Chapter 55: The Village That Breathed in Purple
The journey was long, grueling in a way that gnawed at the bones rather than the muscles. By the time the carriage finally slowed and creaked to a halt, the sun had dipped low behind jagged mountain peaks, casting long, crooked shadows across the land. The village they arrived at lay nestled within the mountains like a wounded thing seeking shelter—small, quiet, and wrapped in an unnatural fog that clung to everything it touched.
The fog was not white, nor grey.
It was purple.
Not vibrant or glowing, but dull and sickly, as though the very air had been bruised. It curled around wooden houses, seeped between narrow paths, and hung low near the ground like a poisonous breath. Even before stepping down from the carriage, Zodac felt it press against his skin, heavy and wrong.
As he climbed down, the first thing that reached him was not the fog—but sound.
A low, broken sound.
Wailing.
Moaning.
Grief, raw and unrestrained.
Zodac turned his head slowly, following the sound until his gaze landed on a sight that made even his hardened heart tighten. A young man knelt before a crude, cross-shaped wooden marker embedded in the earth. The soil around it was freshly disturbed, dark and damp. The young man's shoulders shook violently as sobs tore from his throat, his hands clawing at the dirt as though he could still pull his loved one back from beneath the ground.
Then the coughing began.
Deep. Wet. Violent.
The young man doubled over, hacking as if his lungs were tearing themselves apart, spattering the ground with flecks of darkened saliva. No one rushed to help him. No one could. Doors remained shut. Windows were barred. Fear had locked the village in silence.
Zodac's eyes widened slightly.
So this was the plague.
A sudden tap landed on his shoulder.
Zodac reacted instantly.
His body moved before thought could catch up—Kogetsu materialized in his hand with a soft, ominous hum, the blade angled toward the source of the touch. The air around him tensed, elemental energy stirring instinctively.
"Woah—easy!"
The voice was familiar.
Zodac froze, then turned sharply to see the man from the carriage standing behind him, hands raised in mock surrender, laughter bubbling out of him.
"It's just me," the man said between chuckles. "You nearly took my head off."
Zodac exhaled slowly, dismissing Kogetsu as it dissolved into particles of light. The tension drained from his posture, though his eyes remained sharp.
"…Sorry," he muttered.
The man waved it off. "With the way things are here, I don't blame you. Come on—help me unload these crates."
They moved together toward the back of the carriage. The man struggled to lift even a single crate, grunting under its weight. Zodac, on the other hand, effortlessly stacked four at once, hoisting them as though they were nothing more than empty boxes.
The man stared at him, stunned.
"Wow… you're really strong," he said with a laugh. "So this is what it feels like to be young."
Zodac glanced down at the crates in his arms.
*Really… this feels light,* he thought.
Compared to all he has faced in the previous days this was nothing to him.
"To where?" Zodac asked aloud.
"Follow me."
They moved through the village together. The deeper they went, the heavier the atmosphere became. The purple fog thickened, curling around their ankles. Houses stood silent, their wooden walls scarred and neglected. Occasionally, coughing echoed from behind closed doors, followed by muffled crying—or nothing at all.
Eventually, they reached a large building at the center of the village. Unlike the others, it was lit from within, noise spilling out through its doors—groans of pain, hushed prayers, frantic footsteps.
The man set his crate down and opened the door.
Zodac stepped inside—and stopped.
The sight before him stole what little breath he had left.
The room was vast, yet cramped with suffering. Rows of makeshift beds lined both sides, stretching deep into the hall. Every bed was occupied. Men, women, children—faces pale, eyes sunken, bodies wracked with coughs and fever. Some moaned softly. Others lay eerily still, chests barely rising.
The air reeked of sweat, sickness, and despair.
Zodac's gaze softened despite himself.
At the far end of the hall stood a man dressed in pristine white garments, his face drawn and weary. Beside him moved a young woman in a similar white gown, stopping at each bed to offer water, wipe brows, or whisper comfort.
The man from the carriage walked past Zodac and approached the man in white. Without ceremony, the white-garbed man handed him a pouch.
<30 gold coins>
Zodac's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
Thirty gold coins.
That was a lot of money, enough to feed a family for year'sthe currency for this world is as follows.
10 copper -> 1 Bronze
10 Bronze -> 1 Silver
10 Silver -> 1 gold
200 gold coins -> 1 Platinum Bar
The carriage man hastily tucked the pouch away and turned, catching Zodac's gaze. He shifted awkwardly, trying to block the pouch from view.
"H-Hey," he said quickly. "Aren't you going to help me unload the rest?"
Zodac didn't respond.
Instead, he walked past him.
Straight toward the man in white.
"Good evening," Zodac said, his voice calm, dull, and steady.
The man in white stiffened. His eyes narrowed, suspicion flashing across his tired features. "Excuse me… I don't believe we've met."
Before Zodac could respond, the nurse rushed toward the man, panic written all over her face.
"Sir—we're losing her!"
"What?" the man exclaimed, spinning around.
They hurried away, disappearing through a side door.
Zodac followed.
The room they entered was smaller, quieter—but no less grim. Only a few beds occupied the space. At the far corner lay an old woman, her skin pale as ash, lips tinged blue. Her breathing was erratic, each gasp a struggle.
The nurse lifted a vial of healing potion and poured it into the woman's mouth.
Nothing changed.
Her chest still rose unevenly. Her pulse remained weak.
"We've done all we can," the man in white whispered.
The nurse broke down, tears spilling freely. "We've already lost five this week…"
"All we can do now is pray," the man said hoarsely. "Pray that the gods accept her soul."
"That won't be necessary."
They turned sharply.
Zodac stood in the doorway.
"You are not supposed to be in here!" the man shouted.
"If you had listened earlier," Zodac replied calmly, "I could have helped."
The nurse looked at him, desperation overtaking fear. "Are you from the capital?"
"…Something like that."
"Can you help us?" she pleaded.
"Yes."
"No!" the man barked. "We don't know who you are! I won't place these lives in the hands of a stranger!"
"Fine," Zodac said, unmoved.
The man blinked, startled by how easily he agreed.
"But look around," Zodac continued, his voice cold. "Aren't their lives already at stake?"
The man hesitated, eyes drifting to the beds, to the suffering faces.
"Please," the nurse whispered. She began coughing—short, sharp coughs that froze the room as she already began to show early symptoms.
"Fine," the man said at last. "But if this goes wrong—don't make me regret this."
Zodac stepped forward, his gaze locking onto the dying woman.