Chapter 90: Ch90 What A Weird Town
Luther’s eyes scanned the gathered people — the living ones, at least. His fingers still clenched tightly around the hilt of the demonic sword, though the weapon itself remained quiet for once. The air hung thick with unease. Something about this place made his stomach twist in ways not even demons could manage.
Then came the laughter—a sudden, booming sound that shattered the thick quiet of the square. The merchant standing at the center threw his head back and laughed so loudly the echo rolled off the decaying stone walls like thunder.
Luther blinked, frowning. The laugh wasn’t sane. It was the laugh of someone who’d been pretending too long that things were fine and had finally forgotten how to stop pretending.
Before he could even open his mouth, the sound spread—wrongly.
The dead puppets began to laugh too. Or rather, they tried to. Their mouths gaped and stretched, dry throats rattling out hollow, cracking noises. No emotion. No rhythm. Just a grotesque mimicry of the living.
A cold tingle crawled up Luther’s spine. His grip on the sword tightened again.
"...Wonderful," he muttered under his breath. "Laughing corpses. Just what I needed today."
Beside him, Alina moved closer—subtle but noticeable. Her robe brushed his arm as she shifted, her eyes darting around the square like a cornered rabbit. She was pale, her lips pressed tight in the effort to look calm. She failed miserably.
Luther glanced sideways at her and sighed. "Relax," he whispered. "If they wanted us dead, we’d already be the chorus in that lovely concert."
Her glare was sharp, but it didn’t reach her trembling hands.
Both of them exchanged confused glances, eyes silently asking the same question — what in all the hells is going on here?
Before either could speak again, one of the living townsfolk stepped forward. An old man—his beard white and long, his robes simple but well cared for. He coughed softly into his sleeve, then bowed deeply toward them.
"We thank you, kind travelers," the elder rasped. "Especially you, Apprentice, for coming all the way to help our town."
Luther blinked once. Apprentice? He hadn’t even said who he was.
Before he could correct the man or ask what he meant, the merchant threw an arm around the elder’s shoulder with a grin far too wide for the situation. "Now, now! Don’t look so tense! These are our friends."
He gestured toward the line of unmoving corpses. "They won’t harm anyone. No malice here—see for yourself!"
Luther’s jaw flexed. He didn’t need to sense magic to feel the wrongness crawling in the air. Every corpse’s body pulsed faintly with the remnants of life—not quite dead, not truly alive. Something unnatural was keeping them bound here.
Then he noticed a little girl. She couldn’t have been older than six. She giggled softly as one of the puppets, a woman missing half her face, gently patted her head. The girl hugged the creature’s leg affectionately, smiling like she’d just been given candy.
Luther’s stomach twisted.
His voice came out dry, edged with disbelief. "They’re your... families?"
The elder smiled and nodded, tears glinting in his eyes. "Yes, Apprentice. Every one of them."
He raised a trembling hand toward the crimson sky above them. The sky looked like it had been torn open, painted with blood. "After the heavens turned red, those who had perished—those taken by the plague, and even those long buried—rose again. They came back to us... just like this. One day, they simply walked back into town... as if nothing had happened."
His voice broke into a chuckle as one of the puppets, an elderly woman missing half her jaw, shuffled closer. She leaned forward and kissed the old man’s cheek with lips that no longer bled.
Luther felt bile rise in his throat.
This world really needs a restart button.
He forced himself to stay composed, though his expression said otherwise.
Luther barely held his expression. Inside, he was screaming.
Fantastic. The old man’s in love with a corpse. Truly, this world is reaching peak nightmare.
He fought the urge to physically step back, his face twitching once before settling into something blank. Alina, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to faint or set the place on fire—maybe both. She muttered something faintly that might’ve been a prayer, though from her tone it sounded more like a desperate plea for someone else to deal with this.
Luther leaned slightly toward her and whispered dryly, "Don’t lower your guard. Smile if you have to, but if one of them sneezes, I’m burning this whole square down."
Alina blinked rapidly and nodded stiffly.
Luther sighed, forcing a casual grin as he raised his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry about earlier. Guess I got a little spooked. You know how it is—see a corpse move, instinct says smash first, ask questions never."
The elder waved his hands, panicked. "No, no, please! We meant no harm to the holy ones!"
"Holy ones?" Luther echoed.
Then the elder turned to Alina, bowed even lower, and said with reverent awe, "We would never frighten the Holy Saint."
Alina froze.
Her mouth opened, shut, then opened again as her brain tried to process what she’d just heard. "W-what—?"
Luther nearly smirked. His brain clicked instantly.
Oh. Oh, this is rich.
He glanced at Alina—the pristine temple robe gleaming faintly in the red light. Then he looked down at himself—mud-streaked boots, a travel coat half burned at the hem, no temple insignia, no trace of holiness whatsoever.
Right. They were expecting a Saint from the temple. And here stands Miss Radiant Robes beside Mister Smells-like-grave-dirt.
Alina’s panicked eyes darted toward him. She took a shaky breath and started, "Ah—um, I think there’s a misunde—"
Luther’s hand shot out and caught her wrist gently but firmly.
His face was calm. His voice, smooth. "Don’t," he whispered, his eyes cutting sideways.
She blinked at him in confusion.
Then he straightened up and turned toward the crowd, adopting the calm, haughty tone of someone very used to manipulating chaos. His expression sharpened just enough to look authoritative.
"You should be grateful," he declared, voice booming, "that the Holy Saint was not angered by your misunderstanding. Were she truly offended, divine punishment might’ve reduced this entire town to ashes!"
A wave of gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"The Saint has forgiven us!"
"Mercy upon us all!"
"Blessed be her grace!"
Alina stood there, face pale and red at once, frozen like a deer in sunlight.
Luther’s lips twitched into a restrained smirk. Oh yes. Play along, dear Saint. Saves us both the headache.
The merchant and elder exchanged frantic glances before bowing repeatedly. "We meant no disrespect! Please, forgive our rudeness!"
The elder gestured ahead, his voice filled with nervous enthusiasm. "It has been a long journey, surely. Please, Holy Saint, and your guardian—rest and take comfort for the night."
The man gestured to Luther, clearly assuming the role of "guardian" belonged to him.
Luther tilted his head, half amused. "Guardian, huh? I like the sound of that," he muttered under his breath.
Then, discreetly, he nudged Alina’s arm with his elbow, giving her a pointed glance that said say something before they notice you’re about to cry from nerves.
Alina stammered, glancing from the crowd to Luther. "N-no, that won’t be necessary," she said quickly, her voice trembling but steadying halfway. "We... we wish to understand more first. About the plague you mentioned."
A ripple of whispers spread through the crowd. Some bowed their heads, others clasped their hands together.
"The plague..." one woman murmured, clutching the rotting hand of a corpse beside her. "You mean... you can cure it, can’t you?"
Luther’s brow furrowed slightly. "Cure what? You’re already dead," he muttered too softly for anyone but Alina to hear.
The merchant turned back toward them with a practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. "Of course, of course! This way, please! We’ll show you everything."
He raised his hand, and the crowd of puppets shifted apart in eerie unison, forming a path. The sound of bones creaking and limbs dragging echoed faintly through the square.
Alina hesitated, looking toward Luther.
He nodded once. "Let’s go," he said simply.
As they walked, Luther’s gaze swept over the street — houses long decayed yet carefully swept, corpses propped like guards, living villagers smiling as if this nightmare was paradise. He could hear faint whispers of worship, prayers muttered under breaths to gods that had long since turned silent.
The silence of his sword weighed heavily at his side. Even that talkative damned blade didn’t dare speak here.
Luther’s inner voice was bitterly quiet as he watched a puppet woman sewing with trembling hands while a living man hummed beside her. They call this peace. They call this love. But this... this is just denial wearing skin.
The merchant finally stopped before a large, ragged tent pitched near the town’s center.
The flaps were drawn shut, the faint glow of lantern light flickering from within. A soft, low hum came from inside — not mechanical, but alive.
The elder turned, his expression strangely unreadable. "You will understand once you see," he said. "The Saint’s presence will... comfort them."
Luther frowned. "Comfort who?"
The old man just smiled.
Luther’s every instinct screamed that whatever was inside that tent, it wasn’t something he’d ever wanted to meet.
He glanced sideways at Alina. Her face had gone pale again, eyes wide.
"Ready?" he muttered quietly.
Slowly, the merchant reached forward and pulled the flaps aside.
A gust of cold, damp air rolled out — heavy, sour, and unmistakably wrong.
Luther’s confident smirk froze. The air felt thick enough to choke on.
Whatever lay inside that tent... it wasn’t normal.
But whatever it was made color drain from both their faces.