The white pagoda stood silently in the night, its pure white tower streaked with sinister red lines, like blood vessels spreading across pale skin. Perched on the hillside, it resembled a beckoning red hat, luring the unwary toward the swamp's embrace—both eerie and intriguing at once.
Inside the White Tower's hall, Bilan and Diqiduo sat slumped on the cold stone floor, panting heavily. From the start, Punk had never furnished the hall, and so the exhausted pair had no choice but to sit amid the suffocating scent of blood, their bodies trembling from exertion.
"Hah… Hah… Finally… We're finally safe? Damn it!"
Dickido gasped for breath, his body completely drained. As a mere ordinary person, the desperate escape had pushed him far beyond his limits. Now, he lay sprawled on the floor, unable to move, the iron tang of blood making his stomach churn.
Bilan, though a professional-level fighter, knelt beside him in silence, tending to the wounded child. She had no words to offer.
A heavy silence filled the White Tower.
"Damn it… Why? Why didn't they help us?"
Dickido's voice trembled with barely restrained fury.
"They saw us being chased! They saw the child bleeding! Why didn't anyone come? Why didn't they do anything?"
During their escape, he had glimpsed the townspeople peering through their windows—people who once shared drinks and stories with him. He had called out to them, pleaded for help, yet not a single one had stepped forward. Not even a single voice had been raised in protest. Those same familiar faces, once so full of warmth, had simply watched in terrified silence, as if witnessing a nightmare unfolding on stage.
"Damn cowards! If just a dozen of them had stepped in, we could've fought those lunatics off! Do they have no sympathy at all?"
Dickido's final words were a choked-out roar, his teeth clenched so tightly they ached. Tears welled in his eyes. He had always believed in the goodness of the people in Niailan Town, but tonight, he had seen their true nature—fearful, indifferent, and spineless.
"People are contradictory creatures,"Bilan murmured as she carefully channeled magic to ease the child's pain.
"On most days, they show their kindness, but when fear grips them, they reveal their cowardice. It's not that they wanted to betray us… it's just how they are."
"…."
Dickido fell silent.
He had never once doubted the sincerity of the people around him. He had never questioned that kindness could be fleeting, that goodwill could wither in the face of terror.
But now, he understood.
The mad cultists terrified him.
But the cowardice of the townspeople?
That crushed him.
"…But we can't give up hope because of it."Bilan's voice was steady, unwavering.
"No matter how others treat us, we must hold fast to the kindness in our own hearts. Kindness… is not a transaction. It's something we give freely, expecting nothing in return."
Her soft fingers brushed through his disheveled hair, offering quiet comfort. Despite her own sorrow, she still took the time to soothe him.
Dickido blinked back his tears, staring at Bilan as though she were the only light left in this cruel, indifferent world.
"Come on,"Bilan urged, pulling him to his feet. "We need to treat this child… and we need to get out of here."
Determination glowed in her eyes. She helped Dickido up, then moved swiftly to Punk's experiment table, carefully sifting through the tools and potions.
Though the table was laced with magic traps, Bilan had spent enough time in the White Tower to memorize their locations. Right now, she didn't care about the consequences of rummaging through Punk's things.
The child's life came first.
Dickido stared at her back, suddenly realizing just how strange and terrifying the White Tower truly was. The blood-stained workbench, the eerie silence—it reeked of an evil mage's lair.
Was this the "not so bad" placeBilan had spoken of?
His throat tightened.
She had been enduring this all along?
He clenched his fists. He couldn't let himself wallow in despair.
Not now.
"I… I'll help," he said, pushing himself upright.
Outside, the White Tower loomed on the hill, standing firm against the howling wind. In this bleak night, it had become a fragile sanctuary for two weary souls.
The same could not be said for the people of Niailan Town.
Meanwhile…
The White Tower's defensive wards bore the unmistakable touch of Punk's craftsmanship—brutal, efficient, and merciless. Designed for function rather than comfort, the wards permitted passage to those who carried others inside, a convenience meant for transporting slaves. Punk had never cared about the tower's contents; his true valuables were always with him.
Thus, the White Tower's defenses were skewed entirely toward attack.
Empowered by a handful of enchanted gems, the spell formations unleashed violent bursts of energy upon any who dared trespass. The unsuspecting missionaries who stumbled too close were instantly reduced to charred remains, their bodies disintegrating in magical explosions.
But there was a limit.
Without Punk replenishing its power, the defensive array could not sustain itself indefinitely. And without supplies, the White Tower was little more than a temporary refuge.
Dickido and Bilan would not be able to stay for long.
Perhaps sensing this, five or six missionaries clad in gray-red robes stood at the edge of the ward's range, their cloudy eyes fixed upon the tower. They did not speak, nor did they move, standing as still as wax statues.
Meanwhile, in the town of Niailan, harmony and peace had completely unraveled.
The plague had spread like a nightmare given form. Nearly a third of the townspeople found themselves stricken with a mysterious affliction—bones that turned brittle, flesh that bruised at the slightest touch. A simple stumble could lead to a fractured limb, a brush against a doorframe could break a rib.
Panic set in.
The missionaries of Tishachar seized the moment.
No longer content with passive preaching, they moved in coordinated groups, going door to door to spread their doctrine. They spoke of salvation. They carried with them small vials of shimmering liquid—the so-called "divine water" that could cure the curse of brittle bones.
But if one refused to drink?
Then the missionaries would pry their mouths open and force it down their throats.
The divine water did cure the disease.
Yet within half an hour of ingestion, the drinkers underwent a chilling transformation. Their eyes became hollow, their expressions lifeless. The momentary relief gave way to fanatical devotion—another soul stolen by the "Goddess Tishachar."
By the time the town realized what was happening, it was too late.
Fear-stricken, the remaining sane townsfolk barricaded themselves in their homes, trembling in silence. They knew what would happen if they resisted. They knew what would happen if they ran.
And so, they did nothing.
Meanwhile, the missionaries bound for Dolez City continued their journey. Though the contagion had already devoured the villages surrounding the capital, it had yet to reach the heart of the city.
But soon…
It would.