At sunrise, the citizens of the capital stood in stunned silence, staring at the notices newly posted throughout the city.
One by one, their faces filled with disbelief.
"Following intelligence of an attempt to summon a demon within the royal capital, His Highness Crown Prince Jaemar and Bishop Saphir of the Church led a night-long search of the city. Ultimately, the culprits were discovered in the Beast Arena. A total of 124 cultists were executed, and the ancient demon Karlra—infamous for instigating the Great Demonic Catastrophe centuries ago—was destroyed."
"The following criminal organizations were also eradicated during the sweep:"
"411 Orla Street: A child trafficking ring consisting of 17 members. All executed."
"112 Third Avenue: 21 cultists from the Secret Society. All executed."
"..."
"..."
"In total, 946 criminals were eliminated. Their heads have been displayed 100 meters outside the North Gate. Citizens who know of any remaining hidden factions within the capital may report them at 12 Glorious Avenue. The royal family will reward those who provide valuable information."
"Demons?"
"Could something like that really have appeared in the capital yesterday?"
Most commoners froze upon reading the announcement. Demons were creatures of myth to them—beings they'd only ever heard about in old legends. What they felt wasn't just fear, but an unsettling curiosity. After all, hundreds of years had passed. Generations had come and gone. The notion of demons had long since faded into abstraction.
To most people, the revelation didn't feel real. In fact, it wasn't the mention of the demon that shook them the most—it was the detailed list of purged criminal organizations that followed.
Demons were too distant, too fantastical. But to discover a cult had been operating just down the street? That was horrifying.
To the average person, if something didn't affect them personally, it didn't matter how catastrophic it was.
And Jaemar understood that perfectly. That was why he'd had the names and addresses of every eliminated group listed so plainly.
Regardless, such a sweeping purge of the capital's underworld stunned the public—and it clearly showed the royal family's determination.
It was easy to predict that, in the years to come, the capital's public safety would improve dramatically. This achievement would no doubt bolster Jaemar Voss's claim to the throne.
---
Meanwhile, on a storm-lashed deserted island...
Inside a hastily built camp, the soldiers exiled from the principality of Yharnis had already re-established a semblance of order, thanks to the survival of their command structure.
Wooden huts, bonfires, and barricades had quickly sprung up under their collective effort.
In one of these crude shelters, Harrey sat in silence, dazed and gloomy, listening to the rain leak through the ceiling. Outside, it poured. Inside, it drizzled.
He wanted nothing more than to twist Jaemar's neck.
It hadn't been long since they were exiled, but as a noble, Harrey had already gotten a bitter taste of primitive living.
Making fire by friction, bland and tasteless food—those were manageable. But having nothing to wipe with? That was a whole new level of torment. Leaves and stones were all they had. For someone like Harrey, it was an experience straight out of a nightmare.
Things got worse when someone used a strange plant for wiping and ended up with festering sores.
Now, on the island, smooth, hairless, non-serrated leaves had become high-demand commodities among the soldiers—so much so that fights had broken out over them.
To Harrey, this was unbearable.
He couldn't accept that his once-elite troops had sunk so low as to fight over leaves for wiping their asses.
If word ever got out, it would disgrace the principality of Yharnis's thousand-year honor.
Ever since paper became commonplace, even barbarians knew that wiping was done with paper!
Gritting his teeth, Harrey muttered hatefully, "Jaemar Voss, you venomous bastard..."
At the time, he'd assumed exile to a remote island wasn't a big deal—especially with a strong force at his back. Wild beasts and venomous insects were minor concerns. But reality had slapped him hard in the face.
Just as he was deep in thought, trying to come up with a way to escape this nightmare, a frantic knock came at the door.
It was so fast and violent that Harrey feared the flimsy wooden plank he called a door might not survive the assault.
Still, he didn't explode in anger. He knew that, at a time like this, only a few people would dare disturb him—and it had to be urgent.
Resigned, he called out, "What is it?"
A soldier's panicked voice answered, "My lord, there's an outbreak spreading among the troops. Many are complaining of full-body aches, dizziness, and blurred vision!"
"What!? An outbreak?"
Harrey's expression changed drastically. He stood up and pushed the door open, face grim. "Are you certain it's contagious?"
"I'm afraid so, my lord. Over a hundred men have reported the same symptoms. Most of them don't even know each other and haven't eaten together. It can't be food poisoning!"
Hearing that, Harrey's face shifted through a dozen expressions in a matter of seconds.
His troops were elite warriors—trained and hardened over years. Even the weakest among them far exceeded the average person in constitution. For them to fall sick so suddenly, and in such numbers, suggested a far more dangerous problem.
A disease strong enough to infect them could only mean one thing—this wasn't just any illness. It was a potentially lethal plague.
And with no medicine and no proper facilities, that was a death sentence.
They had a few medics, sure—but without medicine, they were practically useless.
In such cases, the only way to contain it was isolation—and execution of the infected.
You had to snuff the fire out before it spread.
But doing that here, on this isolated island, could lead to devastating consequences.
These men had already been defeated in battle, stripped of everything, and exiled here. They were full of resentment and frustration. Only Harrey's authority and the ingrained discipline of years held them in check.
If he now showed signs of abandoning their sick comrades, the men might rebel.
A mutiny was the last thing he could afford.
He paced at the doorway, expression dark. Then he gave his orders:
"Find a remote location. Move all the infected there immediately. And bring the medics to me—I have questions for them."
The soldier stiffened and nodded, visibly reassured to have clear instructions.
"Yes, sir!"
As he watched the soldier leave, Harrey's face twisted in frustration.
In truth, he had no idea what to do.
All he could do for now was isolate the sick, pretend to do everything possible to save them, and maintain the illusion of control.
Even without medicine, as long as he played the part, the troops might stay calm.
The details would have to come from the medics. They had no supplies—but they still had experience.
If the doctors thought recovery was possible, Harrey had no reason to sacrifice those men.
---
More than two months later.
A middle-aged officer stood on the deck of a naval vessel stationed offshore, tasked with monitoring the island and preventing escape attempts.
He stared at the landmass in the distance, face pale with dread.
The settlement built by the exiled Yharnis soldiers was now nothing but a charred ruin.
Something terrible had happened.
About ten days ago, the entire force had descended into madness. They fought like wild beasts—feral, mindless, and utterly fearless.
It wasn't war. It was slaughter.
And now, the island held nothing but rotting corpses.
That is, if you didn't count the things that still moved in the shadows—creatures that avoided sunlight, aimlessly shambling through the ruins.
Monstrosities had begun crawling from the piles of corpses.
Towering five or six meters tall, they looked like demons' discarded playthings—twisted lumps of flesh, cobbled together from rotting body parts. Limbs and faces were scattered randomly across their grotesque forms, and their skin oozed pus and bile. Every step they took left trails of rot on the ground. Just looking at them made one want to vomit.
The officer desperately wanted to order the ship's cannons to open fire and annihilate those foul abominations.
But he didn't dare.
Something like this had to be reported to prince Jaemar. No one else had the authority to act.
And frankly, the officer wasn't even sure cannon fire would work on those things...
So far, the monsters hadn't shown the ability to swim.
But if provoked, what if they did try to cross the sea? What if they reached another shore?
The thought alone chilled him to the bone.
For now, the best he could hope for was to keep the situation from getting any worse.
---
After reading the soldier's report, Jaemar lowered the letter—personally signed by the officer in charge.
His brows furrowed.
He dismissed the soldier with a nod. "Go get some rest. I'll have a letter ready for your commanding officer tomorrow."
"Yes, Your Highness."
Once the soldier had left, Jaemar rubbed his temples and sighed deeply.
The last report had only mentioned fighting among the exiles—nothing unusual. He hadn't given it much thought.
But now, things were clearly escalating.
If they didn't intervene soon, it could spiral into a disaster.
---
That afternoon, seated by a window, Orsaga asked calmly:
"So... you're saying the incident on the island has caught the Church's attention, and now you need to clean it up?"
Jaemar nodded respectfully. "Yes, my lord. The anomaly has already been noticed by passing ships. If we don't deal with it quickly, it could attract... unwanted complications."
Orsaga chuckled and replied with casual indifference:
"In that case, do as you see fit. I've already acquired what I wanted."
Relieved to receive his approval, Jaemar bowed slightly. "Understood."
As Jaemar exited the room, Orsaga shook his head faintly and gave a cynical smile.
"Being weak is the greatest sin of all..."
_____
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