The Keeper of Secrets gasped for breath as he explained the nature of the Cursed Item, his words coming in ragged bursts. Even with Jenkins’s healing magic flowing into him, the curse couldn't be purged quickly. After all, the essence of A-03-1-0027 was a phenonon of pestilence, not a necrotic power. The spirit of life had so effect, but it was nowhere near as potent as it was against the forces of the undead.
As for why Jenkins remained unscathed despite being just as close to the female corpse, while the Keeper was left in this wretched state, he could only surmise it was his own elven bloodline or divine nature at play.
"A-03-1-0027, the Pestilence Evil, only manifests in regions ravaged by a major plague... Wait. If that’s the case, why has it appeared in Nolan now? The Corpse Plague was supposed to be under control... This is the most malevolent of curses, embodying nature’s pure malice toward humanity. Its insidious property is terrifyingly simple: it maximizes a plague's infection rate, its range of spread, its lethality—every single tric—and that enhancent grows stronger with each passing mont. Throughout history, every appearance of the Pestilence Evil has ant the utter annihilation of all life in the area. It’s a global catastrophe, a disaster capable of wiping out civilizations. Nolan... *cough, cough*..."
The Keeper seed to have exhausted his last ounce of strength, unable to speak further. But Jenkins knew he was right; it was deeply strange. If the Pestilence Evil only appeared in areas ravaged by plague, then the Corpse Plague, which was still within a manageable scope, shouldn’t have been enough to summon it.
The great plague thirty years ago had been far more severe than this, yet even it hadn’t reached the threshold to draw forth the Pestilence Evil. There had to be sothing more to that woman’s death, so crucial detail that both the Church and Jenkins were missing.
"So the longer we wait," Jenkins asked, his voice sharp with alarm, "the more dangerous this becos?"
"Yes. That’s exactly right. That woman is the very source of the catastrophe. The mont Miss Bevanna’s bindings fail and this mutated plague spreads, Nolan is finished... Williams, what are you doing? Stay back! That thing is not sothing you can handle!"
Jenkins bent down, gently propping the Keeper against the wall. Then, he turned and strode toward the female corpse, which was now attempting to shamble out of the doorway. A dazzling green luminescence burst through the constraints of his protective suit, and behind the grim plague mask, his expression was one of unwavering resolve.
"You needn't worry, Mr. Corinshir," he said, his voice calm. "I may not have been with the Church for long, but I am a level four Enchanter, after all."
He spoke softly, unfastening the straps of his protective suit as he walked, exposing the plain clothes beneath. By the ti he reached the threshold, only the mask remained. He reached up, pulled off the slightly macabre beak mask, and tossed it casually against the wall.
"This is my city, too. And I will protect it!"
The Keeper was rendered speechless, but his eyes widened as he watched Jenkins, now wreathed in what looked like transparent green flas, show no sign of being affected by the curse, even as he drew closer to the corpse.
The pale green light coalesced, warping the very air and energy around him. In his wake, fantastical flowers and grasses, as if from a prival age, began to sprout from the grimy cobblestones, gradually carpeting the alley floor. At the mouth of the alley, a cat perched on a wall twitched, nearly leaping from its post. It had been waiting for an hour, and at last, sothing interesting was happening.
Jenkins finally reached the entrance of the building, stopping a re ten feet from the horrifying female corpse.
"This is my city," he declared, his voice ringing with conviction. "And I will not allow you to destroy it. I don't care if you're a curse or a catastrophe—you will not harm this place."
He had grown to love this city, had finally adapted to this world. The people he loved, and those who loved him, were here. Jenkins would let nothing harm them. Becoming a god might be his ultimate goal, but after understanding his own heart through Hathaway and Briny, he refused to let the path to godhood be paved with regrets.
If he had the power to stop this, and could do so without destroying himself in the process, he would not shrink from the task of saving the world once more.
He took a step forward with his left foot, pulling his right shoulder back slightly. For an instant, ti seed to freeze. A dozen pairs of eyes were fixed on the scene, but nothing and no one could have stopped Jenkins now. In that mont, he beca one with the spirit of life, and as his fist shot forward, a blinding green brilliance threatened to engulf the world.
"Hyah!"
With a sharp cry, Jenkins’s fist, wreathed in green fire, tore through the corpse's chest. From inside the room, Miss Bevanna saw the spray of gore erupt from the body’s back and watched in horror as Jenkins's arm began to turn a deathly black.
The flesh around the gaping wound began to regenerate at an unnatural speed, clamping down on Jenkins's wrist. Black, tapeworm-like threads of blood slithered across his skin. In an instant, black light and green light clashed and intertwined, the blinding spiritual energy erupting into visible waves that even mortals could perceive.
In a daze, Miss Bevanna thought she saw the phantom of a small, verdant sapling appear behind Jenkins. Her eyes widened in shock. She had never predicted—neither had Papa Oliver—that things would escalate this quickly.
And just as the two clashing auras blinded everyone's sight, the terrifying White Bone Holy Sword materialized in Jenkins’s free left hand. At the hilt, a skull woven from vines seed to let out a silent, maniacal laugh. The blade rose and fell in a single, fluid motion. As the severed head rolled across the ground, the sword vanished from his left hand. He slamd his now-clenched fist into the headless corpse's shoulder, and a sheet of ice instantly spread across its surface, creeping downward.
He wrenched his right hand free from the bloody cavity in its chest and took a step back, sensing the omnipresent forces of death and life churning in the air. The black and green light that had scattered around them began to reconverge, drawn toward a single point with his every breath.
The headless corpse was still moving. Its frost-covered hands rose stiffly, and tendrils of black gas—the very essence of the pestilence curse—shot out from its wrists like writhing ropes.
With a flick of his wrist, Jenkins unleashed the flas of the Unquenchable Purification Candle, creating a barrier that montarily held the black gas at bay. In that instant, he finally found it—the balance between the forces of death and life. Mimicking the power of the White Bone Holy Sword, both green and black brilliance erupted around him. The dark miasma and verdant light swirled together, channeling downward from his entire body and converging on his right foot.
He pulled his right foot back, sinking into a slight crouch. As every last bit of his spirit transford into that perfect equilibrium of life and death, all of it pooling in his right foot, Jenkins frowned, drew a sharp breath, and twisted his body, whipping his leg forward in a powerful kick.
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