Chapter 89: Ch89 Town Of Noia
A low, creaking sound broke the silence, echoing through the mist-laden trees like a warning from the underworld. An owl of tainted black perched above them, its glassy eyes glimmering crimson as its head rotated with a sound like grinding gears.
Then—snap.
"HOOOO-WAAAHHHH!"
The owl screeched like something tortured and flapped into the fog, disappearing into the endless dark.
The forest fell silent. Not peaceful silence—but the kind that waits for something to die.
Two sets of boots pressed into the damp soil, crunching leaves that seemed to whisper beneath their weight. Luther walked in front, the dull glow of his eyes cutting through the dim like shards of moonlight. Beside him, Alisa clung to her cloak, her expression tense but focused as she kept pace.
The air was heavy, thick with decay and something unseen—something watching.
Luther exhaled, his breath fogging. Why does every mission with me end up feeling like a cursed pilgrimage?
Envelon Forest was cursed enough.
He rubbed his temples as the sword muttered, "Remind me again why we had to take the scenic route through the Forest of Possible Death?"
Luther blinked. "Because you said shortcuts build character, Idiot."
The sword groaned. "I also said shortcuts get people killed. That was supposed to be sarcasm."
Alisa smiled nervously, brushing her hair from her face as she stepped over a root.
A branch cracked behind them. They both froze.
Luther’s gaze shifted to the left—sharp, alert—but saw nothing. The forest only creaked in reply. The wind carried an almost mocking tune, like laughter in the distance.
He frowned. "Report said the outskirt of Noia town had frequent monster attacks. If that’s true..." He scanned the trees. "Then why can’t I feel anything? No mana, no aura... not even a rat with a death wish."
He knelt and touched the ground. Cold. Empty.
Alisa’s brow furrowed. "Could it be an illusion? A sealing barrier?"
"Maybe," Luther replied, standing again. His tone turned dry. "Or maybe the gods decided to play hide and seek with their precious creations."
The sword hanging by his side gave a low, mocking hum.
Sword: "Oh, spooky! Maybe it’s the forest of your bad decisions coming to haunt you, Saint."
Luther side-eyed it. "I swear, if you had a mouth, I’d stuff it with holy water."
Sword: "You’d have to catch me first, pretty boy."
Luther ignored it and kept walking.
The two pressed deeper into the woods. The fog thickened, and the faint outline of trees began to warp like shadows melting into each other.
Then—thud.
"Ah!" Alisa stumbled forward. Her boot caught on a root, and she pitched toward the ground—only to be caught by Luther’s arm at the last second.
"You okay?" he asked, steadying her.
Her cheeks flushed slightly. "Y-yeah. Sorry. My footing slipped."
"You’ve been slipping since we entered this forest," he muttered with a faint smirk, releasing her.
They resumed walking, but the unease in the air only deepened. The forest was too still—too lifeless.
Then came the laughter.
Soft at first, like the tittering of a monkey far in the trees. Then more joined, circling them in echoing waves.
Alisa froze. "Is that—?"
"Monkeys," Luther said flatly. "Because of course."
The laughter grew louder—then stopped.
The silence that followed pressed against their ears, thick and wrong.
The sword groaned. "Oh yeah, this definitely isn’t cursed at all."
Luther’s hand went to the hilt, eyes glowing brighter as he scanned the area. His magic reached out like tendrils—but there was nothing to touch. Nothing alive.
Then—another thud.
He turned sharply, sword half-drawn, only to see Alisa again... sitting on her butt, wincing as her cloak slipped off.
Luther blinked. "You planning to fall your way to Noia?"
She gave him an embarrassed smile, rubbing her head. "I—I tripped."
"Third time," he said dryly, extending a hand. "At this rate, the forest will kill you before the monsters do."
Alisa took his hand with a quiet, "Sorry..."
But Luther’s words trailed off as his gaze caught something near where she had fallen.
"...Wait." His tone darkened. "Is that—bones?"
Alisa followed his line of sight—and screamed before she could stop herself.
A skeleton half-buried in the earth lay under her, its skull cracked open but the hollow eyes staring up at them as if in eternal accusation.
Alisa scrambled back, trembling. "Saints above—"
"Don’t look," Luther said, voice sharp now. "We’re leaving."
He grabbed her wrist and began to pull her forward.
The sword’s voice came again, low and unnervingly amused. "Friendly forest, huh? Maybe the monkeys had dinner."
Luther snapped, "Shut it before I turn you into a shovel."
They moved faster, boots crunching over the dead leaves. The air felt heavier now, pressing down like a curse.
After a while, Alisa panted. "Why are we running?!"
"Because," Luther replied between steps, "this forest is too quiet."
Her eyes widened.
"Even cursed lands have echoes, Alisa. You don’t get nothing unless something’s forcing it."
As if on cue, a faint light glimmered through the fog. A beam—white and soft—appeared at the end of the path.
Both of them slowed.
Luther’s instincts screamed trap, but the only way was forward. He stepped ahead, gripping his sword tightly.
The moment they crossed into the light—
—they emerged before the wide wooden gates of a small town.
A rotting sign hung crookedly at the entrance. The letters were faded, but still readable.
NOIA TOWN.
The gate was wide open. No guards. No people.
Luther’s hand twitched. His magic reacted violently, swirling beneath his skin as if ready to tear something apart. The blood-red sky above them flickered like the afterglow of a dying sun.
Alisa swallowed. "Saint Luther... where are the guards? The people?"
"Where is everyone?"
Luther didn’t answer immediately. His gaze swept across the street—houses stood in perfect stillness, doors half-open, windows cracked. No smoke from chimneys. No sound of life.
The sword muttered, "Too quiet for a town. Either everyone left or..."
"Or something silenced them," Luther finished.
He stepped forward, his voice low. "Stay close."
They entered through the gates. Each step echoed, as if the ground itself was hollow.
A child’s toy lay on the ground—half-buried in mud. A small wooden horse, splattered with something dark.
Alisa’s grip on her staff tightened. "Saint... this doesn’t feel right."
Luther gave a grim hum. "Understatement of the year."
Sword: "Bet you fifty gold the corpses will start talking."
"Shut up," Luther hissed.
Sword: "Make me."
Luther clenched his jaw, but the faintest smirk tugged at his lips. Even in hell, the damn thing couldn’t stop running its mouth.
Then—a sound.
A wet squelch, like something dragging against cobblestone.
Alisa froze. "Did you hear that?"
"Yeah," Luther said, drawing his sword. "And I don’t like it."
They turned toward the main square. The air shimmered—then from the fog, figures began to appear.
At first, silhouettes. Then shapes.
Villagers.
Men, women, children... all walking slowly, eerily synchronized. Their faces pale and blank, eyes glazed like porcelain.
Alisa gasped and stepped back. "Saint Luther—they’re—"
"Dead," he finished grimly. "Or puppets."
The sword chuckled darkly. "See? I told you! Zombie hour."
Luther’s hand tightened on the hilt, his voice calm but cold. "If they attack, aim for the head."
Alisa hesitated. "But if they’re alive—"
"They’re not."
Then—
A voice broke through the tension.
"Ahh... visitors."
Both turned sharply.
From the mist, a small, portly man emerged. He wore a merchant’s fine coat—though it was splattered faintly with dried blood—and two armored guards flanked him, their armor rusted but polished to hide it.
His smile was too wide, his bow too graceful.
"Welcome to Noia," he said, voice smooth as oil. "Our humble home awaits you."
Luther’s expression didn’t change. His glowing blue eyes bore into the man, unblinking.
The sword muttered softly, "You’re not smiling. That’s a bad sign."
Luther replied without looking away, "I only smile when I’m about to hit something."
The merchant chuckled, still bowing. "Ah, such manners! You must be from the temple."
Luther tilted his head slightly. "And you must be from hell."
The merchant’s smile faltered for just a moment.
Then came a distant click.
From behind the nearby buildings, dozens of figures began stepping out—villagers, all with dead eyes and twisted smiles.
The merchant’s voice was sweet as rot. "We’ve been expecting you, priests."
Luther’s hand slid fully onto his sword hilt.
The cursed blade whispered, "Told you this town was cursed. You owe me fifty gold."
Luther sighed. "If we live through this, I’ll throw you in a volcano."
Then, under the blood-red sky, the town of Noia came alive with whispers—soft, hungry, inhuman.
Alisa gripped her staff. "Saint—what do we do?"
Luther exhaled slowly, eyes burning with that fierce, unholy calm that only he could muster.
"...We smile," he said, voice dripping with dry humor. "And hope the locals are bad at stabbing."
The merchant’s grin widened. "Oh, I wouldn’t count on that."
And as he raised his hand—every villager turned toward them in unison, smiling wide enough to crack their faces—
Luther smirked, blade humming at his side.
"Finally," he muttered, "something normal."
As Luther gripped the demonic sword handle and got ready to attack but then.
"STOP!!"
Luther turned as a figure pushed their way through the crowd of dead and puppets, a group of people fully clothed, but what stopped Luther wasn’t their appearance but that...
They’re Alive?