Chapter 368 - 360: Blood God’s Curse

Chapter 368: Chapter 360: Blood God’s Curse

"Common ground..."

Velin repeated the words. In his crystal glass, golden bubbles silently rose and burst.

The celebration continued, and the side hall of the royal palace was filled with the nobles’ cheerful laughter and the mixed scents of perfume and food, but all of it was rapidly fading away.

Velin’s thoughts plunged downward.

Alchemical creatures, the Lord of Gray Swamp, the old Marquis’s sudden and violent death, his brother’s "accident."

Velin didn’t think he had anything in common with the man.

Hector seemed to notice Velin’s distraction and raised his glass.

"My Lord Count, you seem to have something on your mind?"

"Are you perhaps troubled by how to govern such a vast territory? The Grey Marsh Territory, the Newly Cultivated Land, and the distant Southern Islands. It’s quite a heavy responsibility."

A few nearby nobles who had been eavesdropping revealed knowing smiles. It sounded like a senior figure showing concern for a junior.

Velin downed the rest of the champagne in his glass.

"Responsibility is a fact. Worry is a useless emotion," he replied, placing his empty glass on a passing servant’s tray.

Hector’s smile widened. He sized Velin up as if appreciating a work of art.

"I very much admire the ’merit point system’ you’ve implemented in the Grey Marsh Territory."

He began to speak, his tone like that of a critic appraising a famous painting in a museum.

"To convert a person’s value, contributions, and loyalty all into quantifiable numbers. To use numbers to determine status and allocate resources. It discards hypocritical things like bloodlines and sentiment. It truly is... an ingenious design."

He paused and took a sip of his red wine.

"Especially when it comes to labor management, it is nothing short of a masterpiece. It makes those mud-legs willingly exhaust every ounce of their potential, toiling away madly for some illusory ’citizenship.’ Far more effective than whips and overseers."

Velin didn’t respond. He simply watched the other man calmly.

Hector paid the silence no mind and continued his "appraisal."

"However, Count of the White Tower, any exquisite creation has its flaws. This work of yours has a fatal weakness."

He brought the glass to his lips, the deep red liquid reflecting against his pale skin.

"You’ve built your entire territory upon the most fragile of materials—the commoners."

"They are hardworking and obedient, like worker ants, and can create astonishing wealth in times of peace. But their resilience is far too poor."

"When disaster strikes—be it famine, plague, or war—they will panic, they will riot, and they will crumble like a sandcastle by the sea."

Hector set down his glass and looked directly at Velin.

"People like us, true Transcendents, our families need only a few core members to rebuild order after a disaster. But you, my Lord Count, when your sandcastle collapses, who can you rely on?"

The words held a veiled killing intent.

It was a probe, an expression of contempt, and moreover, a declaration of war from the newly promoted Marquis.

"Resilience," Velin finally spoke.

"Resilience isn’t a property of a single fiber, but a structural property of the rope. Sand is fragile, but when it is molded into sandstone with the right pressure and adhesive, it can support a tower."

Hector’s smile froze for a moment.

"An interesting theory." He raised his glass. "In that case, I look forward to witnessing for myself just how strong a storm your sandcastle can withstand."

"I’ll be ready whenever you are," Velin nodded.

The two spoke no more, ending the conversation with a tacit understanding.

Hector turned and was immediately surrounded by a group of influential counts, blending into a more central circle of nobility.

Velin, in turn, walked toward the edge of the banquet hall.

He knew that with his political obstructions having failed, Hector’s "next move" would soon be set in motion.

"That fellow is bad news."

Count Leman had approached at some point, handing Velin a glass of clear water.

"His way of doing things is completely different from his steady father. It’s more like... the Empire’s style. Efficient, cold, and straight for the jugular."

Diana came over as well. Her ceremonial gown for the day made her a bit uncomfortable, but she still held her back straight.

"Velin, are you all right? That Hector... he gives off a very bad feeling."

Her lake-blue eyes were filled with worry.

"I’m fine," Velin replied.

Diana looked at his unruffled expression, feeling both annoyed and helpless. ’What on earth is his brain made of?’

The celebration ended at midnight.

Once the clamor had died down, Velin accepted Count Leman’s invitation and stayed the night at the Klein Clan’s residence in the Royal Capital.

The next morning, at first light, Velin mounted Nefarian and returned to his territory.

The Pegasus beat its wings and took to the sky. A powerful current of air billowed his robes as the Royal Capital rapidly shrank below, becoming a checkerboard of light and shadow.

The morning wind, carrying the chill of high altitudes, rushed to meet him, cold and sharp. But Velin’s posture remained steady as he lay low on the Pegasus’s broad back, as if he had become one with the frigid gale.

Surrounded by the whistling wind and the monotonous beat of wings, Velin left the travel to his mount, his own mind inevitably turning to Hector’s words.

Grey Marsh Territory, the Newly Cultivated Land, the Southern Islands... resources, population, ports, shipping routes.

’What form might Hector’s threat take?’

’Pirate attacks?’

’A man-made plague?’

’Inciting a rebellion among certain unstable elements in the territory?’

’Or perhaps... a Magical Beast from the deep sea?’

Each possibility was matched with a series of contingency plans.

After an unknown amount of time, Velin heard a prompt from Nefarian.

Minas Tirith Port appeared before his eyes.

Unlike the chaotic, ancient lights of the Royal Capital, the night here was illuminated by an orderly glow. Along the docks, rows of new alchemical streetlamps emitted a brilliant white light, illuminating the entire port district as if it were day.

There was no red carpet, no extravagant honor guard.

But the council square was filled with people.

They weren’t crowded together in a messy clump. Instead, they had spontaneously arranged themselves into somewhat untidy blocks by guild and neighborhood.

The artisans stood at the very front, still in their work clothes, their faces bearing simple smiles. The dockworkers were on another side, stoutly built, their dark skin gleaming under the lights. Farther back were weavers, teachers, merchants, and farmers who had just received their status as freemen.

Seeing Velin slowly descend, the crowd erupted in cheers.

These were not the polite, ceremonial cheers of a noble court, but shouts from the bottom of their hearts.

"My Lord Count!"

"Welcome home, My Lord Count!"

Valerius raised an alchemical signaling device and pressed it firmly.

WHOOSH—BANG!

Several bright beams shot from the second level of Mi Port into the night sky, bursting into splendid alchemical fireworks.

The dazzling explosions of the fireworks replaced the cheers, echoing over the harbor.

This was their lord, the Count of the White Tower who had given them dignity and hope.

Velin stood on the docks, looking at this land that belonged to him, a land full of order and vitality. He looked at the people whose fates had been changed because of him.

’This is no sandcastle.’

...

「Seven Ports Alliance, Sea Wind City.」

As the southeasternmost Free Port in the Alliance, the air here was perpetually filled with the smell of salt and damp, the stench of fish, and the crude shouts of sailors.

The young friar Aaron made his way through the crowded dock district toward the soup kitchen in the slums. This was his daily task.

Lately, something had been wrong in the city.

At first, it was just a few coughs. During evening prayers at the church, or in the crowd at the soup kitchen, there were always one or two of the faithful hunched over, coughing until their faces turned red. Aaron assumed it was just a common cold from the changing spring weather and paid it no mind.

But the situation seemed to be quietly worsening.

A week ago, an old woman who was usually very devout failed to show up for her meal. Aaron went to look for her in her low, damp wooden shack, only to be met with a foul stench. A neighbor said she had been coughing for two days before she coughed up blood and died, without even time for last rites.

Aaron reported the matter to Varian, the presiding priest of his church.

At the time, Father Varian was slowly and methodically polishing a pure silver statue of the Holy Master with a velvet cloth. He didn’t even raise an eyelid at Aaron’s report.

"Friar Aaron, the grace of the gods is finite. Do not waste your energy on every poor soul who falls ill due to their own uncleanliness." He paused and set the statue upright. "The taxes from the dock district haven’t been fully collected yet. Go and hurry them along. The Master’s glory also needs to be adorned with Golden Sun."

Aaron withdrew without a word.

He looked at the gleaming Holy Artifacts in the church, then thought of the increasingly frequent coughing in the slums, and a sense of powerlessness seized him.

The "cold" spread faster than anyone could have imagined.

The coughing began in the dock district and spread with unnatural speed throughout the entire Lower City District.

Sufferers were no longer just coughing up traces of blood, but great mouthfuls of blood containing black clots.

Aaron knew no Divine Arts. He managed to acquire some Holy Water from the church and tried to treat a dying child. But when the faintly glowing Holy Water entered the child’s body, it vanished like a stone tossed into the sea. The child’s body temperature continued to drop rapidly.

The Holy Water had a negligible effect.

Panic finally erupted.

Rumors spread that the disease had come from a black ship from an unknown sea, that it was the "Curse of the Blood God." Shops closed, streets emptied, and the only sound was the RUMBLE-RUMBLE of carts carrying corpses. In just a few short days, the death toll in this prosperous port city was already approaching a thousand.

After another futile attempt at healing, an exhausted Aaron fell to his knees on the stone pavement, listening to the rising and falling wails throughout the city. He looked up at the church’s high steeple, which remained holy and serene, as if separated from the living hell outside, existing in another world.

A foreboding premonition hung over Aaron and the city struggling on its deathbed.

They did not know that this was only the beginning.

This piece of intelligence, carrying the stench of death, was now spreading like ripples across the entire sea of the Duchy, carried by panicked merchant ships. It was impossible to know how many days and nights would pass before it landed on the desk of Velin, the Count of the White Tower.