Black-iron mixed with pale yellow fog spread rapidly through East Borough.
In areas covered by this fog, the coughs of pedestrians quickly followed.
They couldn't distinguish direction in the thick fog, their foreheads burning hot, their lungs feeling corroded, itching and painful.
"Cough, cough, help, hel..."
The coughing stopped abruptly, followed immediately by the sound of bodies collapsing one after another.
Not just on the streets. Residents in surrounding buildings couldn't escape either.
The elderly and children immediately fell, dying soon after.
While young, healthy adults didn't die instantly, they developed severe symptoms.
The Witch's plague curse spread, and people fell like stalks of grain.
This phenomenon was most severe in the area controlled by the Remann Gang, the epicenter of the plague.
Here, the cursed fog was thickest and most powerful.
Wherever it reached, not only the old and young died, but even the healthiest young adults perished.
On the roads at the fog's edge, you could see the final expressions frozen on their faces.
The joy of celebrating the New Year hadn't yet faded when extreme terror surged up.
"Thump, thump, thump!"
"Cough, cough, cough..."
Oliver was running.
He struggled to swing his legs, leaving the spreading iron-black fog behind him.
He'd run like this when he'd resisted the matron at the poorhouse.
That fat woman had cursed and chased after him, calling others to help catch him.
Usually his escape didn't work; he'd still get caught by the matron in the end, and his punishment would be getting locked in a dark room without food for a day or two.
But the next time, Oliver would still stubbornly resist.
"Come on, come on~"
A figure in white robes walked behind him, smiling, urging him on in a sweet voice.
"Run faster, run faster, oh~ You're slowing down, I'm going to catch you~"
The "Nightingale of Despair" Panatiya's exquisite face twisted with pleasure, yet her voice came out so gentle, like a mother following her own child, encouraging him.
Black fog clustered around her, advancing with her. She seemed just like the legendary witch who brought destruction.
Oliver didn't turn back at that enchanting voice at all, because she was the culprit behind all this:
Red-haired Alan died. He'd suddenly fallen while cheering and running toward this big sister, his breath gone.
The other kids died too.
Worried about Alan, they'd run over to try and help him up, only to inhale the black fog emanating around him and die from the plague infection.
The adults on the street died.
Hearing Oliver's screams, they'd rushed over to save the children, only to fall into the fog one after another, collapsing on the ground.
The old woman from the kitchen and her son died.
Their bankrupt lives had just started looking up, they'd seen hope, but were caught in this disaster.
The young son tried to escape with his mother; both died together.
Fierce Mr. Charles died.
In the moment of crisis, he'd acted like a man, roaring, bringing his underlings and weapons to block that person's path, only to be easily killed by her dagger...
Everyone who saw Oliver had shouted the same thing:
"Oliver, run!"
"Go find the Preacher!"
The lambs held pure thoughts, believing that generous, powerful figure would save them!
Oliver's forehead grew hotter and hotter, his vision went black, his body lost feeling.
He just instinctively swung his limbs, running forward.
"Thud!"
A hard impact struck his chin. The force fed back made him lose consciousness completely.
"Oh my, is that all?"
Panatiya's voice carried regret.
She was about to walk over when she suddenly heard a lofty, ethereal voice:
"I came, I saw, I recorded."
With that voice, an illusory door outlined itself in the void. The door opened, and Silas walked through.
He looked around.
Death covered what had once been lively streets.
His lambs lay on the ground in various poses, lifeless.
In his spiritual intuition, the points of light representing his "lambs" were continuously extinguishing until all fell into black silence.
In an instant, all his lambs had died.
"You finally came."
The "Nightingale of Despair" Panatiya smiled at Silas.
"I thought you'd be too afraid to come. So I had no choice but to kill your lambs to force you out..."
Silas didn't listen to her nonsense.
Instead, he bent down, turned Oliver's small body face up, then raised his hand high:
"Pff!"
"Cough, cough!"
The boy opened his eyes and coughed violently.
His lungs, compressed, expelled pale green pus and bright red blood, hanging by his face like ugly, slimy slugs.
"Pre... cough, cough... Preacher... cough, cough... sir!"
Oliver opened his eyes, saw Silas, and immediately called out. He was extremely weak; he couldn't even speak a complete sentence.
"Oliver, don't talk. Keep breathing."
Silas's voice was terrifyingly calm, like ice flowing in water.
"Sir! Cough, cough, sir!"
Oliver's eyes widened urgently.
He didn't listen to Silas's words but anxiously told him, "She killed... cough, cough... everyone. She killed them..."
He cried, coughing intermittently.
"I heard, Oliver. I heard it all."
Silas's other hand gripped the boy's arm, looking directly at him. "Don't be afraid. Keep breathing. I'll save you."
"Don't bother. You can't break my curse."
Panatiya said cheerfully.
Silas ignored her.
The boy's body gradually failed in his hands.
A demigod-level plague curse resisted him. But if he increased his output, the boy's weak body simply couldn't withstand it.
"Sir..."
Oliver could feel the life force draining from his body. He suddenly understood he was going to die.
A trace of fear first surged across his face, but it quickly became resolute. Using his last bit of strength, he struggled to speak. "There's something... I must tell you..."
"Oliver, breathe..."
"Cough, cough... I only joined you to survive. I never believed in your Lord..." He revealed the deepest secret in his heart, his eyes carrying both guilt and relief.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
Silas froze, then gripped the little boy's right arm even tighter. "I know, Oliver. I've always known! It's okay, it's okay..."
But the boy could no longer hear any sound.
His eyes, crystalline as glass marbles, became clouded with shadow.
His lungs stopped moving. Silas stared blankly at this child who was not his lamb, slowly withdrawing his hand.
Oliver's warm blood dripped down his arm, but quickly, it was robbed of warmth by the cold wind and froze into crystals.
He was dead.