Zeniph woke up to the slow drizzle of misty rain coming in through the collapsed ceiling of the plaza. The sky was dark, clouds heavy, threatening more rain with every passing moment.
His entire body felt like a wreck, his muscles screaming as he forced himself up. He carefully navigated the rubble, working his way to the centre.
Hauling away stone, he uncovered the longsword he had seen when arriving. It was heavy, but manageable. Its handle was simple, just bound leather, and a pommel of steel.
The crossguard was plain, with no décor nor inscriptions. Drawing it, he felt the balance, testing it with a couple of swings.
A tad tip-heavy.
Wincing, he sheathed it and started searching for another way up.
Walking around the walls, he saw inscriptions in a language even he did not know. Battered images, worn with age, depicted battles of legendary beasts.
He recognized some. There was Leviathan, guardian of the south sea. In another stood Belmotsu, east's protector of the night. Just as he began to wonder about the history of the ruins, he found a narrow tunnel leading up.
Carefully, he traced his hand over the moss-ridden wall, making his way up in small steps. His muscles burned from the effort, his lungs clawing for air by the time he finished the climb.
Outside the stairwell, he spotted what looked like an old shed and made his way there.
Dust covered everything in a thick layer like freshly fallen snow, each movement sending more into the air. The rotten wooden window practically fell apart as he attempted to open it.
Still, there was a roof and a feather mattress, which was a blessing in itself. With a quick prayer, he sat down and began to clean off his bloody clothes. They had dried, toughening like coarse bark.
He set out a basin to collect some rainwater and laid back down. Circulating his mana again, he started healing himself, slowly enough to avoid straining his heart.
He sighed with frustration. What was meant to be a quick pit stop had turned into a major delay.
He hadn't intended to remain here more than a few days, but at this rate, it would take over a month before he could journey again.
Still, there were silver linings—if he was willing to call them that. Manoth hadn't been acting alone. Fallens were interfering directly now, shaping curses with their own hands, and not subtly.
What was the Church of the Holy Empire doing? Shouldn't paladins be dealing with this?
Angels did what they could to shield the world from demons, but Fallens slipped through that protection with ease. And by being here at all, he already fit the definition he despised—an angel bound to the world, even if not yet fully.
Death would seal it. Not corruption, but permanence. A soul that could no longer leave, forced to remain and take form again as something else.
The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth. To be measured by the same word as creatures like Manoth was repulsive to him.
Deciding not to dwell on it any longer, he let exhaustion pull him back into sleep.
The sun's bright rays were shining through the broken window, the drifting dust like mist from the morning breeze. The moss around him had broken out with flowers, a small aftereffect of extensive use of healing magic.
His ribs had mostly healed, and he could use his left arm more or less freely. The basin outside had collected a solid amount of rainwater, so he set some aside for drinking and washed his face. After that, he put in his blood-soaked clothes.
The water turned crimson in an instant, chips of bone floating around.He let out a sigh. With them being so beaten up, he couldn't really use them anymore.
Still, not all hope was lost. The ruins used to be a citadel for nobles, so surely there was more clothing around somewhere.
Soon enough, the hunt around the crumbling towers turned into a treasure haul. Still-intact chairs, quills and inkwells, bedding, and clothing—all were hauled back into the shack.
And about that shack: despite his wishes, the rest of the castle was truly in ruins, with this being the only place with a solid roof and walls, perhaps spared due to its non-existent importance.
Taking some dry rags, he wiped the windowsills and surfaces from the dust and mopped the floor.
After that, he threw out the wrecked furniture, replacing it with what he found dotted around the inner castle.
Soon enough, he had a proper bed with sheets, a writing table with chairs, and a closet with clothes. He also managed to scavenge some other window covers, repairing his old broken ones.
If he was going to stay here for the month, it was going to at least be a decent stay.
Taking a stroll outside, he found a closed-up well, but after lifting the leather tarp cover, he realized there was still water inside.
Great. Drinking source secured.
He took the cover back to his place, along with a bucket of clean water for drinking and cooking. He wasn't in a state to hunt, but some boiled roots would be better than nothing.
Firing up a stove that was in the kitchen, he set the water to boil in a pot. In the meantime, he went back and started writing.
It was something his good friend Enom had recommended he try as a calming pastime. On the battlefields or at the table of politics, he never had time for it, but here, he almost had too much.
Humming as he went, he made a detailed record of everything that had transpired since his arrival, as well as noting down ideas for what to do about the Fallen.
Knowledge about him would likely spread from Manoth to the others fast, and the idea of being hunted by past angels wasn't appealing.
As his mind wandered, he began sketching, each stroke drawn beautifully and spaced carefully.
By the time he was finished with the artwork, the roots were done. They were tasteless, with no seasoning, but after a few, he confirmed that they were indeed better than starving.
With that, he got out a dagger he had borrowed from a corpse and cut up the tarp. Saving some to make a book cover, he used the rest to make a vambrace.