Chapter 32
Clip-clop! Clip-clop!
A group of riders raced through the Forest of Screams, the sound of horse hooves echoing in the fog.
Thick mist blurred their vision, yet their speed barely faltered.
Through the pale fog stretched a faint trail of blue light—
traces of mana left behind by Silphia, guiding the party forward.
From inside the carriage, Silphia shouted urgently,
“Everyone’s in bad shape!”
Walter had lost a lot of blood, and several others were poisoned by magi.
The longer they delayed, the worse their condition grew.
A member of the Red Hound Mercenaries at the front called out,
“This is as fast as we can go!”
They’d been riding nonstop for an entire day.
Both men and horses were exhausted.
“Captain! Hold on just a little longer! We’re almost there!”
About an hour later, the fog began to lift, and the walls of Lunafall finally appeared before them.
Sunlight—something they hadn’t seen once while trapped in the forest—poured warmly from above.
“Kyle!”
At Dermot’s shout, Kyle urged his horse closer.
Without taking his eyes off the road ahead, Dermot barked an order.
“Go on ahead and tell the guards what’s happening! We’ll head straight to the church!”
There was no time to waste on city inspections; they needed a priest and a doctor immediately.
If anyone could pass through without delay, it was Kyle, the vice-captain of the Red Hounds.
Dermot pulled an identification badge from his inventory and tossed it to Kyle.
“If you have to, use my guarantor’s name!”
Kyle caught the badge and nodded, snapping the reins hard.
The weary horse snorted and surged ahead, galloping away from the group.
Dermot raised his eyes slightly from his horse’s head and glanced toward the carriage—
Inside, people were groaning in pain.
Among them was someone tied to an important sub-quest.
Beneath a statue of the goddess Lumiela, an old man was praying in reverence.
His snow-white hair carried the weight of years,
but his eyes still shone with undimmed strength.
“Bishop Orven!”
The bishop of Lunafall, Orven, lifted an eyebrow and slowly turned.
The doors burst open with a bang, and his breathless deacon rushed inside.
“What is it, Latos?”
“You’d better come outside, quickly!”
Latos, usually calm and composed, looked visibly shaken.
Something serious had happened.
Orven immediately rose from his seat and stepped outside.
There, covered in blood, stood a band of mercenaries and a carriage.
“What is this commotion?”
A blond man stepped forward from among the mercenaries.
“We need a priest’s help,” he said, glancing at the carriage.
“Some of our people have been poisoned by magi. If we don’t act fast, they’ll be consumed.”
“Magi…?” Orven’s face hardened.
He moved to the back of the carriage—
inside, people lay drenched in cold sweat, groaning in pain.
A foul stench, like rotting fish, filled the air.
Frowning, Orven climbed into the carriage and examined one man’s eyes.
“Red pupils… yes, it’s magi poisoning. What on earth happened out there?”
Occasionally, mercenaries exposed to spirit stones came in with mild corruption.
Orven was the only one in Lunafall capable of detoxifying magi.
But seeing so many afflicted at once was rare.
“We must move them into the church. Latos, guide them. I’ll prepare the antidote.”
“Understood!”
Whatever the cause, treatment came first.
Orven hurried inside to prepare, and the mercenaries began carrying the poisoned victims under Latos’s direction.
Meanwhile, Dermot approached Kyle.
“Take Walter to the doctor. Once he gets the priest’s blessing, his recovery will be much faster.”
Kyle nodded and led the carriage away.
While everyone else entered the church, Dermot lingered outside.
Silphia looked back at him.
“What are you doing? Aren’t you coming?”
“I have to check on something.”
“Where are you—”
Before she could finish, Dermot mounted his horse and rode off toward the inn.
Leaving his horse in the stable, Dermot strode inside to find the innkeeper.
“Y-your body—there’s blood!”
Seeing him drenched in red, the clerk yelped in alarm.
“Don’t make a fuss. It’s not mine,” Dermot replied casually, waving a hand.
The clerk relaxed slightly.
“That man you asked about—the one with all the scars—he came by earlier.”
“Where is he now?”
“Left a while ago.”
“I see. Then I have a favor to ask.”
Dermot pulled out a gold coin and spun it between his fingers.
The gleam of metal reflected in the clerk’s widening eyes.
“Anything—so long as it’s not illegal.”
“Just spread a rumor.”
“What kind of rumor…?”
Dermot’s voice dropped.
“Tell people the church is treating victims of magi poisoning—people captured by demon worshippers.
Make sure it reaches the man with the scars.”
The clerk’s eyes went wide. He opened his mouth to question it,
but Dermot pressed the gold coin into his hand and cut him off.
“Don’t ask why.”
“Understood.”
The clerk tucked the coin away with a nod.
Dermot turned to leave.
“Leaving already?”
“Yeah. Just do as I asked.”
Dermot exited the inn and headed back toward the church.
The scarred man would surely come running once he heard the rumor.
That evening,
the lounge reserved for pilgrims was packed.
Flickering candlelight filled the space while Bishop Orven’s prayers resonated softly.
“It’s taking a while,” Silphia murmured, stretching.
Dermot stared silently ahead.
The treatment was nearly complete.
The poisoned victims’ faces had relaxed, their pain fading into peace.
Then—BANG!
The church doors flew open, and three men rushed inside.
Everyone turned to stare, except Orven and Latos, still deep in prayer.
They’re here, Dermot thought.
Among them, a man with a long scar strode straight toward Dermot’s group.
He looked over the recovering victims one by one and muttered,
“Marken…”
The name made Dermot’s eyes narrow—
Marken had been the man who warned him at Mauren’s manor.
“Who’s in charge here?” the scarred man demanded.
The mercenaries exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing.
Their captain, Walter, hadn’t returned yet.
They all glanced toward Dermot.
“You, then?”
The scarred man—his aura sharp as a drawn blade—fixed his eyes on Dermot.
“Name’s Lujack.”
“Dermot.”
Their introductions were curt.
“Can you explain what happened? One of our men is among the victims.”
Lujack gestured toward Marken.
Dermot shrugged lightly.
“Sure. Nothing complicated.”
Calmly, Dermot recounted everything—from the Forest of Screams to Mauren’s mansion.
When he finished, Lujack spoke quietly.
“May I see Mauren’s journal?”
“Of course.”
Dermot pulled the journal from his inventory and handed it over.
Lujack’s brow twitched slightly as he took it and began reading,
his two companions peering over his shoulder.
“Impossible…” one muttered.
“This is worse than we thought,” another said grimly.
Lujack said nothing, only turned the pages in silence, his face darkening.
Then, a weak voice called out,
“…Sir Lujack…”
He looked up—Marken was awake, sitting up with effort after his treatment.
“Marken! Are you all right?”
Lujack’s men hurried to him.
The Red Hounds also moved closer to their recovering comrade.
Marken caught his breath and said quietly,
“If not for them, I’d have turned into a demon.”
Lujack nodded solemnly.
“I see… I’ve heard the situation.”
He rose to his feet and faced Dermot’s group.
“It seems I haven’t thanked you properly. You saved one of ours. You have my deepest gratitude.”
He bowed deeply.
His sincerity was unmistakable.
Dermot replied coolly,
“You should thank the priest more than us.”
Bishop Orven, having overexerted himself, was slumped to the floor, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Hah… thank the Goddess, not me…” he murmured.
Lujack smiled faintly.
“Then we’ll make a generous donation.”
At that moment, Marken spoke again.
“Sir Lujack, there’s something urgent I must tell you.”
Lujack leaned down as Marken whispered.
His expression shifted—his gaze sharpening as he exchanged hushed words with his comrades.
Finally, he turned back to Dermot.
“Dermot, was it? May we speak privately?”
“Sure.”
“What? We’re coming too,” Silphia interjected.
Dermot patted her shoulder gently.
“No. Stay with Tom and wait.”
“…”
She pressed her lips together, clearly displeased, but said nothing.
Dermot followed Lujack and his men to the back of the church.
There, the three surrounded him and drew their swords, the blades glinting at his throat.
“Marken says you know who we really are. And about Count Aslan. Explain.”
Dermot gave a dry laugh.
“Pretty harsh treatment for the guy who saved your lives.”
“I don’t want to do this,” Lujack said evenly.
“But if you mean us no harm, you’ll explain everything. Then we’ll apologize.”
I knew this would happen, but it still feels unpleasant, Dermot thought.
After the Mauren quest, a meeting with Lujack’s group was inevitable.
That’s why he hadn’t brought Silphia and Tom.
If she’d come, a fight would have broken out—
just like in the game’s alternate routes.
Dermot spoke slowly.
“First of all, I’m not your enemy—knights of House Aslan.”
Lujack said nothing.
Dermot met his wary eyes head-on.
“I’ve been tracking the Cult of Ruin for personal reasons. That’s how I discovered that the current head of House Aslan is one of them.”
House Aslan—one of the three pillars supporting the East.
Its current lord, Kailos Aslan, had sought demonic power, overthrowing his elder brother and rightful heirs for greed and control.
“And I also learned that Roderick Aslan—the heir everyone thought dead—is still alive.”
Roderick Aslan, the late lord’s youngest son and Kailos’s nephew,
the true heir to the family.
The knights’ eyes widened.
The blades at Dermot’s neck trembled slightly.
Even Kailos himself didn’t know Roderick was alive—not yet.
After a tense silence, Lujack spoke,
“How could you possibly—”
Before he could finish, a wave of heat flared behind Dermot.
Red light washed over the walls.
He turned his head.
Silphia stood there, eyes blazing.
“What do you think you’re doing to Dermot?”
Three drawn swords at his throat—
to anyone, it looked like an ambush.
