The intruders moved with extreme stealth.
Under the cover of natural scents, almost no soldiers fell into the deep sleep—almost. Perhaps one or two fell asleep each week. These individuals were sent underground for recuperation per the captain's orders, who publicly claimed the stable temperatures below ground aided the recovery of these "patients." This was the day new patients arrived. Transporting the soldiers were their comrades and a doctor from Red Eucalyptus County.
Tasha paid little attention to who was being transported. At first, she didn't even notice that the person in uniform wasn't a soldier. Two soldiers carrying a stretcher descended the stairs from the room, entering the dungeon's basement-like section disguised as a cellar. They placed the new patient on an empty bed. One soldier quickly returned upstairs, while the other lingered, murmuring quietly ("It's fine, I just want to see if there's anything else I can do." "You're so kind, Doctor! Don't stay too long, or the rounds will cause trouble.") and remained behind.
The one who stayed wore the shabby uniform of a low-ranking soldier, a hideous pot-bellied cap buttoned on his head, his gait awkward. He crouched halfway beside the bed. Tasha watched him half-heartedly, then suddenly forgot about him altogether.
"The scent of the heavens!"
It was Victor, his voice shrill as never before, a metallic rasp that was both frightening and reminiscent of an angry cat hissing. The Book of Dungeons leapt from the shelf, its pages rustling loudly. It nearly landed on Tasha's head, shaking violently by her neck as if demanding attention.
"What? Where?" Tasha asked, utterly confused.
"In your dungeon! I'd recognize that vile stench even if it were turned to ash!" Victor roared. "Aha! A Saros priestess wielding the divine artifacts of Patricia and Yuna? Is this some kind of holy relic clearance sale? Abyss, has every Saros priest died out that some fool would dare use a divine artifact in a dungeon?"
Tasha was utterly bewildered by this barrage of unfamiliar names, but thanks to Victor's prompting, she realized she'd overlooked something.
The doctor in the shabby uniform removed his ugly hat and pulled out... a broken bowl? Holding the bowl in his left hand and a candlestick—somehow produced and lit—in his right, he somehow navigated through the trapdoor on the side of the basement and stepped into another part of the dungeon.
Within the dungeon, the mere occurrence of a situation Tasha didn't recognize was enough to signal something was amiss.
He wasn't invisible, yet Tashar had momentarily forgotten his presence, as if he were a forgotten stone by the roadside—utterly abnormal for her current state of memory. The flickering, colorless flame of his candle illuminated him and the nearby ground, yet he remained utterly inconspicuous. An Amazon passed less than two meters ahead of him without turning to glance his way.
"Kill him," Victor declared flatly. "You wouldn't want a Saros devotee roaming the catacombs. They're the sort who'd detonate themselves to purify evil."
"Explain every unfamiliar term that's come up in the last minute," Tasha demanded.
Saros was the god of sun, light, and justice, with the moon goddess Patricia and the starlight goddess Yuna as his attendant deities.
During the era when the kin of the Abyss and the Celestial Realm roamed the earth, Saros was one of the most influential principal deities on the continent of Erian. Temples of the Sun God spread across the entire land, with numerous priests and divine kin walking among mortals. The Sun God's priests and paladins served as the backbone in countless battles against evil.
The principal deities maintained their lofty majesty and mystery, while the lesser deities drew closer to their followers. They would bestow sacred artifacts imbued with their own power upon devout believers, allowing these chosen ones to briefly touch divine might with mortal hands. The Moon Goddess once bestowed a divine artifact called the "Floating Moon Cup." Its wielder could penetrate any barrier, like moonlight streaming through a window. Within the Star God's temple stood a candlestick named "Distant Starlight." The candles on this artifact burned without flame, and all things illuminated by its glow were forgotten.
It now appears the broken bowl in the infiltrator's left hand was once the Cup of the Flowing Moon. That sooty Distant Starlight candlestick explains why neither Tashah nor the patrolling Amazons detected him.
The infiltrator's equipment was remarkably sophisticated, his infiltration remarkably stealthy—yet at the same time, his audacity was jaw-droppingly brazen.
The Distant Starlight Candlestick did possess concealment capabilities, yet the unabashed celestial radiance unleashed when activating the artifact—a trace of celestial power akin to the Abyssal Factor—appeared to the demon like a flare in the pitch-black night sky. Such reckless behavior bordered on provocation, making Victor as agitated as a compulsive-compulsive disorder sufferer confronting a room in disarray.
"He's gone deeper. Kill him!" the demon urged.
"I could do it now," Tasha said.
She meant to wait.
Everything within the dungeon lay within Tasha's grasp. Victor was certain he carried no other artifacts. Once this believer's trail was exposed, he had lost every advantage. Tasha wanted to know why this man had found his way here, what he sought.
The priest, hat removed, revealed golden hair and a face that looked very young, barely in his twenties. The young priest carefully avoided the Amazons in the corridor, entering no rooms as he ventured a short distance deeper into the dungeon before stopping at the first fork. He did not proceed further but quickly retreated back to the soldiers' ward.
The priest wiped sweat from his temple with the back of his hand. The dungeon's temperature was comfortable, and his solemn expression didn't betray excessive tension. Divine artifacts could function even when their deities were absent, but activating them still placed a heavy burden on mortals—one was challenging enough, let alone two. Leaning against the wall, the priest closed his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. As if resolving something, he walked to the bed of the soldier in the worst condition, placed both artifacts on the floor beside him, and began to pray with his hands pressed together.
"Ah, you're waiting for him to dispel the curse?" Victor snapped to attention. "Don't get your hopes up. The celestial realm is just as cut off. Without divine favor, no cleric can cast a single spell—not even the simplest light spell! Unless they wield a god's artifact. But do you think artifacts grow on trees?"
The praying priest drew a dark crimson staff from his chest.
"...The Scepter of the Blazing Sun?" Victor forced the syllables from his throat.
"What is that?" Tasha asked.
"An artifact of Saros, enshrined at the birthplace of the Sun God cult—the only artifact Saros placed in the Material Plane." Victor spoke in a dreamlike voice, struggling to rally himself. "But... but even with an artifact! Do you think anyone can wield it? A lesser god's artifact might fall into shallow believers' hands, but a major deity's relic is nothing but a fire poker in unworthy hands! Heaven is distant now. Even the Pope lacks divine authorization unless born a Chosen One..."
The priest knelt halfway, his hand clenching the spiked ornamentation of the staff. Blood seeped from pierced skin, flowing along the patterns toward the shaft. The crimson staff suddenly ignited, erupting like a blazing sun that flooded the subterranean chamber with daylight.
"Abyss..." Victor groaned in agony. "The Chosen Son."
Tasha was astonished by Victor's ability to reverse curses.
Now the staff glowed brilliantly gold, the blood upon it sizzling softly as if evaporating in flames. Clutching the Sunstaff, the priest seemed to endure some agony, gritting his teeth as he slowly approached the sickbed.
He pressed the sun disc at the staff's tip against the soldier's forehead.
Tasha heard a piercing sound, like a basin of water or oil splashed onto a red-hot branding iron. The soldier, who had lain unconscious for so long, suddenly began to stir. His legs convulsed violently, as if he were strapped to a dentist's chair having a wisdom tooth pulled without anesthesia. The golden light grew so intense even Tasha had to avert her gaze. The blinding radiance, palpable even with eyes closed, made her doubt whether the soldier's face remained intact. Seconds later, the light faded. The priest collapsed to the floor, trembling as he clutched the staff, now returned to its coral hue.
The soldier in the bed was unharmed—in fact, he looked much better.
He had been the most severely afflicted victim of the Wither Curse in the entire ward. Before the priest arrived, his cheeks were sunken, his skin as wrinkled as an overripe orange. The Sunbeam Staff's radiance seemed to squeeze a mass of water into him. His parched skin regained its plumpness, and the rise and fall of his chest became distinct once more. He now resembled an exhausted patient after days of overwork rather than a corpse ready for burial.
"Praise Saroth," the priest murmured.
He slowly rose, reinserting the Sunbeam Staff into his body, and limped toward the exit—only then did Tasha realize the man was likely lame, having only managed to walk properly earlier when his energy permitted. The ghost kept its distance from the cleric. Tashu followed along the newly constructed watchtower on the ground, observing the young doctor disguised as the priest Victor called the "Divine Son" returning here. He stowed away the three sacred artifacts and moved back to an ordinary cottage in Red Eucalyptus County, where people even greeted him along the way.
The cottage was plain but tidy, revealing its owner's financial situation all the more clearly. Simply put, not very good.
"The Saros Cult is finished," Victor declared with certainty. "No, absolutely finished."
The next morning, the treated soldier opened his eyes. The duty nurse (an Amazonian man) quickly noticed the man crying out for water and brought him milk-soaked bread porridge. The man devoured three full bowls. The captain was overjoyed at this news and personally escorted the recovered soldier back to the surface.
Harriet declared that sufficient rest would allow the remaining patients to heal themselves. The once-depressed army celebrated all night, and soldiers who had believed they were merely waiting to die now saw new hope.
So did Tasha.
Whether a sect she'd only heard of today lived or died was none of Tasha's concern. She had no interest in this priest's tales, beliefs, or ambitions. What mattered was that he held the solution to their troubles.
"You can't recruit him!" Victor protested. "Saro's followers are more stubborn than rocks, more clingy than leeches. Get him to save the dungeon's evil lackeys? Impossible!"
"Is that so?" Tasha said....
"...Then I felt warm, like thawing by a fire after freezing," the soldier recounted to his comrades. "Suddenly I was starving! I forced my eyes open—and once they were open, my limbs worked again!"
The soldier sat on a tavern stool as his comrades made him recount his illness and recovery over and over, treating him like a war hero. In their eyes, he truly was a hero who had conquered the "disease." His listeners held their mugs, listening intently with a mix of fear and hope. They yearned to find the secret to recovery in his story, so they could use the same method to come back alive when they fell.
"Don't give him any drink!" Samuel shouted.
The man offering beer to the soldier made a face, and the others burst into laughter. "Spare me, good doctor!" the soldier pleaded. "If I can't even have a sip of liquor, I might as well go back to bed!"
His friends clamored to intercede for him, and one, ignoring the protests, insisted on placing a glass on his table. The soldier made a greedy face, rubbing his hands together as he prepared to drink. Suddenly, the captain walked by, snatched the glass, downed it in one gulp, and turned to flash a "I'm watching you" gesture.
The soldier let out an exaggerated wail, his head smacking the bar. "Aye, Captain!" one saluted with two fingers while others jeered in mockery: "No one escapes Harriet Mama's watchful eye!" Mama rolled her eyes at the rowdy bunch. They cheerfully downed their beer and ordered milk for the poor, recovering man.
Captain Harriet covered the entire bill that night, though some soldiers still dug into their own pockets to buy Samuel drinks and snacks. "This one's on us!" the tipsy men declared. "Compared to you, our army doctor is nothing but a butcher!"
Samuel took only a few polite sips of his drink, which left him among the few sober souls still awake late into the night. He didn't care for such noisy gatherings, finding the soldiers coarse and irritating, yet he was glad to see them safe and sound.
Before he left, the soldier he'd saved was recounting his story for what felt like the hundredth time. The face that had been cursed just yesterday was now merely waxy and pale; he would recover slowly. When the man mentioned the stove in his dream again, Samuel held back, but couldn't resist walking back to interrupt: "It was the sun."
"What?" the soldier looked confused.
"It wasn't the stove that saved the frozen man—it was the sun. Light drives out darkness, the sun wards off the cold, justice triumphs over evil—it's the great... well, some great force that creates miracles."
"Can't make heads or tails of what you're saying," a drunkard nearby bellowed with a laugh. "Cheers, Doc!"
"The doctor's spouting his intellectual nonsense again," another chuckled. "Oh, you should get out more, soak up some sun, eat more, drink more! Your face is as pale as a girl's!"
The drunken lot quickly shifted the conversation to booze and women. Samuel frowned in offense and strode out.
He despised that crowd who took divine grace for granted, and he despised himself for a moment. He'd nearly spoken that name aloud. His scrawl was dreadful—he'd drunk too much and committed a reckless sin. His teacher would surely be disappointed if he were still alive. Samuel couldn't walk too fast; his naturally shorter leg made his gait rather comical, especially when weary. Thankfully, he'd regained the ability to wield the Divine Staff once more.
The nun who adopted him once said he was chosen by the gods, and his ability to wield the Divine Staff was proof of their favor. Until her death, the old woman remained convinced Samuel could restore the glory of Saro across the land. Yet nearly a decade had passed since then, and Samuel remained merely a doctor drifting through life in a small county town.
This wouldn't last forever.
Samuel pressed his hand to his chest. His heart pounded fiercely. Whenever he felt agitated, the divine staff would press against his chest, causing a suffocating tightness. This was one reason he had grown so composed as a child, and it was also proof of his chosen status. The gods tested their chosen ones, which was why he had remained hidden, waiting. Perhaps his entire life up to this point—twenty-five years—had been leading to this moment.
He had truly done it.
The old nurse had said Samuel could see evil. He'd been whipped for questioning it, but she proved right. For the first time, he saw the sickening murk of loathing in the faces of those "afflicted." He realized the so-called disease was no ordinary illness. After two weeks of observation, he managed to administer a drug that caused sudden diarrhea in a soldier responsible for transporting patients, allowing him to take the soldier's place. Samuel prepared as thoroughly as he could, and his daring venture finally revealed the truth.
An evil force had attacked the human soldiers. Even more terrifying was the discovery that just one wall away from the basement housing the soldiers lay a vast subterranean structure. What was this? The legendary dungeon? How could it have reappeared in Erian? Good heavens, this thing lay beneath Red Eucalyptus County! Samuel yearned to unravel the conspiracy immediately, but his strength was insufficient to sustain the three sacred artifacts for long. Before seeking the truth, he could not bear to turn a blind eye to those afflicted by evil.
Could the Staff of the Gods truly banish evil... No, the doubt in that thought was shameful. Another mistake. Samuel resolved to flog himself twenty times upon his return as penance. He should say that this was the first time he was certain he could truly wield the Staff of the Gods. In his previous twenty-five years of life, he had never encountered an opportunity to use it.
The protection of the Star God made the guards overlook Samuel, while the aid of the Moon God allowed him to pass through closed doors. Once more, he entered that chamber filled with soldiers trapped by curses.
He scanned the withered faces, locating the one shrouded in the thickest murky mist. Drawing the Divine Staff, he began the exorcism ritual. Samuel unwrapped the bandages from his wrist, allowing the reverse blade on the staff to slice open the wound. Blood and power drained from his body, transforming into the radiant glow of the Divine Staff. Unworthy to gaze upon divine glory, he fixed his eyes instead on the soldiers' faces. Under the blinding light, the mist twisted into screaming specters before vanishing without trace, like soap scum rinsed from tiles.
This sensation left Samuel weakened, yet he felt an unprecedented power. He felt whole and complete, cleansed of filth, his trapped soul liberated. Nothing could be better than this.
The figure on the bed began breathing evenly. Samuel exhaled in relief and withdrew the Divine Staff. Perhaps due to greater experience and preparation than last time, he hadn't yet felt the exhaustion that made him reluctant to leave.
He glanced around hesitantly. The worst-affected among the remaining victims were no more severely compromised than the soldier he'd saved initially; leaving them for next time posed no risk. The Staff of God consumed more energy than the other two artifacts. Even if his remaining strength barely sufficed for one more use, he wouldn't be able to depart safely afterward.
So Samuel turned and walked back toward that wall.
The Moon Goddess's Holy Grail protected him as he passed through the stone barrier. Beyond it, the atmosphere shifted—the smooth basement gave way to a natural cavern, or perhaps an ancient stone fortress. No torches illuminated this space; instead, blue-tinged lamps glowed along the walls. Samuel had noticed them before and now approached one, tiptoeing to peer closely. He saw no flame within the glass lampshade. It resembled a vessel containing some substance that emitted a blue glow.
Samuel soon abandoned his study of the wall lamps and continued forward.
Not far from the soldiers' wards lay a large room where occasional movement could be glimpsed. Stepping cautiously inside, Samuel gasped at the sight before him.
It too was a ward, filled with many bodies lying in beds. These people were also shrouded in that same malevolent gray mist, thicker than what clung to the soldiers. It nearly engulfed entire beds, a sight that made one's hair stand on end. Samuel stared at these terrifying clouds of fog, struggling to make out human forms within them. Like the soldiers outside, they were merely people—not the monsters he had expected to find in the dungeon.
The door creaking open nearly made Samuel jump. A girl of about ten walked in, heading straight for him. Samuel pressed himself defensively against the wall, his palms sweaty, unsure how to react. She stopped beside him, pulled a stool from under a bed, and sat down.
"How are you today?" she asked softly. "I'm fine, Mom."
Mom?
Samuel glanced toward the bed. He forced himself to look—it really was a woman. He scanned the surrounding hospital beds carefully. Through the hesitant smoke, every figure was female.
Soldiers outside, women inside the dungeon? Who were they? Red Gum County had no missing persons... Wait! Samuel suddenly remembered a nearby town he occasionally visited to collect medicinal herbs. Rumor had it the initial skirmish began in Antler Town, where the situation was far worse than in Red Gum County.
The thick aura of evil emanating from these women made perfect sense if they'd been attacked earlier than the soldiers. But such potent malevolence could kill—how had they survived?
Samuel held the candlestick closer to a particularly dense cloud of smoke. Within this cocoon-like, impenetrable aura of evil, he could faintly discern patches of pale, blank space that seemed to block the malevolence.
What was this gas mixed in with it? Why were only women among the earliest victims to survive? Why had the dungeon imprisoned them here and sent their relatives? What was the purpose?
He could hear nothing else now. Horrifying conjectures flooded his mind, making every cell in his body—every fiber of his being as a follower of Saroth—scream in horror. Samuel's breath came in ragged gasps. A heavy weight pressed down on his chest, a crushing sense of responsibility: here and now, he was the only one who could save these wretched souls and thwart the evil plot.
Samuel silently mouthed a vow: "Wait for me!" He charged out, his fighting spirit soaring.
"See?" Tasha smiled at Victor, watching the priest rush home to meditate. "We didn't necessarily have to recruit him after all."