On the forty-eighth day of the Evergreen Season, two days before Punk and the others were set to depart, in the secret chamber of the Koala family…
Zweig sat in the dimly lit chamber, his fat fingers kneading his temples. The once-composed noble now found himself drowning in anxiety. The reason? News had spread that the Tishachar Church was officially wanted—charged with the attempted assassination of the lord.
For Zweig, the self-proclaimed "most loyal collaborator of the Tishachar Church," this revelation struck like a bolt of lightning.
Just two months ago, he had been aiding the church in selling those bizarre perfumes. Merely two days prior, he had delivered a fresh batch of "persecuted" refugees to them, slaves in all but name, meant to serve the so-called believers. Yet now, with the church branded as criminals, Zweig realized that his long-standing alliance was on the verge of dragging him to ruin.
He wasn't alone in his entanglement. Even Hutt had once been involved, though the cunning man had extricated himself in time, securing protection under Punk. Zweig, however, had hesitated, unwilling to let go of the investments he had made in Tishachar's cause. But as he sat in contemplation, teetering between greed and reason, the weight of reality pressed down on him.
By dawn, he had made his decision—he would abandon the sinking ship that was Tishachar.
No matter how much the church had promised—glory, wealth, power—none of it mattered if he wouldn't live to enjoy it. Zweig understood this much.
"Master Zweig, have you truly decided?" asked his most trusted steward, Korah, his voice steady yet cautious. "This means severing all ties with the Tishachar Church."
Zweig exhaled, a glimmer of resentment flickering in his eyes before he resigned himself to reality.
"There's no other choice. If we don't distance ourselves now, we'll become the sacrificial lambs for the nobility."
His expression darkened further as he continued,
"They'll discover our past dealings soon enough. Any half-competent mage with a divination spell could unearth the truth. So, instead of futilely covering it up, we'll expose the church ourselves. Spread word of their deception, claim that we were misled. Let the people know we've severed ties."
Zweig's fingers tightened against the armrests of his chair.
"Mobilize the warehouses and distribute grain to the people. We must demonstrate goodwill and ensure the church can't retaliate against us."
Pausing for a moment, he added with a calculating smirk,
"And as for the refugee slaves we sold? Pin that on Hutt. He's already taken shelter elsewhere—it won't matter to him."
His steward hesitated but ultimately nodded, acknowledging the wisdom in abandoning the pawn to protect the king.
"This way," Zweig muttered, rubbing his temples once more, "punishment is inevitable, but at least the Koala family will survive."
He leaned back, his corpulent body sinking into the chair, utterly drained.
"What are you waiting for?" he snapped. "Go, relay the orders."
But instead of swift obedience, an eerie silence filled the chamber.
"Mr. Zweig, are you certain of your decision?"
The voice was wrong—too low, too alien.
Zweig's eyes snapped open. What he saw sent a jolt of ice through his veins.
Korah, the ever-loyal steward, stood frozen, a twisted grin splitting his face. His skin… it was peeling away, flaking off in ragged chunks. In moments, what remained of the man was nothing more than a grotesque pile of flesh, revealing a slender figure clad in a dark, chitinous carapace.
A silver blade glinted in the figure's hand, the light reflecting off it sharp enough to sting Zweig's eyes.
"You are no longer useful," the creature intoned, its voice void of warmth. "Goddess Tishachar does not require disobedient hounds. Consider your death the Koala family's final tribute to her."
"No—this can't be—guards! Someone, help—!"
His cries were futile.
The chamber was sealed.
No one would come.
———
Outside Dolez City – Refugee Area
The forty-ninth day of the Evergreen Season – The morning before Punk's departure
Dickey was in rare high spirits, even pausing in his morning routine to play with the mischievous children as he fetched water.
His joy stemmed from one thing—Bilan.
To everyone's surprise, Bilan's condition had not deteriorated as expected. Day by day, she grew stronger. What had once seemed like an inevitable decline had reversed, her immune system finally awakening. From a state where she could barely move a finger, she had progressed to standing on her own.
This phenomenon wasn't unique to Bilan. Many professionals afflicted by the plague had begun recovering, their innate energy reserves—be it magic or battle aura— finally counteracting the disease. However, for ordinary people, the Graybone Plague remained a death sentence. Without supernatural strength to endure, they simply withered away.
Dickey mourned for those lost, but his gratitude overpowered his sorrow.
"It's truly a miracle that Bilan is recovering," he thought, feeling an immense sense of relief. Watching her weaken, powerless to help, had been unbearable.
Walking through the refugee camp, he shared what little food he had with orphans—a kindness rarely seen outside of the Good God Churches.
But today, something unusual caught his eye.
A group of three figures, clad in plain brown robes, were also distributing food. Their faces remained obscured beneath deep hoods, and the leader was notably petite.
Who were they?
And why, in a place abandoned by nobility and feared by the city, were they offering charity?