WDGD 82

Chapter 82

“Did you have a nightmare?”

Calrosa frowned, his wrinkled eyes narrowing as he asked. Fernand took a moment to assess his surroundings before noticing the bandages wrapped tightly around his shoulder and arm.

Only then did the pain surge through his body—as though he had been hacked apart.

Gritting his teeth, Fernand exhaled slowly, steadying his breath. Gradually, his memories sharpened.

He had been fighting enemies. Then, without realizing it, he had reached the edge of a cliff—and stepped into empty air.

…No, more accurately, something like smoke had seized his ankle and dragged him down.

As Fernand slowly traced the sensation in his mind, Calrosa spoke again.

“If you move now, the pain will be excruciating. Are you sure you’re all right?”

His arm had been healed by Calrosa’s sacred power, leaving no visible scars.

But because the injury had been severe, the nerves hadn’t fully regenerated. The pain of crushed flesh still lingered.

Moreover, he should have remained unconscious for three or four days under the anesthetic, yet he had woken in less than two.

The agony should have been unbearable—yet aside from the crease in his brow, he didn’t utter a single groan.

Eventually, Fernand fixed Calrosa with a clearer gaze. Then he looked down at his arm again.

The neatly wrapped bandages. The pain as though his arm had been torn off.

And the old man before him.

For a moment, Fernand’s eyes flickered faintly. Something about this situation felt strange.

Had it really been mere coincidence that brought him here? That smoke-like force that had dragged him off the cliff—it couldn’t have been an illusion.

Fernand’s brow furrowed slightly. Almost reflexively, he tore at the bandages, unraveling them in one swift motion.

“What in the—what are you doing?”

As Calrosa muttered in disbelief, Fernand’s expression stiffened as he stared at his bare arm.

The pain was there—but there wasn’t a single wound.

Seeing his frozen face, Calrosa spoke first, as though cutting him off.

“I used sacred power. Fortunately, the injury wasn’t severe, so it was easy to heal.”

Sacred power. That meant this old man was a priest.

Fernand shot up from the bed, scanning the room. His gaze landed on the small window in the wooden wall.

Outside, a thick fog blanketed the streets. Rundown wooden houses and tattered tents dotted the view. A slum.

At that moment, Mateus’ words echoed in his mind.

‘They are most likely hiding in places no one would ever expect. The poorest, smallest, most inconspicuous places.’

Somewhere no one would dare imagine a divine proxy would reside.

Turning back, Fernand met Calrosa’s piercing stare.

He could sense it—none of this was a coincidence.

A priest with extraordinary healing powers, living in such a small, impoverished village.

Fernand had fought alongside renowned healing priests during the long years of war.

But even the most skilled healers he had known couldn’t erase the traces of such a grievous injury so completely.

Which meant the priest before him now was—

“Are you… the Proxy of the Gods?”

The abrupt question made Calrosa’s eyes widen briefly before his expression shifted subtly.

He studied Fernand for a long moment, then finally exhaled through his nose.

Proxy of the Gods. It had been over a century since he’d last heard that title.

When Calrosa didn’t answer, Fernand stepped closer.

“I read records of a priest with strange powers appearing in Carnocia decades ago.”

“……”

“That priest… must have been you.”

Though his words were speculative, his expression was certain.

Calrosa seemed to weigh his intentions before replying in a calm voice.

“Perhaps. I am a priest far beyond the ordinary.”

“Then—”

As Fernand tried to speak further, Calrosa abruptly raised a hand to stop him.

“But to call me the Proxy of the Gods based on that alone—what nonsense is this?”

He cut off any misunderstanding before it could take root. Yet Fernand responded with unwavering certainty.

“Anyone who sees this arm would know you’re no ordinary priest.”

“Stubborn, aren’t you? Well, I suppose you’ve seen your share of war…”

Trailing off, Calrosa waved a hand dismissively.

“Regardless, I don’t know anything about that. You should leave now. You seem busy—best be on your way.”

With that, he slowly rose and crossed the room.

Fernand immediately blocked his path.

“Please. Help me.”

Calrosa stopped short, lifting his head. Fernand stood firmly in front of the door, his voice tense.

“My wife—she’s suffering from the side effects of sacred power.”

“…And what scheme is this now?”

Calrosa’s eyes narrowed, but Fernand pressed on.

“Her sacred power and life force are intertwined. The more she uses it, the more her life is consumed.”

His gaze wavered dangerously.

“You would know what that means.”

“……”

Calrosa blinked slowly, silent. In truth, there were few illnesses or conditions he wasn’t familiar with.

The side effects Fernand described were well-known to him. Long ago, he had even healed it a few times with his holy water.

“I’ve heard that drinking the High Priest’s holy water can completely renew all bodily functions.”

“Hoh…”

So he’d dug through every ancient record there was.

As Calrosa’s expression hovered between annoyance and intrigue, Fernand spoke through gritted teeth.

“And I’m certain—you are one of those High Priests. A Proxy of the Gods.”

His face made it clear: he would do anything to save his wife.

If Calrosa tried to walk away now, Fernand would drag him by force if he had to.

Seeing the glint in Fernand’s eyes, Calrosa slowly shook his head.

“Well, now…”

This feels like being threatened.

Grumbling under his breath, Calrosa finally sighed and relented.

“Fine. The Proxy of the Gods. I was once called that.”

His tone shifted as he gave a small, indifferent nod.

Seeing Fernand’s desperation, he couldn’t keep dodging the truth.

As though suggesting they sit, he folded his arms and walked back into the room.

“I don’t know where you found those records, but it’s true—long ago, I saved lives with my holy water.”

He slumped into a weathered wooden chair while Fernand stood rigidly, waiting anxiously for him to continue.

“But the value of holy water now is far different from what it once was. Centuries have passed. Even the holy water I possess has weakened considerably.”

“You mean—”

“I can’t guarantee it will restore all functions perfectly.”

The holy water of the High Priests was, in essence, their blood.

When Calrosa had used it to save lives, his blood had been saturated with flawless sacred power.

Now, after centuries of aging—and without direct communion with the gods—his sacred power had grown murky.

“Even if it’s not perfect… can it still save her?”

Fernand’s hands trembled as he clenched them tightly. His voice betrayed his tension.

Calrosa shrugged calmly.

“Yes. It can save her.”

But it might not restore everything fully.

Sacred power was, fundamentally, a force closest to the brain. There was a high risk she could lose all her memories.

Still, for someone on the brink of death, wasn’t that a small price to pay?

Calrosa stroked his thick, white beard.

“But tell me—if I give you my holy water, what will you give me in return?”

What is given must be repaid. At his lofty question, Fernand answered without hesitation.

“Anything.”

Right now, this High Priest was the only one who could save Yulia. Whatever he wanted, Fernand would gladly offer.

Calrosa rose from his chair with another shrug.

“Relax. I’m not going to demand anything that grand.”

He walked past Fernand toward the door.

“And remember this—you’ve been extraordinarily lucky.”

To have found one of the High Priests so easily, after centuries of hiding.

Few would have believed any of them still lived. Yet this man had come searching with unshakable conviction.

Perhaps the gods had taken pity on him.

Yes. Perhaps this, too, is part of the gods’ design.

With that thought, Calrosa stepped outside.