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Reishel, Michael, and Silas rushed into the cabin, leaving behind the howling wind that whipped their faces like a cold knife, cutting breath and freezing limbs. This was no ordinary winter chill; the weather was completely unlike what they were used to in the kingdom, as if winter had come far ahead of schedule. The bare branches of the trees outside danced desperately, their creaking adding to the sound of the wind to create a symphony of gloom.
Inside, the cabin was filled with a faint, mysterious light emanating from old glass lamps hanging from a low ceiling. They swung slowly with every gust of wind sneaking through the cracks. The dim yellow lights scattered over the wooden walls, which were completely covered with ancient wooden shelves groaning under the weight of colorful jars and bottles containing liquids that shimmered with strange hues, as if trapped between life and death. Small glass vials held sparkling powders, others filled with thick oils of dark colors, each carrying a strange secret.
In a corner stood a massive wooden desk, scratched and worn from frequent use, cluttered with old, faded yellow papers—some written in fine script, others filled with mysterious drawings. Dry ink pens, quills, and bundles of dried herbs hanging by thin ropes from the ceiling swayed slowly. The warm scent of cinnamon and ginger mixed with a sharp, pungent sulfurous odor.
Doctor Ashton stood with his back to them, rubbing a shimmering blue powder in a heavy stone mortar. The rough grinding sound filled the cabin steadily. He didn't immediately turn around but continued crushing the powder, as if testing their patience or perhaps absorbed in his work, not wanting to be disturbed. A raven perched on his shoulder, watching the guests with golden eyes shining with eerie intelligence.
Reishel (steadily): "We need your help, Mr. Williamson. The epidemic is spreading throughout the kingdom, and the disease is draining many victims!"
Ashton (without turning): "I stopped treating patients a long time ago. Look elsewhere."
Michael (stepping forward): "All doctors have failed! You're the last hope."
Ashton (laughing softly): "Hope is just a beautiful illusion… a story the desperate tell themselves."
Silas (calmly): "There are manuscripts that say you treated diseases many could not solve!"
Ashton (suddenly stopping): "Those diseases... I couldn't cure them. Everything you heard was a lie." (Finally turning to face them, his eyes carrying an old weariness.) "Go… there's no point staying here."
The raven suddenly cawed loudly, then spoke in clear words: "No, they won't leave. Enough running and hiding in this old cabin!"
A heavy silence fell on the cabin...
A heavy silence fell over the cabin. Reishel and Michael exchanged stunned glances, their eyes widening in disbelief—they had never imagined a bird could speak with such clarity and boldness. It was a shock that eclipsed all the strange events they had encountered.
Silas raised an eyebrow, his eyes fixed on the raven with a questioning gaze, as if trying to make sense of what had just happened. "Does it… talk?!"
Ashton, who seemed accustomed to this, replied coolly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Yes."
Michael (astonished): "How can a bird talk?"
The raven (mockingly): "Never seen a talking raven before?"
Ashton (grabbing a glass jar roughly): "Enough!... I said leave. If you're looking for a doctor, you won't find one here. Try elsewhere."
Reishel (angrily): "But that's not a solution! People are dying in the streets, in their homes! Doesn't that matter to you?"
Michael (stepping forward, his gaze shifting between Ashton and the raven): "If you're not a doctor, then what are you?"
Ashton: "I'm just an ordinary man. All I want is to live quietly, away from any trouble."
The raven (in a piercing tone): "Liar. You're not just an ordinary man. You're only lying to yourself."
Reishel (firmly): "That's true. If you were just an ordinary man, as you claim, then why do you keep all these ancient medical books—books that speak of illnesses no one's ever heard of? Why do you have all these rare herbs and glowing bottles? And why are you grinding that shimmering blue powder now, as if preparing some magical dose? None of this suggests you're a man who's stopped practicing!"
Ashton froze. He let go of what he was holding and turned to Reishel with an expression that was hard to read—somewhere between anger and shock.
Ashton: "Because I…"
Before Ashton could finish, Silas suddenly doubled over—not in a simple bow, but a sudden collapse, as if struck by some invisible force. His hands flew to his chest, fingers clenching the fabric above his heart. His chest began to convulse violently, and a harsh, dry cough burst from his throat—the sound sharp and tearing, growing worse with every spasm, until blood slowly seeped between his fingers, staining his pale skin with crimson streaks.
Everyone froze, the air caught in their lungs, hearts pounding with sudden fear. Reishel was the first to break the stunned silence, rushing toward Silas, his wide eyes full of real terror. He reached out to help, but Ashton—who stood closest—moved quickly. Not violently, but with precise intent. He pushed Reishel back with one hand—not forcefully, but firmly enough to stop him. His gaze never left Silas.
Ashton moved toward Silas, now writhing on the floor and gasping for air. Ashton knelt beside him, showing no panic—only razor-sharp focus. First, he looked into Silas's eyes, now cloudy and dull. He studied the dilated pupils, then pressed a finger to his neck to feel the pulse—faint and erratic. Next, he placed a palm on Silas's forehead, then his neck—his body temperature was dangerously high. Ashton listened to his ragged breaths, each one wheezing softly on exhale.
Then, without a word, Ashton darted toward the towering bookshelves lining the walls. His movements were frantic, bordering on madness, as if searching for a single item among thousands of ancient and modern tomes. Books tumbled from his hands as he flipped through them at a furious pace, their pages rustling loudly in the deathly quiet. He was looking for one specific book—an old leather-bound volume filled with strange illustrations and incomprehensible symbols.
Finally, he found it, yanking it from a pile. He scanned it quickly, then grabbed several bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, along with dark glass bottles filled with various liquids—some shimmering, others thick and murky. He laid everything on a small wooden table and began mixing with astonishing skill. His hands moved with practiced speed and precision. The sharp scent of herbs mingled with the acrid aromas of the liquids, filling the air. He prepared a strange, thick elixir in a small vial, its color shifting with each shake.
Seconds later, Ashton grabbed a fine needle and filled it with the glowing liquid. He returned to Silas, who was still struggling for breath, his complexion ghostly pale. With swift, professional precision, Ashton injected the needle into Silas's arm, pushing the liquid slowly and steadily.
At that moment, Reishel cried out in alarm, shattering the silence. "What are you doing?!"
His voice trembled with fear and shock, his eyes locked on the movement of the needle in disbelief.
Ashton looked at him coldly, his dark eyes unreadable, as if stating a simple scientific truth. "I'm trying to stop the bleeding."
He didn't raise his voice or change his tone, as if the moment didn't warrant such panic.
After a few moments of injecting the medicine, Silas began to convulse briefly, his body shaking violently on the ground. He cried out in sharp pain, a muffled scream barely escaping his tired throat, then collapsed completely unconscious. His limbs went limp, and his eyes stared blankly into space.
Raishel rushed forward again, this time trying to reach Silas, but Michael, standing beside him, grabbed his arm to stop him from moving. Michael's eyes remained fixed on Silas, watching the changes occurring.
"Wait, my lord… look!"
Indeed, the bleeding from Silas's mouth gradually slowed, then stopped completely. His breathing became steady, rising and falling quietly. Some color returned to his pale face, and his features appeared less tense.
Ashton sat on the ground, not lifting his head to look at Raishel or Michael. He stared at his hands, stained with dark red blood, as if they were not his hands but a painful reminder of a distant past. His eyes held a deep look of sorrow and regret, as if every drop of blood told a story he did not want to remember. He whispered to himself, barely audible, as if confessing an unforgivable sin:
"Why did I do this?… I swore never to touch medicine or treat anyone again."
His words carried great weight, revealing an old vow, a broken promise, and a hidden secret.
At that moment, Raishel stepped closer, his voice a mix of urgency and blame:
"You can stop this… why do you refuse?"
His tone reflected his frustration at a man who had the ability but refused to use it.
Suddenly, Ashton exploded with anger, his voice rising and breaking his usual coldness. His eyes blazed with suppressed fury and deep pain:
"Because everyone I helped died!"
His words struck like thunder, full of bitterness from years of failure. He pointed his blood-stained hand at the raven perched on the edge of the table:
"Even him… for many years I couldn't solve the mystery of his strange curse. I'm not a doctor… I'm just a failure wearing a doctor's coat!"
His voice was full of self-contempt, as if he saw himself as a nobody.
Raishel stepped forward again, his voice firmer and more serious, trying to break through the wall of despair Ashton had built around himself:
"But Silas… you just saved him. This is not failure, Mr. Williamson. This is success."
Michael stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Ashton, his eyes filled with a deep question:
"If you swore never to touch medicine, then why did you do it for Silas? What changed?"
His question touched a deep wound, trying to understand the reason for this sudden change.
Ashton looked at Silas lying on the ground, his eyes full of sorrow and confusion, as if searching for an answer in his pale face:
"I don't know… I'm confused… completely confused."
His voice was low, reflecting internal chaos.
At that moment, the raven fluttered its wings and gracefully landed on Ashton's shoulder. Looking into his shining eyes, the raven spoke in a deep voice:
"You're confused because you refuse to see who you really are."
His words were mysterious but carried deep meaning.
Ashton raised his eyebrow, looking directly at the raven, as if challenging its words:
"And what am I, if not an ordinary man trying to survive this hell?"
The raven answered:
"You are not ordinary… and this hell you speak of, you created it, and you are the one who can escape it."
His words were both an accusation and a challenge, as if the raven knew more about Ashton than he knew about himself.
Raishel said:
"The plague is spreading at a terrifying speed. Corpses pile up in the streets, and cities turn into mass graves. If there is any way to salvation, any glimmer of hope for healing, any way to save lives from this inevitable fate, your help will be the lifeline, the only hope we hold to save the remaining victims!"
His words painted a grim picture of the situation and placed a huge responsibility on Ashton's shoulders.
Michael nodded, agreeing, and added seriously:
"That's true… if we don't find a quick solution, the kingdom will collapse, and there will be nothing left to save."
These words were a final warning, confronting Ashton with the catastrophic reality threatening everyone.
Ashton was silent, staring into the void before him, as if his mind was spinning in a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. Then he sighed deeply, a sigh coming from the depths of his soul, as if a heavy burden had been placed on his shoulders, one he did not want to bear.
"Okay… but on my terms."
He said quietly, but with a seriousness that hadn't been there before:
"I won't promise you a cure. I will promise to take the risk with you into this unknown. I will look for any glimmer of hope, but don't expect miracles. All I can offer is a desperate attempt against what seems impossible."
Raishel replied quickly, his voice full of relief and hope:
"We accept any condition. Just… start."
His eyes shone with cautious optimism.
Ashton stood up and picked a clean cloth from the table, wiping his blood-stained hands, as if erasing the traces of the past to begin a new chapter.
Ashton said:
"First, we must understand this plague—its symptoms, how fast it spreads, and how it interacts with bodies. Silas… will be my first patient after many years."
He looked at Silas lying down, then turned to the raven:
"Romiiel, do you remember the old book that talks about 'Hantavirus Fever'?"
The raven fluttered his wings and landed on Ashton's shoulder:
"I remember it well. It spoke of a dangerous disease that spread widely, and many people died because of it."
Ashton began examining Silas more seriously, focusing on every detail, while Raishel and Michael watched with mixed hope and fear, each wondering if this decision would bring salvation or more despair. The raven Romiiel kept his golden eyes on them all, as if seeing intertwined chapters of past, present, and future in a fate still incomplete.
After many long hours that felt like ages, Silas slowly regained consciousness.
He opened his eyes with difficulty, his lashes trembling as he saw Ashton sitting beside him, wiping his forehead with a cold damp cloth to reduce his fever. The cabin was quieter now, and the howling wind outside had softened to a gentle whisper.
"What… happened?" Silas asked weakly and brokenly, barely audible, trying to collect his thoughts.
Ashton answered calmly, without his previous harshness:
"You suffered a severe attack of the illness. I stopped the bleeding, but the danger is not over. Your body is weak."
Raishel quickly sat beside Silas, his eyes full of concern:
"Are you okay? Do you feel better?"
Michael added:
"You scared us a lot."
Silas tried to get up, but Ashton gently placed his hand on Silas's shoulder to stop him:
"Don't tire yourself. The medicine I gave you is strong but needs time to take full effect."
The raven landed on the nearby table's edge, tilting his head, and reassured Silas in a calm voice:
"Don't worry, you will improve."
Ashton looked carefully at Silas and asked seriously:
"Do you remember anything before you collapsed? Any strange symptoms?"
Silas thought for a moment, then said softly:
"I felt very cold, then a burning in my chest like something pressing on my lungs, then… darkness."
Michael interrupted, confirming:
"These are the same symptoms others have described: cold, then fever, then internal bleeding."
Ashton nodded, but his expression showed hidden concern:
"Yes, it's similar, but there is something different in his case. The bleeding was fast and severe."
Reishel asked anxiously, "Does this mean the epidemic is evolving?"
"Maybe," Ashton replied, his eyes fixed on Silas. "Or maybe there are other factors affecting the severity of the disease."
Ashton stood up and walked back toward the bookshelves, beginning to search among the books and old manuscripts with intense focus.
Ashton: "Romiiel, where's that book that talks about Hantavirus Fever? The one you mentioned was a 'dangerous disease'?"
The raven flapped its wings again and flew toward a specific shelf, tapping its beak against a thick, dusty book whose cover was nearly falling apart from age.
Romiiel: "This is it, but it's very old."
Ashton pulled the book out, brushed the dust off with his hand, and opened it to a specific page. He ran his fingers over the words written in an old script:
> "When Hantavirus Fever intensifies, the soul begins to collapse, respiratory functions deteriorate sharply, accompanied by internal bleeding and delirium, ultimately ending in cardiac arrest or complete organ failure."
Michael asked with deep concern, "What does this mean? Is the epidemic we're facing the same as this deadly disease?"
Ashton: "I don't know if it's the same, or something even worse."
His eyes still locked on the book.
"But the book suggests that the disease isn't just a typical infection—there's something deeper, something that defies medicine, distorts reality, and turns everything we know into a mirage…"
Reishel: "Does this have anything to do with the strange decay affecting the victims' tissues, as if something is devouring them from the inside?"
Ashton looked at Reishel, his eyes filled with deep worry.
Ashton: "That's what I fear. If that's the case, then we're facing an epidemic beyond anything we've known—and our understanding of it is extremely limited."
Romiiel added: "This epidemic isn't just a disease; it's an evolution we weren't prepared for. That's what makes it so hard to comprehend."
A heavy silence fell over the cabin, wrapping everyone in a cloak of worry and anticipation. Ashton closed the book, placed his hand on its cover as if trying to absorb the weight of the words inside, and the scale of the catastrophe they were facing. Reishel and Michael looked at each other, realizing that the mission they had come for was far greater than they had imagined—and that they had stepped into a world of the unknown.
Silas, who was beginning to regain some strength, stared at Ashton as if the truth of the disease had opened his eyes to a wider, more dangerous world—one they might never return from.
Reishel (firmly): "So, what's our next step? How do we fight something like this?"
Ashton (raising his head, a new look of determination filling his eyes): "First, we need to isolate blood samples from the infected. Then... we must find a way to understand the disease itself—not just its symptoms. The book talks about the genetic structure of the illness and how it interacts with human cells. Understanding these mechanisms is the key to survival, to confronting this epidemic."
Michael: "But do we have enough time to dive into all these complex genetic mechanisms while the situation outside worsens?"
Ashton (looking at the raven): "Romiiel, do you remember the part that talks about the 'First Imprint'?"
Romiiel: "I remember. It says that every powerful curse or disease leaves an imprint in the place where it originated."
Reishel: "Does that mean we have to go back to the kingdom? To the first place where the disease appeared?"
Ashton (nodding): "Exactly. If this infection feeds on the soul and leaves an imprint, then the place where it began is likely to carry the strongest trace of it. We need to go back to the kingdom—to the city where the epidemic first appeared. There, we might find a key."
Michael: "Caldor City, then—where the first cases began before it all spread."
Ashton (gathering his books and herbs into a bag): "Yes. That means we're heading straight into the heart of danger—where the epidemic is at its fiercest. Are you ready for that?"
Reishel looked at Michael, then at Silas, who was slowly standing up, signs of resolve beginning to show on his face. They had no other choice. The kingdom was dying, and this man with a talking raven was their only hope.
Reishel (with resolve): "We're ready."
Michael: "When do we leave?"
Ashton (heading toward the cabin door and opening it to the cold, dark night): "Now. Every passing minute is a life lost. Prepare yourselves—the journey through the night won't be easy."
They all stepped out into the biting cold. Reishel, Michael, and Silas had brought their horses earlier and mounted quickly. Ashton disappeared behind the cabin and returned moments later leading a massive black horse, its eyes glowing in the dark like twin flames burning in the heart of the night. Romiiel the raven soared into the air, then landed on Ashton's shoulder, ready for the journey...
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