Halfway through the story, Hailey drifted off to sleep, clutching the quilt tightly, her face streaked with tear tracks that glistened faintly in the dim light. Her breathing evened out, the soft rise and fall of her chest signaling that exhaustion had finally claimed her after the tumultuous day.
Luther approached her with calm, measured steps. He gazed down at her sleeping form, the faint traces of despair still etched into her features even in slumber. Without a word, he carefully tucked her exposed arms and feet back under the quilt, pulling it snugly up to her chin.
"Rest," he murmured softly, almost to himself. "You'll need your strength."
From his pocket, he retrieved the 'Touch of Plague', now reduced to a trembling, shrunken ball of flesh. Its surface quivered as it sensed the change in its environment. Luther regarded it for a moment, his expression unreadable, before tossing it unceremoniously under the bed.
"Stay here," he instructed in a low voice. "Keep an eye on her. Don't cause any trouble."
The blob emitted a faint, reluctant gurgle, but it didn't argue. Satisfied, Luther turned on his heel and left the room, his thoughts already shifting to the task ahead.
The town was quiet as he made his way to the clinic, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the cobbled streets. Although he had managed to subdue Nawasir and resolve the immediate threat of the blood plague, the deeper mysteries surrounding its origins still lingered, unanswered and unsettling.
The 'torn note' he had taken from Old John weighed heavily on his mind. It hinted at a deeper conspiracy, one that intertwined with the chaotic memories he'd gleaned from Elizabeth and the cryptic answers Nawasir had provided earlier that day.
When he'd questioned Nawasir about the blood plague's origins, its answer had been frustratingly vague: it had no idea. This, combined with Elizabeth's fragmented recollections, confirmed one thing, this was no natural phenomenon. The blood plague was deliberately unleashed, orchestrated by a sinister group: the disciples of Hermann.
But why? What was their goal?
Luther had no answers.
As he reached the clinic, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The space was quiet, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. He sank into the chair behind the desk, resting his head on one hand while massaging his temple with the other.
It was a familiar motion, one he had repeated countless times since arriving in this world. Whenever a headache set in, he instinctively pressed his temples, as though trying to massage the weight of his thoughts away.
He exhaled heavily, leaning back in the chair. '"I'm just a doctor,"' he thought bitterly. '"Why do I have to deal with this?"'
But deep down, he knew the answer. It was that same sense of responsibility that had driven him in his previous life, the same unrelenting desire to do what was right. And now, in this strange and twisted world, he had seen too much, experienced too much, to simply turn a blind eye.
Reaching into the desk drawer, Luther pulled out the dagger Old Thor had once given him. The hilt, once adorned with a distinctive cross, had been worn smooth through countless battles. Yet the scabbard, crafted from black rhino leather, was as pristine as ever, its surface polished from years of use at his side.
With a soft 'clang', he unsheathed the blade.
The moment the dagger was exposed, a nauseating, fishy stench filled the air. Luther's nose wrinkled, but he didn't flinch. He examined the weapon closely, running his fingers over the worn metal. Deep grooves and nicks marred the blade, scars of the battles it had endured.
Despite its condition, when he flicked the edge with his fingernail, it responded with the same crisp, sharp ring as the day he had first received it.
"Still sharp," he muttered to himself as he sheathed the blade and hesitated. After a moment's thought, he looped it around his waist.
"I don't know how much longer this will last," he murmured, his voice barely audible. But there was no hesitation in his movements as he stood and prepared to leave.
His destination: the Knight Academy in the central district.
The story Hailey had told about vertical pupils had its roots there, and Luther was determined to find the answers.
But as he took his first steps, a voice broke the stillness, low and resonant, tinged with an alien hum.
'"Great and ancient Lord,"' Nawasir's voice echoed in his mind. '"If you are going for a walk, I humbly request to accompany you."'
Luther stopped in his tracks and glanced down. At his feet, a spittoon began to tremble. Slowly, a mass of dark green, sticky liquid oozed out, writhing as it coalesced into a shape vaguely resembling a distorted face.
Luther pinched the bridge of his nose, suppressing the urge to sigh. This creature had insisted on using the spittoon as its personal sanctuary, much to Luther's exasperation. He had even offered to build it a small house, but the blob had refused.
Now, seeing how comfortably it had nestled into its chosen "home," Luther had to admit, this was clearly its preference.
'"You look way too comfortable in there,"' Luther muttered, his tone dry.
Ignoring the remark, Nawasir continued, its voice steady. '"In my efforts to clear the blood plague, I encountered obstacles; followers of false gods. Chaos and blindness are their creed, and they spread confusion in the name of these false deities."'
It paused, its tone darkening. '"I dealt with them, but their presence lingers. Three locations hold significance: the manor outside the suburbs, the wine cellar on West Street, and the Knight Academy in the central area."'
Luther's eyes narrowed as he processed this information. He had been about to head to the Knight Academy anyway, but this confirmation solidified his resolve.
'"Is this the work of Hermann's disciples?"' he asked, his voice sharp.
Nawasir's voice rippled with something akin to reverence. '"Wisdom is with you, my Lord."'
'"You did well."'
Nawasir visibly quivered at the praise, ripples of pride radiating through its translucent form. Luther continued, his voice firmer this time:
'"If you come across any more of Hermann's disciples, eliminate them without hesitation."'
Nawasir's body pulsated faintly as it responded, the simulated voice echoing in Luther's mind:
'"Your will is obeyed, Great Lord."'
Unbeknownst to Luther, Nawasir was practically preening. The ancient being's simulated sense of pride swelled. It didn't just obey out of duty, it had its own schemes to win Luther's favor. In fact, it had done more than what it had reported.
Its gelatinous body jiggled with satisfaction as it reflected on the "extras" it had accomplished. The humans it had encountered during its mission; those trembling wretches clinging to their hollow beliefs, had glimpsed the radiance of Luther's blue will. Their terror and awe? Carefully orchestrated by Nawasir, of course. It wouldn't mention this, though. No, that would spoil the effect.
Instead, it imagined the perfect moment when Luther would notice this on his own and inquire about the newfound reverence. At that point, Nawasir would humbly explain, "They were enlightened by your greatness." And then, surely, more praise would follow. Face and substance, all in one clever stroke.
Yes, 'this' was Nawasir's wisdom.
Smug in its self-congratulation, Nawasir cast a fleeting glance of disdain toward the 'Touch of Plague', which could only offer Luther physical servitude. Nawasir? Nawasir was working on 'spiritual' comfort.
Luther, unaware of the blob's inner monologue, was in a good mood himself. With Nawasir subdued and obedient, a significant weight had been lifted off his shoulders. In the future, if he ran into any particularly nasty situations, all he needed to do was "release the blob." A simple and elegant solution.
Still, something nagged at him. Since Nawasir had been to the Knight Academy, maybe it had encountered one of those peculiar creatures with vertical pupils.
Luther tilted his head thoughtfully before addressing it:
'"Nawasir, did you come across anything with vertical pupils while at the Knight Academy?"'
The blob's body immediately began to bubble, an odd reaction even by Nawasir's standards. Within seconds, a large, uniquely shaped vertical pupil emerged from its quivering mass and landed with a wet squelch on the floor.
'"Is this what you mean, Great Lord?"' Nawasir asked.
Luther crouched, picking up the object with a faint grimace. It was cold, slick, and faintly pulsating. Upon closer inspection, the pupil's back still bore ragged tendons, darkened blood vessels, and even a twitching fragment of a tentacle.
The sight matched the descriptions from the story, but what caught Luther off guard was the realization that Nawasir… had eaten it.
He gave the blob a sharp look. '"You ate this, didn't you?"'
Nawasir's tone remained perfectly calm as it replied, '"It was taken from a contaminated creature in the dungeons of the Knight Academy. It carried the aura of a false god, so I preserved it… for now."'
Luther narrowed his eyes, his lips curling into a faint sneer of exasperation. He tossed the vertical pupil into the spittoon with a satisfying thud.
'"Fine. Keep it,"' he muttered. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, '"I'll make you a pot of stewed meat tonight."'
At the mention of stewed meat, Nawasir's entire body rippled with excitement, all its complex scheming forgotten in an instant. The thought of delicious, juicy meat consumed its mind completely.
'"Stewed meat!"'
To show its gratitude, it extended a short, slimy, dark-green tentacle from its body and began licking Luther's boots with fervent enthusiasm.
Luther sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as black lines of irritation seemed to appear across his face. '"It's official,"' he thought. '"The plague's insanity is inherited from this thing."'
---
Later that evening, Luther ventured out to gather ingredients. Seasonings, vegetables, bread, and meat, all the essentials for a proper feast. He decided that tonight's dinner, his last in Evernight Town, would be a memorable one.
---
As night fell, the clinic's modest kitchen brimmed with warmth and activity.
Luther, wearing a slightly oversized apron, stirred a pot of thick, savory soup, tasting it from a wooden spoon. Steam rose from the bubbling broth as he hummed a lively tune with a peculiar accent, the melody filling the room with an almost cheerful energy.
Behind him, Hailey sat on a chair, swinging her legs absentmindedly. She had traded her usual clothes for a clean white robe, which gave her an almost innocent air. She rested her chin in her hands, watching Luther's every move with a soft, silly smile spreading across her face.
On the floor, a round-bellied zombie gnawed on a wooden stick, its dead eyes locked hungrily on the 'Touch of Plague', which rolled across the room with its usual blend of sluggish defiance and exaggerated panic.
Meanwhile, Nawasir had stationed itself under the table, draping its gelatinous form protectively over a large pot of stewed meat. It absorbed the scent and warmth of the dish, digesting in peaceful, blissful comfort.
The kitchen was alive with an odd but harmonious energy, a strange yet fitting farewell to their time in Evernight Town.