TSADT 17

< Chapter 17: Giant, Land of Opportunity (4) >

Hair so greasy and dry that it was hard to tell when he had last washed it, and a thin, unkempt beard that had grown out carelessly.

If properly groomed, he would have looked like a fresh young man.

But the hollow cheeks and the dark shadows under his eyes made his appearance look far more miserable.

Even after a long time sitting by the river, his hands still trembled slightly, as if the lingering guilt over what he had done to Rotem had not yet faded.

Rotem kept reassuring him gently to ease his guilt, and eventually succeeded in making him open his dry lips and speak.

“……I’m sorry again for following the alchemist without permission and startling you.

My name is Benjamin. I’m seventeen years old, and until recently I worked as a laborer on a wheat farm in the north.”

“Just call me Rotem.”

Looking at Benjamin’s still unstable eyes, Rotem spoke calmly.

Perhaps this helped, as the young man took a deep breath and continued in a slightly steadier voice.

“I was living and working at the wheat farm, so I hadn’t been in contact with my family for quite a long time.

Then, when my short-term contract ended and I tried to return home, I heard something unbelievable.

A plague had spread to my hometown, where my family lived… and travel had been completely restricted.”

“…Don’t tell me—”

“Yes. It was that place north from here, now called the Forsaken Land. That’s my hometown.”

After swallowing hard with a devastated expression, the young man forced out his words.

“When I returned, soldiers and priests of the Elian Church were already controlling the area.

I begged them, saying I didn’t care if I got infected and just wanted to pass, but the priests wouldn’t listen.

Then they quietly said they would let me through if I paid money. So I gave them everything I had saved from six months of work… but…”

[They took the money and ran.]

“They just took the money and pretended not to know.”

After Rotem relayed the Black Spirit’s words, Benjamin nodded with a painful expression.

“After that, I desperately tried to find out what was happening in my hometown.

But in the end, I couldn’t find out exactly what had happened to my family or my home. Only disturbing rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“……That the priests of the Elian Church were stealing relief supplies and donations sent to the Forsaken Land.

And to hide it, they were driving out alchemists. Alchemists sent to develop cures.”

“……”

Rotem was speechless.

He literally could not say anything.

Corruption within the Elian Church was already widely known, but this felt far beyond anything acceptable.

“I tried asking the Church directly, but they only said they were doing their best.

And the alchemists couldn’t even properly examine infected patients…”

“But Benjamin, if the Church is blocking alchemists, there’s nothing I can do either.

I need samples of the plague or at least some information about what kind of disease it is—”

“But you’re from the Sian Merchant Guild, aren’t you? There must be a way!”

“……”

Rotem fell silent.

The young man was desperate, but also naïve and incomplete in his understanding.

He assumed Rotem was part of the Sian Merchant Guild simply because he had heard that an alchemist connected to them had developed a highly effective healing potion.

Rotem felt guilty correcting him, as if it would shatter his hope.

“Benjamin, I’m not actually part of the Sian Merchant Guild. I’m just a freelance alchemist living in Florin.”

As Rotem expected, shock spread across Benjamin’s exhausted face.

“…What?”

“And healing potions for injuries and cures for diseases are completely different fields in terms of ingredients and preparation.

Even other alchemists would say the same.”

“……”

Rotem understood his desperation.

A hometown lost to an unknown plague, family members cut off from contact, and the Church exploiting that desperation.

If pushed further, this young man would have begged anyone—even someone who only knew a little about herbs—not just someone who had created a good healing potion.

Rotem could understand his feelings without needing to look at his expression or hear his sighs.

“Benjamin, where are you staying right now?”

“…Ah, I’m staying on the streets of Calpheon’s slums.”

“Then if I need to contact you, should I come there?”

“Contact… me?”

At the edge of despair, confusion rose in the young man’s face.

Rotem nodded.

“Even though I’m not part of a major guild, I’ll try to find what I can do.

Tell me the location of your home in the Forsaken Land, your family names, and any other details.”

“R-Really? Thank you… thank you so much! Truly, thank you!”

The young man grabbed Rotem’s large hand with his thin, bony fingers.

Even after hearing that he was just a freelance alchemist, such gratitude and hope meant only one thing.

Just as Rotem had guessed, this young man had likely been rejected so many times that even the smallest chance felt like salvation.

[Hah… what a saint.]

Rotem had to ignore the mocking voice that drifted over the young man’s tears.

Meanwhile

“The Church bastards have the area locked down. It’ll be hard to get any information about the plague, especially anything related to infected subjects.”

Tulkas, the dwarven blacksmith of the Sian Merchant Guild, frowned in disgust.

But the Church’s atrocities apparently didn’t ruin his appetite.

He shoved a large portion of mushroom gratin loaded with cheese into his mouth and washed it down with beer before even tasting it properly.

The tavern “Lusso” in the workshop district, where he had called Rotem, was a place perfectly suited for craftsmen finishing work and drinking after hours.

No decoration, no unnecessary aesthetics—only tables, utensils, and a simple menu.

Even the warm yellow lighting served only its function.

Yet the food and drink quality made it clear why Tulkas had confidently recommended it.

“But earlier you said some alchemist was close to developing a cure.”

“That guy isn’t some civilian alchemist like you. He’s a big shot.”

“And strictly speaking, what he’s working on isn’t a cure—it’s prevention.”

“…So it’s useless for those already infected.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

Rotem quietly chewed on shellfish stew at Tulkas’ answer.

Unlike the dwarf, Rotem’s thoughts kept drifting back to the crying young man from earlier.

His appetite faded.

“Did Sian and other workshops at least try to solve it?”

“Well, of course. If someone succeeds in making a cure for the Forsaken Land plague, they’d instantly become a master.”

“But as I said, the Church is blocking all access. They’re terrified someone might actually develop a cure.”

“So even the Merchant Guild can’t do much. Forcing alchemists in won’t guarantee results, and it risks conflict with the Church.”

“In the end, they’re just barely containing it while the Church profits.”

“Didn’t I say it? Hope-selling is profitable.”

If even a massive guild like Sian couldn’t intervene, smaller workshops or individual alchemists had no chance.

Even if a cure were theoretically possible, there were no samples—no infected bodies, nothing to study.

The Church would only lift the blockade after every civilian in the Forsaken Land had died.

“…Is there really no way? Even a drop of infected blood—”

“Forget it. Do you think the Elian Church would just sit back and watch anyone interfere with their business?”

“Hmm.”

“Unless they screw up and something leaks out—like those runaway infected we saw earlier.”

“The Church’s mistake.”

“Runaway infected.”

Rotem placed his beer down and looked at Tulkas.

“Earlier you said those runaway infected… what exactly causes them inside the Forsaken Land?”

“Simple. When someone infected dies, their body is supposed to be burned.

But sometimes, some of those corpses break out of the pile and start moving like they came back to life.”

“…So they’re really resurrected corpses?”

At Rotem’s cautious question, Tulkas laughed and shook his head.

“That’s just a way of speaking.”

“But those things do run around attacking anything alive like crazy.

They don’t seem to spread the disease, though.

It’s like the infection disappears along with life itself.”

“……”

“Even Sian’s alchemists couldn’t find anything unusual in those bodies.”

“……”

“Well, that might just be the Church covering up their failures.”

Once they die, the infection disappears as well.

On the surface, it was a reasonable conclusion.

“…Old man.”

“Yeah?”

But for Rotem—and the shadow beside him—

Another possibility began to emerge.

“What if… it’s not a plague at all?”