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chapter 28
Dyke felt fatigue for the first time in a long while.
It was rare for him to feel tired from the morning itself. Perhaps it was because of his naturally strong body; Dyke had seldom experienced the sensation of heaviness or exhaustion.
“Why is that, Dyke?”
At Geralt’s question, Dyke widened his eyes. He didn’t want to show that he was different from usual.
The desire to kill all the irritating things and disappear abruptly. The sense of liberation that seemed to come if he tore apart the convoluted relationships binding him. The phantom pain of a feeling he might have had once.
He had been numb before. Working as a member of the Geraltz wasn’t particularly hard. Scaring someone when needed. Knocking down a monster when it appeared. That was about it.
The self-loathing from doing such things wasn’t much of a problem. He only had to endure it in that moment.
But after ambushing Liz and leaving her covered in blood, Dyke shuddered at the thought that he might have to continue doing such acts whenever Geralt commanded.
“Why is that, Dyke?”
The second question was sharper than the first. Dyke hurriedly answered:
“Ah, nothing.”
“Nothing, huh?”
“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
After all, why did he even join the Geraltz? Not just to protect himself, but to protect young Marcel and the elderly Goat—it was too much for one person.
Every time Dyke regretted joining the Geraltz, he mulled over that fact. Over and over.
“Is that so?”
Geralt raised one eyebrow.
“I thought you might be tired from working since dawn or something.”
“I’m fine. I was just… thinking about something else.”
“You shouldn’t. Today is an important day.”
At Geralt’s words, Dyke lifted his head sharply.
“An important day?”
As far as Dyke could remember, Geralt had never casually used the word “important.” For any mission, he’d only say “manageable” or “difficult,” never “important.”
Dyke knew Geralt’s ambition better than anyone. He was a man who would trample anything to achieve what he desired.
And yet he called this task “important”?
“I’ve found it! Here it is!”
At that moment, Tron, who had gone ahead climbing the mountain, shouted. Geralt’s eyes gleamed, and he sprinted up the slope in excitement. Dyke followed.
Tron, holding shovels in both hands with Vess and Killian, was pointing to the ground. There, a faintly glowing branch had been set up as if someone had gathered dirt by hand to form it.
“This glowing branch! It’s a mark left by the priest!”
“Are you sure, Tron?”
“Yes! I stayed up all night tracking that priest. That person kept emitting some kind of light underground, then stopped here and left this mark before descending the mountain!”
“So it’s the mountain… not the city!”
Geralt’s eyes burned with fire. He shouted to Dyke and the other Geraltz climbing behind him.
“Grab your shovels and come at once! We’re digging here, now!”
“Yes!”
The Geraltz ran over in surprise, each taking a shovel and furiously digging into the ground.
Geralt, anxious, kept pressing his lips together and wiping sweat from his clothes, scolding and even kicking the slower Geraltz.
Dyke dug along. With over twenty people digging simultaneously, the clearing was quickly excavated.
“Faster, faster!”
Dyke felt an inexplicable chill.
Geralt seemed resolute. At this moment, he surely believed he had reached the goal he had long yearned for.
He believed that Isabel had come to the mouse hole for the same purpose. That’s why he drove out the slimes hindering the search and recruited others to his side.
That’s why he pressured Isabel, setting a time limit to leave by morning. And Isabel had acted according to his plan: searching the mountain at night and leaving the necessary markers.
And now, he was using his subordinates to dig into the mountain.
But even if Dyke realized all this, what good would it do?
The priest was merely a passerby. Geralt had always detested outsiders, especially priests. Had he been certain he could kill Isabel, he would have done so.
Dyke would remain here. Geralt would not let him go. Dyke’s tremendous strength was an irresistible tool for him.
So for now, the best course was simply to faithfully follow Geralt on what he called this “important day.”
At that moment—
Clang!
Shovels struck something hard simultaneously. All the Geraltz stopped digging.
It wasn’t soil or rock that had stopped them.
“Just as expected!”
Geralt’s eyes gleamed as he leapt into the pit.
“Sir! It’s dangerous!”
“Shut up!”
Geralt shouted and stepped onto something hard, buried in soil. He carefully brushed the dirt away, his movements growing faster as if possessed. Moments later, the Geraltz caught their breath and stood up.
“Hahaha…!”
He looked immensely pleased.
“Dragon scale…! Yes, that’s what covered it. No wonder the Demon King’s army couldn’t find it.”
No one else heard him—it was spoken almost inaudibly.
It was certain. What Geralt stood on was unmistakably… a massive dragon-scale-covered hollow resembling a giant egg surrounding the demon sword.
Geralt still remembered that day vividly. As a regular mercenary, wandering the continent with just a sword and strong body, a woman had approached him.
She taught him about the demon sword.
“You are destined to wield the demon sword by your side.”
“…The demon sword? The one that disappeared 300 years ago?”
She was cloaked, her mouth covered, and her voice was indistinct enough that her gender was hard to determine.
She placed a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and whispered.
“I will tell you its location. If it’s you, you can reach it. We are the Demon King’s army, seekers of the successor to the Demon King who vanished 300 years ago.”
Geralt hadn’t dismissed her as crazy because she demonstrated her power—raising a skeletal army with a single gesture and then dismissing it.
Dorothea, the necromancer general of the Demon King’s army, had disappeared after the Demon King’s defeat.
She approached Geralt and whispered for him to find the demon sword.
Geralt, tired of living off scraps, had always felt a burning thirst that money and pleasure couldn’t satisfy.
Perhaps what he truly wanted was a position that commanded the loyalty and fear of all.
So he seized this chance to meet a remarkable person.
“If I draw it… could I become the Demon King?”
“Do you wish for that?”
Geralt’s eyes gleamed.
“Of course I do.”
“You’re presumptuous.”
“Presumptuous? You don’t know me. I can succeed at anything. I could be a magnate in business or a master craftsman. But none of that is my path. Now I understand. Demon King… yes.”
Geralt drew his longsword and gazed at his reflection on the blade, muttering.
“This is my path. Demon King Geralt… not a bad ring to it. Are there many in the Demon King’s army besides you?”
“More than you might expect.”
“I see… then I shall walk that path. I’ll prepare thoroughly and claim the demon sword.”
“You are overconfident. I hope you succeed.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll serve me as your lord.”
After some final advice from Dorothea, she vanished. Geralt moved toward the location she had told him.
Lettina. A city famous for its poor security and mining industry.
There, Geralt subdued gangs and formed a powerful force, making all his subordinates call him “Master.”
When he would eventually draw the demon sword and become the Demon King, they would call him “Lord Demon King.” Until then, he would be satisfied with “Master.”
And now, the fruition of that dream was right before him.
“After searching the upper and middle reaches of the Thames, only the lower reach remained, but a slime swarm appeared. Then that Isabel swept it away overnight, and seeing you wary of me, I realized—you too are seeking the demon sword.”
Geralt had already heard from Dorothea that others might also seek the sword.
So he strictly controlled outsiders entering the city, instructing the Geraltz to kill or disable any priest entering the mouse hole.
“If a priest with holy power comes, it would be easier to find the sword. I tried to prevent them… but look, this incompetent priest with great holy power found it overnight.”
Geralt’s eyes trembled with rage and desire.
“No, I can’t let everything I’ve worked for be taken by her.”
He changed the instructions. The Geraltz abandoned shovels and picked up the pickaxes they had brought.
Clang, clang! Sparks flew as they began breaking the dragon-scale hollow as instructed.
Geralt smiled wickedly. Almost there. The demon sword would be his.
Meanwhile, after finishing on the pull-up bar, I looked at the glass window and grabbed my head.
“Hey!”
Isabel was still sleeping, even though the sun had risen. Seriously, enough already! After yesterday’s ordeal, you can’t just ignore the door being pounded on outside!
“Priest? Are you there, Priest! Wake up!”
I sent a “revelation” into Isabel’s dream, urging her to rise.
“Isabel, wake up!”
But Isabel seemed sleep-deprived from using the entire night to search for the demon sword.
This is maddening. Whoever is knocking outside, you have to get up!
If you don’t, and Geralt questions why you’re still in the mouse hole, not only you but Thompson and Rilton would be in trouble.
We have to leave this city first and return with the holy knights!
“Priest! Are you awake? Priest!”
Urgent voices. We need to open the door and get ready, but what should I do?
Then, it felt like Isabel replied in my dream:
“Smiel niim…”
“Oh, good! She can answer? Get up quickly!”
“I can’t get up… please do it for me…”
Do it for her?
Ah!
This is unbelievable. Isabel, you’re asking me for help now? You’ve grown up.
Alright, I’ll do it for you. Since you gave permission!
I leapt through the window.
And in the next moment, sensations flooded my entire body.
It had been a long time since I felt this—since coercing Patrick in Zeroprime. I was inhabiting Isabel’s body.
After descending, I quickly surveyed the area. It was a mess: dirt, branches, leaves everywhere—including on Isabel’s clothes.
I quickly brushed off the debris, tidied her clothes, shoved some under the makeshift bed, and opened the door.
And I was shocked.
I expected maybe Rilton or Thompson standing there, but instead a strong man, covered in blood, was carried into the room by a similarly strong elderly man.
I stepped back in fright. But then, I was utterly shocked.
When patients are hospitalized long-term, they sometimes go into shock. Watching doctors and nurses restrain a convulsing body and administer treatments often signals impending death.
It was the same feeling. The man carried by the elderly man was dying.
Then I realized: the elderly man was Goat, treated by Isabel today, and the patient he carried was…
“Liz?”
My heart pounded. Liz was severely injured. But I could do nothing.
I am Smiel, but healing patients is Isabel’s role.
I shouted in my mind:
“Isabel, wake up!”
I didn’t know if she’d hear me. While I possessed her, her consciousness receded.
But last time, when I descended, Isabel seemed to be in a light sleep. If I shouted strongly in my mind, maybe she could hear.
Might as well try.
“Isabel! Patient!”
“Huh? Patient?”
Yes! Isabel’s consciousness quickly returned to clarity. I exited her body and returned to my own space.
As last time, a heavy fatigue overwhelmed me.
Ah… my head is spinning.
Tossed by the waves of sensation, I collapsed on the sandy floor, staring at the glass window.
“Mr. Goat! Are you alright?”
“Priest, help this young lady first!”
“Yes!”
As expected of a saint. Isabel, still groggy, immediately focused upon hearing “patient” and began treating Liz. Though worried, her eyes were determined.
Holy light surrounded Liz, and Isabel added various blessings.
It seemed her head injury was severe; limb injuries and inflammation were less difficult. Isabel treated her meticulously.
Soon, the holy light subsided, and Liz opened her eyes.
Blinking, she tried to sit up, but dizziness made her frown and lie back down. She groaned, then lifted her head to Isabel.
“Isabel…?”
“Sister, are you okay?”
Luckily, Liz seemed fine. Her gaze was steady.
Goat also seemed impressed. Even he must have thought Liz was near death.
After treatment, Goat appeared robust and solid. It was understandable how he had fought dozens of monsters with a sick body in the first round to protect Marcel.
Liz touched her temple and answered Isabel:
“I’m okay… my head hurts a bit…”
Isabel held up ten fingers.
“If we rate your headache from 1 to 10, how bad is it?”
“Huh? Uh…”
“Quickly.”
“About 3… no, 2? Not bad.”
“Any black spots, odd colors?”
“No.”
“Tinnitus?”
“No.”
“Double vision?”
“No.”
“Feeling of brain shaking, neck stiffness, or numbness?”
“All fine! You healed me, I’m fine!”
Liz shouted in frustration.
Isabel smiled, pleased.
Then she started dozing off again.
Sigh…
My gaze now must be no different from how Liz and Goat look at Isabel.
At least we need to hear how she got hurt.
