St. Mecca, population 160,000, a resort town with dense forests and clean waters. One of the central cities directly under the control of House Quarvadis.
People walk solemnly and reverently along the white marble paved streets.
Whenever a bell rings from the tall clock tower, everyone stops in their tracks and prays to the holy tablet on the roof of the Quavadis' official residence in the distance.
If a gold coin fell to the ground, it was not picked up, and order and security were kept very strictly by the citizens' own rituals.
"...where would I live suffocated?"
Vikir stood on the roof of a tall tower and looked down.
Women walked around with white cloths wrapped around their bodies, exposing only their eyes. The men did the same.
For religious reasons, lust and greed are strictly controlled.
No nudity, no fashion, it's all white and monochromatic.
It's a far different atmosphere from the Balak village, a tribe that lives freely in the jungle with most of their bodies exposed.
Having lived there for the past two years, Vikir found the atmosphere of St. Mecca stuffy and uncomfortable.
After waiting for darkness to fall, he headed to a slum on the outskirts of the city, far from the center.
Broken windows, cracked walls, low-lying areas with stagnant water and steep staircases.
Slum scenes are similar everywhere. It's the same in cities under the power of Quavadis the Faithful.
The people here are especially harsh, as Saint Quavadis banishes sinners from the center of the city and sends them to the outskirts.
People who hadn't committed felonies worthy of jail time, but had committed misdemeanors that wouldn't allow them to enter the center.
They were weeded out by the checkpoints and paladins that dotted the city's pathways.
Vikir climbed a steep flight of stairs and entered the slums on the higher ground.
It was the most remote and darkest of the slums.
Then, from beyond the darkness, the bell rang twelve times, signaling midnight.
By this time, few people were passing by, but those who remained in the streets all bowed down to the ground to show their respect to the Quavadis.
And when they did, only the Hound of the Night did not.
Moving through the noise of the night, Vikir went to the well and pulled out a vial.
It was the Red Death, the essence of the plague, drawn from the blood, sweat, and tears of Ahul.
Vikir poured the liquid into the well.
He released the Red Death into the heart of the Quarvadis.
"It is an extremely infectious plague, and sooner or later there will be a reaction."
The Red Death has an incubation period of up to ten days and a minimum of one day.
Once inside the body, it can take as little as a day to develop, three days if it comes into contact with mucous membranes, and usually a week if it is spread through breathing or skin contact.
'It's the realm of the faithful, so hopefully we can cure it before anyone dies.
Vikir thought for a moment about when to move on to the next design.
Then.
"...!"
Vikir made eye contact with a group of children approaching from the other side of the well.
They were on their way to catch bugs, and they were carrying buckets, dragonfly traps, and sugar water.
The oldest child, the one in front of him, peered over and asked.
"Is anyone there?"
The children stopped in front of the well and shouted. They can barely see Vikir, who blends perfectly into the darkness.
It's a dark, moonless night, and Vikir is masked.
He'd never be recognized, but he had to be careful.
Next, Vikir's eyes glowed with life.
A crimson glow blasted through the gas mask's glasses.
[I will curse this well.]
The children shuddered at Vikir's words and sank to the ground in a heap. They even pissed themselves.
Vikir warned them sternly.
[Anyone who drinks from this well will surely die].
It's unnecessary, but it's a consideration.
He didn't want the children to get caught up in it.
"Hiiiit! It's a ghost! It's a demon!"
"The well is cursed!"
"Ew! I'll never drink it!"
The children scurried away in a huff.
After Vikir checked several times to make sure that all the popular pretenders were gone, he buried something in the dirt near the well.
It was a marker left by the intruders who had flooded in some time ago.
It was the mark of Leviathan the Extremist.
Vikir knew immediately that the Leviathans were responsible for unleashing the Red Death on the surface.
"Let's see you guys fight to the death."
The religious Quavadis and the ultra-orthodox Leviathan had been at odds for generations.
What would happen if the Red Death spread to Quavadisgar's home base?
Since it's Quavadisgar's home base, suppressing it would be quick, but after that would be the problem.
"We need to move fast."
I can already see a few people coming up to draw water from the well.
We need to get the Quarvadis out before there are any innocent civilian casualties.
The sooner I can fulfill my promise to Aiyen.
* * *
The Hound of the Night worked diligently, visiting the official residence of the Holy Prophet Quavadis in the heart of Saint Mecca.
Despite the late hour, several wagons were parked in front of the compound.
It's true what they say, sickness does not sleep at night.
Even at this moment, there were many people who wanted to visit the holy man to heal themselves.
Most of them were nobles and wealthy people who had arrived in fancy carriages, and they were all knocking on the saint's door, their well-groomed clothes contrasting with their sickly faces.
"We heard that you are on retreat here! Please open the door for us, we want to greet you!"
"Oh saint, I knew you were here, and I have come to ask you to take a look at my illness just once!"
"Please let me see him, saint!"
It seems that word has gotten around that Saint Dolores, the direct descendant of Quavadis and the owner of a small household, is currently here in St. Mecca.
Saint Dolores, the pride of the Quavadis family, is currently a sophomore at the Imperial Academy, where she is the Vice President of the Student Council.
Rumors that she was resting here during the academy's vacation period had drawn nobles and noblemen from far and wide.
They were all highborn nobles, rich men with lots of money.
Over the clamor of knocking and shouting, a voice came from inside the door.
"...Who are you and what brings you to me at this late hour?"
The voice was gentle and feminine, but with a hint of power.
The voice of a saint, perhaps.
The nobles and the rich were thrilled to hear the voice of the famous Saint Dolores herself.
But it doesn't last long, and they quickly answer.
"I am the son-in-law of the House of Alpons, the eldest son of the House of Jonathan, which has produced knights of great distinction from generation to generation, and the son-in-law of the House of Dortmund, and I have the House of Dotte as my brother above, and the House of Franz as my sister below...!"
"I am the general manager of the Ipsen Guild Union, which is a subcontractor to the Bourgeois family, and I am in my fifth year as president of the Ipsen Town Council, and I am also an honorary knight, having recently been knighted by the Empire and having served for two years as a squire to the prestigious Count Les Baskervilles, a Boston terrier...!"
"If I may speak for myself, I am the second son of House Childs, and if you can cure me of my ailments, I can bestow upon you the entirety of the fertile granary lands far from the main house of the Quavadis, as well as a villa on the warm shores of the south and a fleet of private carriages...!"
But.
No man, no matter how powerful, no matter how rich, could open the gates of Quavadisgar.
St. Dolores kept the door firmly closed and refused to open it to anyone.
"I don't see how your status and wealth are any reason for me to open the gates to your ambitious vision."
Not the noble, not the rich. They all went home, exhausted, after proclaiming at the top of their lungs how wonderful they were and how much they could pay for a cure.
And then, as the night wore on. The line had disappeared and Vikir was the last one standing at the door of the government office.
It was so quiet you couldn't tell if anyone was behind the door.
Standing in front of it, Vikir knocked politely.
Sure enough, this time he heard the saint's voice.
"Who are you, and what brings you to me at this late hour?"
Vikir thought for a moment.
The men who'd been listing their identities at the top of their lungs just moments before had all come up empty.
"That is not the taste of a saint."
Vikir knows who Saint Dolores is.
He'd seen her on the front lines, on the bloodiest of battlefields, before he was turned back.
The intense look of treating the wounded covered in blood.
Her white robes stained with blood, her white holy power bursting from her.
The sight, even from a distance, was holy and sublime.
Finally, Vikir spoke briefly.
"...It's just a lost lamb."
For a moment, there was silence beyond the door.
Vikir waited.
And then.
A click.
The door to the Quavadis of the Faithful, which had been firmly closed and opened to no one, opened.