must be another way!"
But Lucas remained still.
He couldn't even look her in the eyes.
Because deep down—beneath his pride, beneath the fire he wielded like a crown—he knew Irvin was right.
This curse would spread. It already was.
And there was no miracle coming. No cure. No salvation.
Only fire.
The Saintess's expression shattered, grief pouring across her face like rain over glass. "You're going to let this happen…?"
Lucas's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. His silence was his answer.
"I see," she said bitterly, voice cracking. "You'd rather be a hero to the world... than a savior to the damned."
"It begins at noon tomorrow," Irvin declared solemnly. The words struck like a war drum.
The saintess stormed out of the tent, the flap whipping behind her in the wind.
Irvin gave Lucas a look—one of guilt, and grim resolve—then beckoned him deeper into the tent with a wave of his hands.
They spoke in hushed voices, alone, as if the very shadows might overhear their plan.
And outside… the bells of Citra tolled.
The last sound of peace the town would ever hear.