The Third Day

Even shrouded beneath the dark clouds of plague, the sun still rose as usual.

Today was already the third day since entering the mystery relic; theoretically, their journey through it was halfway over.

Last night, just like the night before, Lynch had dreamed all night long. Still filling his dreams were those boundless, billion radiances and the thousands of eerie gazes lurking behind the light.

This time, however, Lynch wasn't affected in the least. In the dream, he raised both hands toward those eerie gazes and shot up two straight middle fingers.

“Are you done yet? What the hell are you looking at? Stare one more time and the deal is off.”

After cursing them out, he immediately flopped back over and went back to sleep in the dream, completely unbothered.

Talk about prestige—this was true prestige.

Having an evil god keep watch while you slept, two nights in a row no less.

In short, Lynch could hardly believe that while inside a mystery relic's memory—and staying in a ghoul's home to boot—he could actually sleep so soundly.

This morning, Lynch was once again startled awake by urgent pounding on the door. He didn't question why he thought “once again,” merely wondering if the Third Age had some special custom where people were specifically employed to disrupt others' sleep.

Opening his eyes, dawn was just breaking; it was probably only around five o'clock. Wasting no time wondering what had happened, Lynch rolled out of bed, threw on his coat, grabbed his cane, and left the room, slipping the red moon ring and the self-defense hourglass onto his person.

Stepping into the hall, he saw the petite Miss Diana emerging from her room, faint red sleep creases visible on her face, a hand covering her mouth as she yawned. She came face-to-face with Lynch, mouth still half-open.

And then... time froze.

The young countess's complexion flushed from bright red to deep purple at a speed visible to the naked eye. She even forgot to close her mouth, staring blankly at Lynch for a few moments while a strangled gurgle escaped her throat. After several seconds of frozen air, a dizzy, flustered Miss Diana took two steps backward and slammed her door shut with a loud bang.

Wait, it was just a yawn—did she really need to react like they'd run into each other naked in a bathhouse?

Completely baffled, Lynch blinked and exchanged a look with Judy, who came out right behind her. “If I say I didn't do anything, you'd believe me, right?”

For some reason, Lynch detected a flicker of disdain in Judy's blank stare, followed by an emphatic shake of her head.

“Even a cultist doesn't believe you. You're hopeless, Lynch.”

“Hey, Natalie, didn't you see the whole thing?”

Under Lynch's aggrieved gaze, the female officer let out a soft huff and turned her head away.

“Looks like you all lead quite eventful lives, and this Mr. Levive certainly has guts.”

Dr. Sven had just scurried down from the second floor, clothes slightly disheveled, running right into the four crowded at the bottom of the stairs. She shot Lynch a meaningful look reserved for scum, gave him a wide berth, and snickered as she hurried toward the front door.

The four—or rather, the three—weren't worried about this. Choosing to knock and waiting until someone opened the door in a situation like this was clearly a friendly gesture; otherwise, whoever it was would have kicked the door down long ago. The group had only stepped out as a precaution, so there was no need for close protection.

Even so, the door behind him clicked softly open, giving Lynch a fright.

Not even a full minute had passed, yet the young countess was now impeccably dressed, her hair combed smooth without a single stray strand, complete with foundation and lipstick.

Miss Diana wore an expression of aristocratic reserve, acting as though she had never seen that person from moments ago. With a stern gesture, she signaled that as responsible partners, they ought to follow and provide protection.

Glancing at the folding fan in the young countess's hand, Lynch was terrified. Not daring to utter a single peep, he immediately obeyed the instruction and followed along, prompting Dr. Sven to sigh and shake her head.

“Men.”

The front door swung open. Sure enough, standing outside was an anxious Knight Terry, backed by two soldiers. At the sight of the doctor, his tense face finally managed a strained smile.

“Please come with me, Ms. Sven. Something else has happened.”

“The same matter?”

“Yes, still in the barracks. If you don't have anything urgent, I think it's necessary for you to come have a look.”

“Any wounds?”

“That's the problem—there are no wounds.”

Dr. Sven frowned slightly, looking to Lynch in inquiry. Lynch thought for a moment. “We'll go too. After all, we still don't know who is friend or foe over there.”

Quickly adjusting their mindsets, the four accompanied Dr. Sven, closely following Knight Terry. Since they were already acquainted and faced a language barrier anyway, the armored knight didn't ask questions, simply nodding to accept their presence.

Lynch and his companions soon learned how yesterday's situation had unfolded: all seven suspected infectees had fully manifested symptoms.

Fortunately, thanks to Lynch's earlier reminder, they had already been locked in cells for quarantine, preventing any of the seven from spreading the threat further.

After that, the barracks had remained relatively calm without any new infectees appearing out of thin air, so Terry had begun investigating the origins of the two murder weapons.

Both weapons were very distinctive and could likely only be crafted by professional blacksmiths. There were only three blacksmiths in Noran, and he believed the maker was among them.

In this era, specialized professionals like blacksmiths held far higher status than ordinary citizens. Terry hadn't dared to be discourteous, spending the entire afternoon visiting each of the three.

The results, however, were disappointing. All three adamantly denied forging them and claimed they had never even seen such things before.

Still, the armored knight was capable of connecting the dots. Since the maker yielded no leads, he shifted his focus to the raw materials.

The raw materials for both murder weapons were high-quality refined iron, requiring a considerable quantity—especially that set of false teeth. Such materials couldn't have appeared out of thin air. He had planned to follow that lead starting today, but in the early morning hours, bad news struck: four soldiers had suddenly fallen ill, nearly biting their comrades.

Fortunately, with yesterday's experience, Terry had grown exceptionally cautious. He had divided the soldiers in each barrack into squads to take turns staying awake, ready to wake everyone the moment someone showed abnormalities. Thanks to this preventive measure, they managed to subdue the four afflicted soldiers without anyone getting hurt.

Lynch nodded, quite satisfied with Knight Terry's performance.

From the look of things, Armored Knight Terry didn't seem to be in the know; otherwise, he wouldn't have nearly been bitten by an infectee yesterday, nor would he have worked so hard to take precautions.

Still, with their four lives on the line, they couldn't judge based on mere appearances. Out of prudence, Lynch held his tongue; it was better to inspect the new victims first.

Dawn had barely broken, yet quite a few men outside the fortress had already begun training. They seemed largely unaffected, but a closer look revealed unease and avoidance in the soldiers' eyes. Morale had clearly begun to waver.

Treading the brink of collapse at any moment.

Sighing inwardly, the four followed Terry into the fortress's underground level, where the city cells were located.

As soon as they descended the stairs, roaring echoed from the depths below, sounding particularly eerie in the dark, filthy cellar.

“These are the four.”

Knight Terry stopped before a cell. As if catching the scent of flesh and blood, the four infected inside lunged forward at once, pressing against the cell bars and reaching frantically toward the outsiders, roaring loudly.

At the sight of the madmen within, the hearts of Lynch and his companions sank.

They recognized these people.

They were none other than the four guards who watched the South Gate—every single one was here.