The unmistakable fear etched into every face Luther passed on the street confirmed what he had sensed yesterday; this wasn't just paranoia or fleeting anxiety. The entire town was gripped by a silent terror, a collective dread simmering beneath the surface.
Yet, despite this all-consuming fear, people still ventured out, risking exposure to whatever horrors lurked. Luther pondered this, thinking back to his own life before, his past in a harsher world where danger was also a constant. He understood it all too well: they did it for survival, for family, for the fragile hope of another day. For those at the bottom of society, fear was as constant as hunger, and just existing took everything they had.
After circling the market a few times, purchasing supplies and arranging for delivery to the clinic by noon, Luther decided to take a detour. Carol's home lay on the west side of the Rhine, and his intuition nagged at him. He recalled the events at the clinic, realizing that everyone present, including himself, had likely been exposed to the blood plague. If Carol had also been there, she was probably infected. He needed to check on her.
Crossing the stone bridge over the Rhine, Luther's attention was drawn by the sounds of coughing around him. He glanced at the passing faces and noticed an unsettling pattern; pallid skin, sunken eyes, shadows heavy beneath them, and a lethargy in their steps as if they carried an invisible weight. Their feverish pallor struck a chord of alarm within him.
'They're sick,' he thought grimly. The realization pressed on him, a cold stone in his gut. His instinct was to warn them, to stop them, to shout that they might be infected. Yet, he hesitated. He knew the reaction that might follow. Warning people about the blood plague could provoke panic, or worse, aggression. He could easily imagine the accusations, the fear turning against him. In his weakened position, attracting unnecessary hostility was a risk he couldn't afford.
He swallowed the words, watching the townsfolk shuffle past, some casting sidelong glances at him before averting their eyes, as if acknowledging his gaze might open them to further misfortune.
Eventually, Luther found himself on the narrow, winding path leading to Carol's cottage near the riverbank. He followed the familiar route, passing beneath the stone pier of the bridge, his boots crunching on the damp gravel, until he reached the narrow alley beside her home. Normally, this alley was filled with sounds; arguments, shouts, even the occasional laughter. But today, an eerie silence hung over the place, pressing down like a heavy fog.
The stillness set him on edge. He stopped, scanning the area. Not a single voice, not even a stray bird call. His pulse quickened as he considered the unsettling implications.
'Something is wrong here,' he thought. He was at a crossroads: turn back and avoid whatever had silenced this place, or continue, perhaps even knock on Carol's door to make sure she was safe.
Before he could make a decision, the door creaked open.
From inside, a figure stumbled out; a woman, mid-forties, her face pale and eyes wide with unfiltered terror. She wore tattered linen clothing, smeared with dirt and streaked with dark stains that Luther recognized instantly as dried blood. She seemed to have been through something unspeakable.
Luther took a step back, feeling the prickling of dread in his veins. The woman's gaze was blank, her eyes hollow, empty of hope or recognition. She shuffled forward, lifting a trembling hand toward him, lips parting as if to speak. But no words came out. Her mouth hung open, a silent scream, her hand frozen mid-reach.
And then it happened. A dark, twisted tendril, thick and sinuous like a serpent, shot out from the shadows of the doorway, wrapping around her waist in a grotesque, pulsing coil. It yanked her back with terrifying speed, dragging her into the depths of the house before she could even scream.
The door remained open, swinging slightly as though mocking him, while a heavy, nauseating stench spilled out, filling the air. The smell of rotting fish and decay clawed at his senses, making him gag. He stood rooted to the spot, watching, his heart pounding as he processed what he'd just witnessed.
Then he heard it; a wet, sickening crunch, the unmistakable sound of flesh tearing and bones splintering. The chewing. It was coming from inside the house, an insidious, rhythmic sound that slithered through the silence like a whisper of death itself.
Luther's instincts screamed at him to run. His gaze flickered back to the open door, to the darkened interior from which that terrible noise continued to echo. Without another thought, he turned and sprinted, his breaths coming quick and shallow as he bolted down the alley, away from the nightmare he had just glimpsed.
The taste of bile rose in his throat as he fled, not daring to look back.
Back at the clinic, Luther's heart still hammered in his chest, each beat a reminder of the terror he'd just encountered. He couldn't shake the image of that twisted creature, the way it had pulled Carol's neighbor into the darkness without effort. Whatever that monster was, he knew one thing for certain: even with his recent physical enhancements, he stood no chance against such an entity.
After all, he was just a doctor in his past life; an ordinary man trained in healing, not fighting. In this life, he'd been cautious, timid even, for over a month. He hadn't learned the first thing about combat, and his brief experiences here hadn't exactly instilled any courage in him. He might be able to handle a couple of brawny townsfolk in a fight if push came to shove, but against a creature like that? He was utterly clueless and painfully vulnerable.
"No, this won't do," he muttered to himself, a newfound resolve creeping into his voice. "I need to learn how to defend myself."
Seeing that creature had been a wake-up call. His system wasn't all-powerful, it couldn't turn him invincible or save him with a cheat code. If he was going to survive in this world, he needed skills of his own, skills that could keep him alive when things got rough.
Settling into the creaky office chair, Luther picked up Joseph's old quill, twirling it thoughtfully as he sifted through memories. He needed someone who could teach him combat skills, someone tough, experienced, and ideally not too pricey.
A name popped into his mind. 'Solomon,' the blacksmith on East Street. Solomon was a grizzled, short, and stout man with a limp, earned from his days in the military. Rumor had it he'd once been an adjutant in a long-ago war before an injury forced him into retirement. More importantly, Solomon had a weakness for drink and a habit of spending money as fast as he earned it. With a bit of silver, Luther was confident he could coax the old man into sharing some of his knowledge.
He jotted down Sol's name on a scrap of paper and marked it with a small asterisk.
Luther kept thinking, trying to recall anyone else who might fit the bill. Ralph, the hunter on West Street, came to mind. He was a cold-blooded sort, with a sharp eye and steady hand. Luther remembered him from the time he had considered apprenticing as a hunter, only to be turned down due to his frail condition. Ralph could be an option, but his home was dangerously close to Carol's place. After what he'd seen there, he wasn't eager to venture back so soon.
He wrote down Ralph's name, only to cross it out with a sigh.
There was one last option; the Knight Academy in the central district. Unfortunately, the academy only accepted noble students, and Luther's former self had been anything but. Yet he remembered a peculiar incident: his predecessor had once saved a noble child from drowning in the lake, an act that had earned him the family's goodwill. The nobleman had even offered to help Luther if he ever needed it. Still, Luther hesitated; promises from nobles were as fickle as the wind. Most of the nobility he'd encountered were more likely to mock him than lend any real aid.
With a shake of his head, he crossed off the academy as well. The nobles weren't to be trusted, and he had no desire to humiliate himself begging at their gates.
He stroked his chin, mulling over his choices. West Street was too risky, with the strange creature lurking near Carol's home. The nobles were unreliable and likely to bring more trouble than help. Which left him with just one option: Solomon.
There was, however, a slight complication. Solomon and his former self hadn't exactly been on the best of terms, but Luther decided that this little feud was trivial compared to the stakes now. His survival mattered more than old grudges or pride. Pocketing a handful of shillings from the clinic's meager stash, he set off toward East Street.
---
The blacksmith shop was easy to spot, with a soot-stained sign hanging crookedly above the door. As Luther approached, he found Solomon leaning unsteadily against the shop's wall, his red nose and glassy eyes indicating he'd already had his share of drink for the morning. His messy brown hair and untidy beard gave him the look of a man who'd been up all night.
A pair of young men, sneering and laughing, stood before Solomon, their posture cocky as they tossed insults at him. One of them nudged Sol's shoulder, causing the old man to sway slightly, his eyes glazed but vaguely amused by their words.
"Come on, old man, hand over whatever's left in that wallet of yours," one of the young men jeered, giving Solomon a hard shove.
Solomon chuckled, raising a hand and pointing at them with an unsteady finger, muttering nonsensical replies, clearly finding their harassment amusing in his drunken haze.
Luther's patience quickly wore thin. He wasn't here to watch a couple of street thugs bully an old man. Steeling himself, he approached the pair and tapped one on the shoulder.
The thug turned, sneering, "What do you want?"
Luther had originally planned on saying something diplomatic, maybe convincing them to leave without trouble. But as he took in their smug expressions, he felt a surge of irritation he hadn't expected. Instead of speaking, he reached out and clamped his hands around their necks, his grip surprisingly firm.
The young men's eyes widened as they felt the pressure of Luther's hands. They hadn't expected him to be this strong. They struggled, arms flailing as they tried to break free.
Luther leaned in, his voice low and cold. "I suggest you find someone else to bother. Sol's got company now."
The men exchanged glances, nervousness flickering in their eyes as they realized Luther wasn't bluffing. With a final, reluctant glare, they muttered curses under their breath, stumbled back, and slinked off into the crowd.
As they disappeared, Luther let out a slow breath, feeling the tension drain from his shoulders. He turned to find Solomon blinking up at him, his drunken smile widening into a grin.