​Dawn had yet to arrive. Outside, the sky remained a deep, impenetrable ink.

​Dayat lay in bed, his eyes wide open. Beside him, Dola was also awake. Her blue eyes glowed faintly in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling. Neither had spoken for a long while. There was only a heavy, suffocating silence—a weight that pressed down on their chests.

​Dayat let out a long sigh, followed by another.

​”Dola… what exactly is Morbis?”

​Dola didn’t answer immediately. She blinked a few times, then shifted to face the ceiling.

​”Morbis isn’t a typical demon. He is a manifestation of a plague given consciousness.”

​Dayat furrowed his brow. “A plague… given consciousness?”

​”Yes. As long as there is disease in the air, as long as there is decay in the soil, he can manifest. That is why he floats. That is why he is translucent. His body doesn’t truly exist in the physical sense. He is… a coalesced mass of sickness given form.”

​”That sounds like he’d be hard to kill.”

​”He cannot be killed.” Dola’s voice was flat. “Only banished. Or suppressed.”

​Dayat sighed again. He stared at the ceiling where a violet lamp pulsed softly, rhythmic like a slow heartbeat.

​”And Wabil? How strong is he?”

​Dola turned her head toward Dayat. Her gaze was unblinking.

​”Equal to me. Or at least, he was.”

​Dayat turned to meet her eyes. “Equal? Did the two of you ever fight?”

​”No.”

​”Why not?”

​Dola turned back to the ceiling, her silver hair spilling across the pillow.

​”It wasn’t out of peace. It was out of necessity. If Harbingers were to clash with one another, the resulting battle would tear the very fabric of dimensions apart.” She paused for a moment. “We kept our distance. We watched each other. We were never friends. Never allies. We were simply… inhabitants of the same space.”

​Dayat fell silent, studying Dola’s profile.

​”So he won’t attack?”

​”Perhaps.”

​Dayat took a deep breath. The air in the room felt unnaturally cold.

​”If we have to fight him… how do we do it?”

​Dola sat up, her back toward Dayat. Her silver hair cascaded down her spine.

​”You.”

​Dayat sat up as well. “Me?”

​Dola glanced back, her eyes locking onto his.

​”You can create something from nothing. You don’t just manipulate mana. You don’t just re-engineer matter. You create.”

​Dayat was stunned. His mouth opened, then closed again.

​”That is the power of a creator god. It is a power the Six Goddesses do not possess. Even the Seven Harbingers do not have it.” Dola turned fully to face him. “Only you.”

​”But I can only make things I understand. Things I have a blueprint for.”

​”That limitation can be expanded.” Dola looked down, fiddling with the end of her hair. “The more you know, the more you can create. If the day comes when you understand how to create something that doesn’t even exist in this world… something without a blueprint… something born purely from your imagination…” She stopped. “Then nothing will be able to stop you.”

​Dayat didn’t answer. He simply stared at Dola’s back, his mind racing with the implications.

​Silence reclaimed the room. Outside, the wind whispered through the Wailing Forest. There was still no sign of dawn, only the shifting mist crawling between the blackened trees.

​Dayat wanted to say something, but he didn’t know where to start. Dola remained still, her shoulders rising and falling with her rhythmic breath.

​Then—the door swung open.

​No knock. No warning. Just wide open.

​Lunethra walked in.

​Dola turned immediately, her serious expression vanishing in an instant, replaced by a sharp squint and a pouting lip.

​”You—”

​”Dalgor is awake,” Lunethra interrupted, her voice monotone.

​Dola stood up, hands on her hips. “Can you not knock for once?”

​Lunethra stared at Dola, offering no response.

​”This is a bedroom for a husband and wife,” Dola continued. “You know that, right?”

​”I know.”

​”Then why didn’t you knock?”

​”Because this is urgent.”

​Dola huffed, her eyes still fixed sharply on Lunethra. “Urgent or not, if the door is closed, you knock.”

​Lunethra didn’t argue. She looked at Dola for a moment before turning her attention to Dayat. “Dalgor is conscious.”

​Dayat stood up. “Alright, let’s go.”

​He walked toward the door. Dola followed, still pouting. Lunethra had already turned and was leading the way. Dayat caught Dola’s eye. “Save the anger for later.”

​”I have every right to be angry.”

​”I know. But later.”

​Dola didn’t reply, but she quickened her pace.

​The Medical Ward felt warmer than usual. Dalgor was sitting up in bed, his back against the wall. His face was still pale and his eyes were weary, but he was conscious. His gaze tracked everyone who entered.

​Dayat entered first, his steps deliberate and calm. Dola followed, still looking annoyed. Lunethra stood by the bed, slightly behind, giving them space.

​Dalgor looked at Dayat. “You’re… Dayat?”

​”Yes.” Dayat sat in the chair beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

​”Weak.” Dalgor let out a long breath. “I thought I’d die in Alaric’s dungeon.”

​”Almost.” Dayat looked at him. “But we got you out.”

​Dalgor turned his gaze toward Dola. She stood beside Dayat, her hand resting on her husband’s shoulder. Her face was neutral, but her eyes—they were alive. They weren’t the hollow voids they once were.

​”Dola?” Dalgor blinked. “You…”

​”What?” Dola asked.

​”Nothing. It’s nothing.” Dalgor shook his head slowly. “You just look… different.”

​Dola didn’t respond. She stared at Dalgor for a few moments before looking away at the wall.

​From the doorway, a small voice chirped. “Mister Baldy?”

​Everyone turned. Riri stood at the threshold, her short black hair tied with a white ribbon. Her large eyes studied Dalgor with intense curiosity. Loy stood behind her, gently pulling at her hand. “Riri, don’t.”

​”But he’s bald,” Riri whispered.

​Dalgor actually laughed. His voice was raspy but genuine. “Yes. I am bald.”

​Riri walked into the room, her small steps bringing her right to the bedside. “Why are you bald?”

​”Because I’m old. My hair fell out.”

​Riri nodded seriously. “Oh.”

​Loy followed her in, bowing slightly toward Dalgor. “Forgive Riri, sir. She is being rude.”

​”It’s fine.” Dalgor reached out a hand and patted Riri’s head gently.

​Riri smiled. “You’re a nice man.”

​Loy let out a sigh of relief. He stood beside Riri, looking at Dalgor. “Are you… Kancil’s friend?” Dalgor asked.

​”Yes,” Loy answered. “We were on the streets of Bakasa together.”

​”Where is Kancil now?”

​”Training,” Riri said quickly. “He’s training outside.”

​Dalgor nodded. “That boy… he must have changed.”

​”He has,” Dayat said. “He’s much stronger now.”

​At the edge of the Wailing Forest, the morning began to brighten.

​Captain Feldris stood before his troops. His face was tense, dissatisfied, but he was a professional soldier. He knew when to retreat.

​”We return to the capital,” he ordered.

​The soldiers moved without protest. Some were still pale, haunted by the memory of the oppressive aura within the forest. Some had hands that still trembled.

​Inquisitor Morvain stood beside Feldris, his eyes fixed on the dark woods. “We will return,” Morvain whispered.

​Feldris glanced at him. “Someday. But not today. If the King commands, we march. Until then, we wait.”

​Feldris took a scrap of paper from his pocket and scribbled a brief report: Forces retreated. Unable to penetrate forest. Maiden’s envoy remains within. He folded the paper and slipped it into a small metal tube. He whistled.

​A black eagle descended from the sky. It was a massive bird with sharp yellow eyes. Feldris tied the tube to its leg.

​”To the Emperor. Directly.”

​The eagle took flight, leaving behind the retreating army.

​Hall of Gear.

​Steam lamps flickered rhythmically on the ceiling. The faint sound of grinding gears echoed behind the walls.

​King Volco sat on his throne, his fingers tapping the armrest. His eyes were cold. The black eagle flew in through a high window and perched on the table beside him. Volco took the message and read it.

​There was no expression. No change in his features. Only a chilling stillness. He folded the letter and tucked it into his robe.

​”Summon him.”

​A guard nodded and departed. Silence returned.

​Moments later, the heavy doors opened. A man entered. His steps were silent, his posture straight and tall. His black hair was slightly long, veiling part of his forehead.

​His face was difficult to discern in the flickering steam light, shifting between shadow and clarity. He wore a simple, long black cloak with no ornaments or jewels. There was no mark of nobility on him. Yet, there was something in the way he stood that commanded silence.

​At his waist hung a sword. Its scabbard was a plain black, but the hilt—the hilt was forged from an ancient metal with archaic engravings. Symbols from an era before kingdoms were born.

​Emperor Volco raised his hand. The guards exited, leaving the two of them alone.

​”Stand,” the Emperor said. The man was already standing.

​”This is no longer a matter of politics,” Volco said, his voice low but firm. “This is about preserving Aethera.”

​The man remained silent. He didn’t move.

​”Kill the Maiden’s envoy. Eradicate the anomaly within the Wailing Forest.”

​The man nodded. A single, sharp, decisive nod.

​He turned, his black cloak fluttering behind him. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor. Once. Twice. Thrice.

​He stepped out into the howling wind outside. The sky was grey, heavy clouds hanging low. The man stood on the palace steps, his eyes fixed toward the east. Toward the Wailing Forest.

​His hand drifted to his waist, touching the hilt of his sword. His fingers gripped it slowly. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

​His task was clear.

​The Hero of Brassvale had departed.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep