San Aster, the Plains of Vermis.
Against the vast stretch of land, an adventurer clad in travel-worn garb stood speaking with the farrs tending the poppy fields.
"Have you seen a man wearing a black coat, with a sharp face?" Gringha asked. "He stands around 170 centiters tall."
The farrs shook their heads in denial. One of them spoke instead, his voice cautious.
"We sent out a quest for the extermination of the Nasreen Stingers and their queen. Has any adventurer accepted it?"
Gringha smiled and nodded. "Yes. That very man accepted your quest. However, it seems he did not co here directly. If you happen to encounter him, please notify . I am here to assist him with the task."
The farrs erupted in relief and joy. Their eyes glead as they looked at Gringha, as though a savior had descended upon their fields.
They offered him so of their harvested poppy, but he declined with a graceful gesture.
"No need. It is my duty," he said, his smile firm yet polite. "But rember, inform when he arrives."
"Of course, sir," one farr replied, turning his gaze back toward the field. After a brief hesitation, he added, "Until your partner arrives, could you guard the crops? We fear another attack may co soon."
Gringha paused. He scratched his chin, thinking for a mont, then turned toward the wide fields of poppy swaying in the wind.
"Very well," he said. "Until the man arrives, I shall stand guard."
The farrs’ eyes glistened. So smiled openly, so wiped away tears, while others struggled to contain their emotions. To them, their prayers had finally been answered.
Yet not all shared the sa relief. A few watched Gringha in silence, suspicion lingering behind their expressions.
As the sea breeze rolled in from the Great Humorous Sea, the grasslands rippled in waves. Amid the swaying plains, a cluster of flies buzzed restlessly, searching for a place to settle. At last, they found refuge beneath the shade of a lone tree. Whatever danger they sensed seed to fade, and their frantic buzzing slowly ceased.
Then, one by one, they began to die.
Their tiny bodies dropped to the ground, falling in silent succession. When the last of them fell, an eruption followed. From the scattered corpses, sothing erged.
Humanoid in shape, it rose slowly, flesh and form knitting together as it took substance. Bones aligned, skin stretched, features sharpened, until a man stood where the flies had perished.
"At last... ohhh," the man groaned, scratching at his neck. He laughed weakly, then hissed in pain. "I slept like a bear. Hahah. Still hurts. What kind of monster was that..."
As he spoke, his vision warped. The world seed to rush toward him, swelling and collapsing in his sight. He shut his eyes in resistance and cried out a na.
"Kermadoligue."
A wisp of blue fla ignited from nothingness. It coiled through the air, growing denser, until it engulfed the man completely. The fire did not burn outward. Instead, it pressed inward, folding around him like a cocoon.
Slowly, the flas began to die from within.
The man exhaled, his voice hoarse and worn. "You may go back now... Kerma... doligue."
His body slackened as consciousness left him. The blue fire flickered once more, then collapsed into itself, vanishing without a trace.
For an instant, as the last ember faded, sothing else tried to descend.
A realm pressed against reality, looming behind the vanished flas. The grass beneath it blackened and cracked, scorched by an unbearable dryness. The earth fractured as though it had not known moisture for centuries.
But the mont was too brief.
The realm failed to fully cross over, retreating as quickly as it appeared, leaving only silent grass and faint scars upon the land.
Just as that occurred, far away in another corner of the world, a priest was deep in prayer. His voice echoed softly through the chamber, each chant asured and devout.
Then, suddenly, he stopped.
He turned toward the windowpane of his quarters. The pale light filtering through the glass trembled across his face. His lips quivered, and tears slid silently down his cheeks.
With a fragile, breaking voice, he whispered into the still air, "Sir Kingston Nowill..."
After uttering the na, the priest did not stop. He collapsed into quiet sobbing, clutching the rosary in his trembling hands.
Footsteps thundered through the corridor.
The door burst open with a violent crash.
"What has happened, Sir Edmund Blight?!" a man clad in knighted armor roared as he stord inside.
The priest slowly turned his head toward the knight. His expression was hollow, yet overwheld with emotion.
"Sir Kingston Nowill..." he said again, his voice shaking. "He is alive."
The knight froze.
His eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face. His lips parted as though he ant to speak, but no words ca. Instead, he whispered sothing under his breath, sothing too faint to be heard.
He stepped back slowly, his gaze lowering toward the floor, as if the weight of that single na had suddenly beco unbearable.
The priest steadied his breath, though tears still traced his aged face.
"Alert the Archbishop," he said, his voice trembling yet resolute. "We will depart soon."
The knight straightened, confusion and urgency mixing in his expression. "Where are we heading, sir?"
The priest lifted his tear-filled eyes and answered without hesitation.
"To the Caesar Kingdom," he said quietly. "The City of Vermis."
The knight straightened up, giving himself a small, approving nod.
He then lowered his head in acknowledgent, though the tension in his clenched jaw betrayed his unease.
"At once, Sir Edmund Blight," he replied, before turning sharply and marching out of the chamber.
The priest remained by the window, his trembling fingers tightening around the rosary as his gaze drifted toward the distant horizon, as though he could already see the land that awaited them.
And within those lands, across the sweeping grass fields, a man moved cautiously.
He had already attempted to pass through the forests, hoping to avoid the exposed plains while making his way toward the inner farms of Kial. But the monsters lurking within the dense woods, along with the venomous fauna that infested every shadowed root and branch, had proven too overwhelming.
Even with his title of Foulborn, which allowed him to convert venom into elixir, the relentless battles had nearly broken him. Surviving poison was one thing. Fighting endlessly against creatures born of rot and instinct was another entirely.
To continue through the forest would have been suicide.
And so, at last, he returned to the grasslands.
Each step he took was with care, his eyes constantly scanning the endless sway of green. His breathing remained shallow, controlled, as though he feared even the sound of his own existence might invite disaster.
Inside, he prayed.
He prayed that the monsters of the plains had already departed, their hunger satisfied after claiming the life of the other immortal. The mory of that encounter lingered in his mind like a festering wound.
Even though it was the immortal resurrection ritual, the fact that a monster could so easily kill an immortal filled him with a dreadful fear of it as well.
The wind rolled across the fields, bending the grass in slow, whispering waves.
The man continued forward, knowing well that if his prayer had gone unanswered, these plains would soon beco his grave as well.
Dressed in his black suit, Rosacer was far too easy to spot. So he tore long strands of grass from the plains, weaving them into rough camouflage and draping it over himself.
Once covered, he moved slowly through the open land, his steps careful, his eyes sharp.
"Where are you, monster..." he muttered under his breath.
The plains were mostly exposed, broken only by scattered patches of tall grass, thicker and denser near the river that cut through the land. That river was the Sernur, a tributary feeding into the greater Erhor River.
Rosacer slipped into the tall grass without hesitation.
Crouched low, he advanced from one patch to another, using the wind and the shifting grass to mask his movent. More than once, he was forced to stop, setting small distractions before darting forward to the next cover. Each pause stretched his nerves thin.
Yet neither his bait nor his presence drew the monster’s attention.
Slowly, steadily, he crossed the plains unscathed.
Ahead of him rose a stretch of uplifted ground. It was steeper than the surrounding land, but long enough to conceal whatever lay beyond its crest. Rosacer climbed it carefully, keeping his profile low.
Hours passed before he finally reached the vantage point.
From there, Kial’s farm spread out before him.
Fields of green vegetation lay in neat lines, small figures moving among them like scattered dots as they tended to their work. Near the center of the farmland, a group had gathered around an old man.
And standing among them was another figure, his attire unmistakably different from the rest.
Rosacer’s gaze narrowed.
"Gringha..." he muttered.
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