Chapter 81
A slum in the southern part of Carnocia.
The small village nestled beneath the cliffs was perpetually shrouded in thick fog.
Because of this, the village’s shape was never clearly visible from above.
When the fog occasionally lifted, the sight resembled nothing more than a cluster of abandoned ruins.
And so, a rumor spread among those who traveled the mountains—that the place beneath the cliffs was a den of monsters.
They said the creatures lurking there would drag unsuspecting passersby down into their village, never to let them escape.
“A den of monsters? How ridiculous. No one would ever think the High Priest could be in a place like this.”
A middle-aged man chuckled as he recounted the rumors to an elderly figure.
The old man, dressed in shabby commoner’s clothes, clicked his tongue as he tended to a child’s injury.
“If anything, it’s a blessing. Thanks to that childish rumor, even bandits avoid this village.”
Though his tone was gruff, his hands were gentle as they treated the child’s swollen ankle.
A soft white glow emanated from the old man’s wrinkled fingers, wrapping around the deep scratches and swelling.
In an instant, the wound vanished. The child, who had been whimpering in pain just moments ago, blinked away tears and stared in awe.
“Are you a wizard, Grandpa?”
The child’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. Before the old man could answer, the man beside him spoke up.
“No. He’s someone far greater than a wizard.”
“Wow…!”
The child gasped in amazement. The old man shot the man a sidelong glance—as if to say, Must you exaggerate?—before finishing the treatment.
Delighted by his perfectly healed ankle, the child hopped up and down.
“Thank you!”
With a quick bow, the child dashed outside. Only then did the old man rise from his seat.
“I hope you didn’t overexert yourself.”
As the old man straightened his back, the man quickly handed him a cup of water.
“Basic healing like that isn’t exhausting.”
The old man downed the water in one go, as if the concern was unnecessary. The man took the empty cup and sighed.
“Well… you’re not as young as you used to be.”
The old man—Calrosa—was a priest well over 300 years old. Yet his appearance was that of a hale man in his seventies.
Calrosa had first come to this village decades ago, when a plague began spreading.
As a poor slum, the village received no aid from the kingdom, and not a single physician was sent to help.
Then, like a savior, Calrosa appeared. Within a month, the plague vanished without a trace.
Since then, he had remained in the village as its healer, asking for nothing in return.
“The fog is especially thick today. It feels like something’s about to happen.”
The man muttered as he followed Calrosa outside. The streets were veiled in a denser mist than usual.
As Calrosa walked with his hands behind his back, a figure suddenly came stumbling through the fog.
“P-Priest! Over there—!”
A villager, drenched in sweat, pointed frantically toward the cliffs.
“At the bottom of the cliffs—there’s a man, dying!”
The man they brought back had one arm completely crushed.
Given where he was found, he must have fallen from the cliffs. Yet, aside from his arm, his injuries were surprisingly minor—as if he had somehow managed to cushion his fall.
Calrosa sprinkled healing light over the man’s bloodied shoulder and muttered,
“He’s not dead, just unconscious. Stop fussing and everyone, out.”
At his brusque dismissal, the onlookers reluctantly shuffled out of the room.
Once silence settled, Calrosa narrowed his eyes and studied the man’s appearance.
“Clearly not an ordinary man.”
From his clothing to his very bearing, he was unlike any commoner.
Calrosa had no idea how such a man had ended up here, but revealing his abilities to someone like this could spell trouble.
Over the centuries, countless men had tried to coerce him into becoming their personal physician—some even resorting to threats.
“Still… I can’t just leave him like this.”
Clicking his tongue, Calrosa pressed his hand against the man’s bleeding shoulder.
With a surge of sacred power, the torn flesh knitted itself back together.
He had infused the healing with a temporary anesthetic—the man wouldn’t wake for at least three or four days.
Calrosa’s gaze trailed over the man’s body. Beneath his well-built muscles lay numerous scars, some old and faded.
“Young people these days, treating their bodies so recklessly.”
With a sigh, he shook his head and left the room.
It was a day bathed in sunlight.
‘Your Highness.’
Fernand slowly opened his eyes at the sound of the familiar voice.
Standing frozen, he watched as Yulia walked ahead of him before turning back—her lips curving into a smile. The sunlight caught in her serene blue eyes.
His chest ached sharply. Fernand reached out toward her.
Step by step, he tried to close the distance, yet no matter how much he moved, his hand never touched her. Instead, she grew farther away.
Don’t go. The words stuck in his throat.
Then, the sunlight vanished. A pale fog swallowed his vision, and Yulia disappeared.
Fernand’s face twisted in panic as he frantically searched the haze. He tore through the mist like a madman, desperate to find her.
Where are you? Yulia, where did you go—?
Only a ragged groan escaped his throat. Pain lanced through him, as if a blade had been driven into his neck.
Blindly pressing against an invisible wall, his bloodshot eyes darted around as the fog gradually lifted.
And there—standing at the edge of a sheer cliff—was Yulia.
Snow fell around her in a relentless cascade. Below, a violent winter river raged.
‘…Your Highness.’
This time, her voice was not tender but heavy with resignation.
Her dark blue eyes, devoid of light, fixed on him.
‘…Your side was hell to me.’
As if pleading, Just let me go already, Yulia lowered her exhausted face.
‘I’ve suffered enough misfortune as it is.’
Fernand rushed toward her, desperate—but again, it was the same. No matter how hard he tried to move, his feet only sank deeper into the mire.
Damn it, no—Yulia—!
Even as his legs screamed in agony, Fernand fought through the mud with all his strength. Yet Yulia only leaned further over the cliff’s edge.
As she fell, Fernand threw himself after her.
‘…Hah.’
When he opened his eyes again, he stood before a massive door.
The cliffs, the drowning Yulia, the blizzard—all gone.
Like a man possessed, he flung the door open. This time, a harsh summer wind greeted him, and beyond it—a vast blue sea.
Amid his bloodshot vision, Yulia came into view, walking slowly along the shore.
Her gaze, when it met his, was hollow.
‘Are you satisfied now?’
Eyes brimming with resentment and hatred stared straight through him.
Unable to speak, Fernand’s lips trembled as he grasped her hand—
And the world shifted again. Now, he stood in a white, silent room.
There, lying still on a bed, was Yulia.
Her eyes were closed, her face deathly pale. Not a single movement.
The only color was the deep red of her lips—from which a thin trail of blood trickled.
‘The more she uses sacred power, the more her body deteriorates.’
The words he had once heard now echoed violently in his ears.
‘If you had just let her go from the beginning, she never would have needed to use it.’
At the same time, Yulia convulsed—another mouthful of blood spilling from her lips. Her body, once poised, collapsed limply to the floor.
No. No—!
Fernand lunged forward, dropping to his knees as he fumbled to gather her fragile form into his arms.
But his hands clutched at nothing.
Gasping for air, he lifted his head—only to find his arms empty.
No delicate frame. No warmth. No scent. Nothing.
Trembling violently, Fernand reached into the hollow void.
Did I—kill Yulia? Was it me—was it me—?
“Hey—you! Listen!”
A gruff voice shattered the nightmare.
Fernand’s eyes flew open as he jerked upright in bed.
Heaving ragged breaths, he pressed a hand to his mouth, his entire body shaking. A shrill ringing filled his ears.
After a long moment of struggling to steady himself, he finally lifted his head—taking in the small, shabby room around him.
And beside him stood an old man.
