NOVPUBDiamond Town — A Month After the Plague Began
Marquess Raynold sat slumped at his desk, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, dark circles etched beneath them like permanent bruises.
Sleep had long abandoned him, even though he had tried everything to help his people—introducing the witches' medicine, organizing healers, pleading with nobles.
But none of it mattered.
Rather than gratitude, the people retaliated. They refused the medicine, their eyes turning instead to the Church, clinging desperately to faith over reason.
Raynold hadn't foreseen that. He had waited, just as his liege instructed—waited for the right moment to act.
But the Church hadn't waited. Like rats, they had seized the opportunity, preaching hope while the plague was fresh and terrifying. They stole his momentum, his influence.
His fist slammed onto the desk in frustration, rattling the inkwell.
Today, Claude was set to contact him—likely to reprimand him for his territory's sluggish progress compared to others.
He ran a hand through his graying hair and gritted his teeth. "Damn it… This town was supposed to be the richest—our kingdom's greatest contributor of tax revenue."
"The least influenced by the Church!" He leaned back heavily in his chair, his voice bitter with regret.
"So why…?"
A knock interrupted his thoughts.
"Enter," he called.
His butler, Charles, stepped in and bowed deeply. "My lord, it is time." 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘱𝘶𝑏.𝑐𝘰𝑚
"Understood. Connect me to His Majesty."
Charles nodded and activated the magical device Claude had provided. In a soft shimmer of light, a half-body projection of the King appeared before them, calm and imposing.
Claude's voice came cold and direct. "How is development in your town?"
Raynold bowed slightly, guilt curling in his chest. "Still stagnant, Your Majesty. Most refuse the medicine. We've been forced to hide the witch to prevent her from being dragged to the stake."
Claude narrowed his eyes. "Wasn't your region the least affected by Church influence?"
Raynold grimaced. "Yes, but… I underestimated their desperation. When fear took root, they clung to faith. I should've seen it coming."
"You were arrogant," Claude said bluntly. "You thought it would be easy. You forgot how fickle people are when they're afraid."
Raynold bowed his head lower, unable to offer a defense. The silence stretched long and heavy between them—until Claude finally spoke again.
"Let them be."
Raynold's head snapped up. "What?"
"Treat only those who wish to be healed. Use the witch's medicine on them. As for the others—let them rot in their faith. Let desperation claim them."
"Your Majesty, that's… cruel!" Raynold rose to his feet, slamming both palms onto the desk.
"I built this town from nothing! From the days of poverty to when we struck gold and diamonds—it's because of those people we flourished! I can't just abandon them!"
"I know you care deeply for your people," Claude said, his tone now quieter, but no less firm. "But obey. Do what I say—and wait. You'll understand in time."
With that, the magical projection vanished.
Raynold stared at the empty air where the king had been, his mind reeling. Hours passed as he sat motionless at his desk, too torn to move.
By the time he blinked out of his daze, night had already fallen.
He turned to Charles, who stood quietly by his side.
"Do you have any idea what His Majesty is thinking?" Raynold asked.
The butler shook his head. "As your loyal servant, I have never questioned your orders, my lord. But if I may offer an observation… perhaps His Majesty is testing your loyalty as well."
Raynold sighed deeply, his thoughts swirling like a storm. But Charles's words stirred something in him—something resolute.
And with that, he finally made his decision.
***
Diamond Town — Two Months After the Plague Began
"You need to take responsibility for my wife! You said she'd be healed by your blessing!" a man shouted, voice cracking with rage and grief.
He stood at the front of an angry crowd gathered outside the Church, torches raised high, fury burning in their eyes. The tension in the air was volatile—one spark away from an inferno.
They had clung to faith. They had believed the priests when they promised salvation through the Goddess' blessing.
But now, their families lay cold in their beds. The sick had become sicker. Even those who received daily blessings had succumbed to the plague.
The final blow came when rumors began to spread—rumors that one of the clergy had died of the plague.
Worse still, whispers claimed that some within the Church had secretly used the witches' medicine to save themselves.
The betrayal was too much to bear.
"Those who took the witch's medicine lived!" someone else shouted from the mob. "Why are those who received your blessing the ones who died?!"
"Are you impostors, blaspheming in the name of the Goddess of Eunomia?!"
"How could you do this to us? We trusted you!"
"Come out and face us, damn it!"
The fury swelled like a wave crashing against stone. When no response came from within the Church, the mob's restraint finally snapped.
With a resounding crack, the wooden gate of the Church splintered beneath the weight of the crowd's anger.
They flooded into the Church, the holy sanctuary echoed with the heavy stomp of boots, the crackling of torches, and the hoarse cries of the betrayed.
But as they entered, something shifted.
The scent hit them first—not incense, but rot. The sharp, unmistakable stench of death.
Their voices faltered.
Inside the grand hall of worship, bodies lay slumped in pews and sprawled across the stone floor. Robes of white and gold, now stained with blood and bile.
Priests, nuns—every last one of them motionless, their faces pale, mouths agape in silent death.
A murmur of horror passed through the crowd.
"They're… dead?"
"Even the Priest…"
Someone gagged. A woman dropped her torch as her knees buckled, eyes fixed on the lifeless body of the same cleric who once blessed her son.
She had begged him for a miracle. And now he lay as dead as the boy she buried.
Then a sound could be heard.
They turned toward the source—a small chamber near the altar, the door half-ajar. A few men approached, slowly now, pushing it open with the butt of a torch.
Inside, curled up in a corner, was a lone priest.
"You…" one man muttered.
"You knew, didn't you?" another growled. "You all knew your blessing was worthless."
The priest didn't speak. He didn't need to. His silence was an answer louder than any word.
The crowd stared at him—this broken figure, the last remnant of the institution they had devoted their faith to.
There was no divine protection here. No miracles. No salvation. Only rot, decay, and lies.
Someone in the back whispered, "We were wrong."
And it echoed—softly, bitterly—from voice to voice.
"We were wrong…"
There was no satisfaction in this. Only hollow grief and the heavy weight of betrayal. Some wept. Some cursed.
Some simply turned and walked out, torches flickering dimly as they disappeared into the cold night, carrying with them the ashes of faith they once held so dearly.
***
In his manor, Raynold finally felt a breath of relief after four months of groveling, stress, and sleepless nights.
Yet even in this moment of calm, the toll on his body was undeniable—his once beautiful dark brown hair had thinned, the crown of his head nearly bald now.
He wanted to sigh, but there was still work to be done. It was time to inform His Majesty of the long-awaited good news.
After a grueling month, the people finally accepted the witches' medicine.
It had taken more than effort—it had taken manipulation. The whispers he seeded among the commonfolk, the slow poisoning of the priests and clerics already weakened by the plague, and the timely deaths of the most devout had pushed the people to the brink of despair.
In their darkest moment, they realized the harsh truth—their faith had failed them. The Church had been a lie all along.
It had taken him two long weeks to understand Claude's plan, but once his informants told him about the priest's death because of the plague, the brilliance of it all clicked into place.
Sitting in his office now, Raynold moved to activate the communication stone and contact Claude—but the connection to Elysium had been dead since yesterday.
"Hm… Is Elysium under attack?" he murmured, fingers tapping nervously against the desk. "No… That barrier is still intact. It wouldn't be so easily breached."
"And the Promised Land's gate has been sealed for months now… they're too weak to launch an assault. Nearly half their people have perished."
He narrowed his eyes, still trying to piece it together.
"It must be the time, My Lord," Charles chimed in, setting down a cup of steaming tea beside him. "The birth of His Majesty's child… by his beloved concubine."
---
"Has the baby come out yet?! Why is it taking so long for Dalia to give birth?!"
Claude's voice roared through the birthing chamber as he seized the doctor by the collar, fury burning in his crimson eyes.
The man paled, trembling as he struggled to speak.
"L-Lady Layla already delivered your heir… but Lady Dalia's labor has lasted over twelve hours…"
Claude's temple twitched, his fury mounting. "So what's the problem?!"
"The baby's head is too large, Your Majesty… She's unable to push, and if we perform a cut, she may lose too much blood—"
"Then use your damn mana and heal her!"
The doctor shrank back. "But in daemon customs, it is strictly forbidden to interfere with—"
"Damn your customs!" Claude snapped, his voice cracking like thunder. "If she dies, I'll kill every single one of you—and your entire bloodline!"
