{Chapter: 171: Plague Outbreak}
"Drink! Drink! Keep drinking!"
"You lost again! Admit it!"
"Let's go eat barbecue!"
"Haha—don't forget, you're paying this time!"
Laughter and shouting echoed across the streets like waves crashing over a quiet shore. After each hard-fought battle, it wasn't just Emerson and his two closest comrades who made their way to the tavern. Many others followed suit. The impulse to celebrate—whether out of sheer relief for surviving another day or in triumph over a hard-won victory—was simply too strong to resist.
This tradition of post-battle revelry had become something of a ritual among the soldiers stationed along the defense line. It was an unofficial custom, but one observed so consistently that it might as well have been law. Every victory—no matter how small—was a reason to drink, eat, and live just a little louder.
Though the leadership had once frowned upon such behavior, they eventually came to accept it. After all, morale was a fragile thing. Soldiers needed some form of release, a way to vent the pressure and horror of combat. In time, even the highest-ranking officers turned a blind eye to these celebrations, quietly agreeing that a drunken soldier was preferable to a broken one.
Yet, while the taverns filled with laughter and the streets buzzed with noise, not everyone was in a festive mood.
Inside the administration hall of the central fortress, a mage in charge of post-battle inspections stood frozen, his brow deeply furrowed. He gripped a thick sheaf of parchment in one hand, the reports trembling slightly as if shaken by the weight of the news they bore.
"Hundreds..." he muttered grimly.
He had ordered routine inspections for all returning personnel—tens of thousands of soldiers in total. What he didn't expect to find was that hundreds of them, including a noble demigod, had been infected by an unidentified virus.
For the average civilian, this might have been expected. Abyssal monsters carried filth, disease, and death wherever they went, polluting the lands they touched. In earlier years, waves of abyssal creatures unleashed widespread plagues upon towns and cities, reducing entire populations to graveyards.
But these were not civilians.
These were hardened warriors—men and women trained for battle, reinforced with powerful physiques, and fortified with a constant flow of protective mana. Under normal circumstances, a common plague should never have been able to breach their defenses.
The mage's heart beat faster, a feeling of deep unease spreading through his chest.
"This… shouldn't be possible."
He didn't hesitate. Without delay, he compiled the data and sent it up the chain of command—straight to the highest authority on the defense line: Commander Henry Moore.
Unknown to him, however, the situation was far worse than he imagined.
What he believed to be a small-scale, contained infection was only the tip of the spear. The plague had already mutated, concealing itself deep within the very magic and life force of its hosts. It had bypassed all detection rituals with terrifying ease. Beneath the surface, 477 distinct strains of plague—each more insidious than the last—had infiltrated the population.
Even now, they were spreading like wildfire, carried on the hands, breath, and blood of soldiers laughing together in the streets. The taverns had become breeding grounds. The dancing and hugging, once acts of joy, were now silent transmissions of death.
---
Far away, in a remote corner of a ruined land, Dex sat in a towering seat carved from dark stone, his expression calm, even pleased.
A subtle smile tugged at the edge of his lips.
After days of patience, of watching and waiting, he had finally succeeded.
The plague had infiltrated the defense line—its tendrils threading invisibly through a population that had no idea what awaited them.
"It's in," he whispered to himself, satisfied. "One plague is enough. But with ten? With hundreds?"
He ran a clawed hand across the cold stone armrest, his eyes lifting toward the horizon as if searching for something far beyond mortal sight.
He longed to witness the true battlefield—the one where Demon Lords clashed with the deities of this world. But no matter how he strained, he could see nothing. The divine barrier that separated that realm from his gaze was impenetrable, woven from the will of the world itself.
"To peer into that struggle… is still beyond me," he murmured, a flicker of amusement lighting his gaze. "Compared to a true Demon Lord—one who walks at the apex of the multiverse—I am still a fledgling."
Yet he felt no shame. No envy. Only anticipation.
He chuckled to himself, quietly, deeply.
'I don't feel discouraged,' he mused. 'Not at all. I simply feel… excited. Curious. What sights will await me when I finally reach that summit?'
---
Several days later.
Alison, a high-born sun elf with skin like polished bronze and golden eyes that shimmered with sunlight, awoke in her private quarters. Even among the elite defenders of the line, her status was exceptional. Her chambers were luxuriously appointed, her meals curated by magical chefs, and her transportation ensured by enchanted beasts. In many ways, she lived more comfortably than Commander Henry Moore himself.
As she rose from her bed and gracefully smoothed the creases in her silk robe, her pointed ears twitched ever so slightly.
Outside her window, chaos murmured like an oncoming storm. She could hear the disorganized footsteps, the distant shouts, the coughing.
Sighing softly, Alison moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside. What she saw below confirmed her fears—dozens of healers rushing from one patient to another, overwhelmed.
Two days ago, it had started quietly—isolated cases of fever and fatigue among the lower-ranked troops. Then the symptoms worsened. People collapsed in the streets. Some coughed blood. Others fell into seizures. And it wasn't just the common folk anymore. Even low-ranking adventurers and magic users were showing signs of infection.
A sickness had taken root. And it was spreading fast.
Alison's brows furrowed, her expression shifting from mild concern to calculating focus.
Something unnatural was happening.
Even though Henry Moore, the acting commander of the frontline defenses, took swift and decisive action—personally issuing a flurry of orders to suppress the outbreak before it could escalate beyond control—his efforts ultimately proved futile. Despite the urgency, despite the widespread mobilization, he could not stem the tide.
In what felt like the blink of an eye, the once orderly and vibrant defense line—teeming with the sounds of laughter, clinking glasses, and the rhythmic marching of troops—had transformed into a landscape of anguish. Cries of pain, weeping families, and the hollow coughing of the infected echoed through the corridors and alleys, drowning out any remnants of celebration.
According to the most recent analysis, the makeup of the mysterious diseases was far more complex than initially imagined. This was not a singular plague nor a dual outbreak—it was an amalgamation, a chaotic fusion of dozens, even hundreds of pathogenic agents. Each element of the sickness seemed incompatible with the next, yet they were fused together into a noxious brew, like someone had dipped their brush into every color on the palette and smeared it onto the canvas of humanity. Not even the most experienced doctors, alchemists, or divine healers could make sense of the symptoms. They could only administer makeshift treatments and pray for miracles.
Inside her modest but elegantly adorned chamber, Alison stood in silent contemplation. A Sun Elf of noble lineage, her long golden hair glimmered faintly in the morning light as she finally walked out of the carved wooden door, its hollows shaped in the patterns of ivy leaves and ancient runes.
Outside, the scene was a cruel mockery of peace. The cobbled streets were littered with people—men, women, and children—collapsed in heaps, trembling and moaning with fever and delirium. Some clung to their loved ones, others reached helplessly toward unseen figures. All of them were beyond her reach.
She frowned, her long ears twitching subtly. A sigh escaped her lips, heavy with frustration and sorrow. Though she was well-versed in magic, diplomacy, and high elven arts, when it came to medicine and the intricate mysteries of disease, her knowledge was elementary at best. In front of this plague, she was as powerless as any novice.
It felt akin to being a first-year medical apprentice facing a rapidly metastasizing cancer. One could only stand still and watch the inevitable unfold.
"Beep… beep… beep…"
*****
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