Chapter 87: Ch87 Road To Noia
"ACHOO!"
The sneeze echoed like a trumpet blast inside the cramped merchant carriage. Luther groaned and rubbed his nose, eyes squinting as the cloud of road dust swirled through the air. The wooden wheels clattered against uneven stones, each bump threatening to throw him face-first into the opposite wall.
"Bless you," the sword muttered dryly from beneath the black cloth tied around its scabbard. "Though maybe next time you could sneeze quieter—some of us are trying to maintain our dignity."
Luther shot the weapon a deadpan look. "You’re a sword. You don’t have dignity."
"Oh, says the saint who uses me as a footrest," the sword sniped back as it vibrated.
The mercenaries sitting around them snorted, and the leader smirked without glancing up. The carriage they rode in was large enough to fit all seven of them, but the air was thick with the smell of dust, leather, and sweat. The canvas cover at the back had been rolled up for ventilation, letting Luther see the winding dirt road trailing behind them.
He sighed, leaning an elbow on the window frame. "How much longer till we reach Noia?"
The leader grunted. "If the wheels don’t break and the gods don’t curse us, one more day."
Luther’s face dropped like a man who’d just been told he’d have to walk barefoot through hell. "Two days," he muttered, "just perfect. Maybe by then I’ll lose my mind."
"Already there," the sword commented.
He ignored it. Or tried to.
Opposite him sat Alina, her hair tucked beneath her hood, hands folded neatly on her lap. Her eyes were closed—sleeping, or pretending to—but the corners of her lips twitched whenever the sword vibrated. Beside her sat the four mercenaries: the archer and swordsman whispering about something, the mage flipping through a tattered spellbook, and the leader watching the road ahead with the patience of a rock.
The rhythmic creak of wheels and horseshoes filled the silence until the sword decided quiet was unbearable.
"You look bored," it drawled. "Why don’t you pull out that shiny black crystal? At least pretend to do something productive instead of sulking."
Luther grumbled, but he reached into his cloak anyway. His fingers brushed against the smooth, cold surface of the black crystal, its inner mist swirling faintly with faint violet light. The air felt colder just touching it.
"Still gives me the creeps," he muttered.
"Maybe because it’s cursed," the sword said. "Or maybe because you stole it from one of those idiotic thugs. Who can say?"
Luther rolled his eyes. "You’re one to talk about curses."
The sword vibrated again but his time Alina opened one eye, a faint smile tugging at her lips. Luther caught her expression and frowned. "Don’t you start too."
But before another word could be said, the archer spoke up. "Hey," he said, leaning forward slightly. "What do you think about the rumor of the Saint?"
Luther froze mid-motion. Alina’s eyelids fluttered open completely.
The mage perked up immediately, eyes sparkling. "Oh! You mean the Saint of Asmethan? They say he’s young—really young—and that he can use magic without any medium at all! I wonder what he looks like. Is he tall? Handsome? Maybe he’s one of those dark, mysterious types..."
Luther’s left eye twitched.
"Child of Asmethan," the leader said with a grunt. "That’s what they’re calling him now. A gift from the gods, or something."
The mere mention of that name made Luther’s jaw tighten. His blue earring crystal flickered faintly, reacting to his mood. "Gift, huh," he muttered under his breath. "More like a curse."
Alina stifled a laugh behind her hand. She leaned closer and whispered, "Sire, it seems your title is becoming quite popular these days. Sooner or later it could turn into a legend before you even reach the capital?"
The sword chuckled. "Ah, the people’s imagination never disappoints. I wonder how disappointed they’ll be when they find out their divine miracle worker is just—what—average height? Scrawny? Grumpy? Oh, and definitely not glowing with divine light. Unless exhaustion counts."
Luther smacked the sword’s hilt with the back of his hand. Thwack!
The sound made everyone look at him.
He blinked, expression blank. "Bug."
The mercenaries burst into laughter. The leader slapped his knee while the archer nearly dropped his bow.
"You’ve got quite the sense of humor, kid," the leader said, still chuckling.
Luther gave a small smirk. "Better that than crying."
When the laughter died down, the swordsman turned toward Alina. "You’re from the Temple, right? Apprentice robes. So tell us—have you actually seen the Saint?"
Luther’s glare could have melted steel, but Alina nervously smiled and shook her head. "No, um, he’s been... confined, I guess. Magic drain, they said. The priests are keeping him in recovery."
"Magic drain, huh," the swordsman murmured. "Must be rough. For regular people who own crystals, when our crystals empty, they just crack—we get tired, but nothing fatal. But if someone stores magic inside their body..."
"Then the body itself becomes the reservoir," the mage finished for him. "If it empties, that could mean collapse—or worse."
Alina nodded thoughtfully. "That’s what I’ve heard."
Luther stayed quiet, eyes half-lidded. His thoughts swirled—Magic drain... huh. Even when I passed out after the ritual, I could still feel mana flowing. It wasn’t drain... just exhaustion.
The sword’s voice cut into his mind. "Are you sure about that? You collapsed for a day. Sounds pretty drain-y to me."
Luther crossed his arms. "If it was magic drain, I wouldn’t have been able to throw a wind spell five minutes after waking up. You forget—I’m not exactly normal."
"Understatement of the century," the sword muttered.
The carriage hit a bump, jolting everyone. The mage squeaked as her book flew into the air and landed on Luther’s lap. He handed it back wordlessly, and she stammered an apology.
As the wheels rolled on, the group’s conversation drifted from saints to monster sightings, to the rumors of nobles hoarding mana crystals. The tone lightened, but Luther’s mood didn’t. The name Asmethan still echoed in his head like poison.
His fingers absently touched the blue crystal on his ear. It pulsed faintly in time with his heartbeat.
"Still thinking about it?" Alina asked quietly, noticing the way his expression darkened.
He exhaled through his nose. "Just remembering how much I hate that god’s name."
The sword hummed in agreement. "For once, we’re on the same page."
The leader, half-listening, raised an eyebrow. "You really don’t like the gods, do you, kid?"
Luther leaned back, his tone light but edged. "Let’s just say I’ve had enough divine ’blessings’ to last three lifetimes."
That drew a few chuckles, though the swordsman looked at him curiously. "You talk like you’ve met one."
"Oh wait?"
Luther gave a humorless smirk. "We have, dumdum."
The sword whispered slyly, remebering their morning visitor "Maybe she was one, but she was nuts."
He subtly elbowed the sheath. "Shut it."
That earned another round of confused glances, but no one pressed further.
The rest of the afternoon dragged by, filled with occasional chatter and the rhythmic creak of wheels. Luther found himself watching the horizon, where dark gray clouds gathered low. He didn’t like the look of them.
It wasn’t rain. It was something heavier.
The sword must have sensed it too, because its tone dropped. "Something’s wrong with the air."
Luther nodded faintly. "Yeah. It feels... sick."
Alina frowned. "Sick?"
"Like rot," Luther said, his voice low. "Mana feels wrong here."
The leader’s brow creased. "You can feel mana like that, huh?"
Luther didn’t answer. His attention was on the horizon—where faint red smoke curled into the sky.
He thought about saying something but decided against it. He was too tired, and besides, maybe it was just his imagination.
Then, as if to break the growing tension, the archer spoke again, stretching his arms. "So, Alina—why are you two heading to Noia anyway? I heard the place isn’t what it used to be."
Alina tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
The archer shrugged. "Just that people there are... dying."
Luther’s eyes snapped toward him. "What did you just say?"
The archer blinked, surprised at the sudden sharpness in his voice. "You didn’t hear? Word’s been spreading since last week. Noia’s under quarantine—they say a plague hit the city. Whole districts are locked down. The guards are burning bodies in the streets while some are even melting in a day."
The carriage went silent.
Even the sword didn’t speak.
Luther’s hand clenched around the black crystal, his pulse quickening as he looked toward the smoke rising far in the distance.
"Plague," he repeated under his breath, his tone cold.
A faint, uneasy laugh escaped the sword. "Well, looks like your trip just got a whole lot more exciting."
Luther didn’t laugh.
He looked forward, his reflection faintly visible on the carriage’s brass frame—eyes glowing faint blue under the fading sun.
"Turn back?" the leader asked cautiously.
Luther didn’t answer immediately. His mind raced, his thoughts darker than the clouds above.
Finally, he said softly—almost to himself—
"No. Keep going."
The sword groaned. "Of course. Why rest when you can march straight into a death zone?"
But Luther’s gaze never wavered. "If Noia’s dying, I need to know why."
The carriage rolled on toward the smoke, the air thick with the promise of death.
And somewhere far behind them, as if fate itself were laughing, the first fat drop of red rain splattered against the dirt road.