A summons was sent—not for monsters, nor bandits—but for something far more terrifying.
A plague.
A deadly one.
It spread like wildfire in the southern lands of the Empire, in a territory governed by House Astoria. Soldiers and civilians alike dropped like flies, their bodies rotting before breath could leave their lips.More than 30 people already fell dead to this plague.The local lord had dispatched an urgent request for aid, sealed with the Emperor's sigil. Even the Holy Kingdom was called upon—such was the scale of the crisis.
And in response, the Empire sent Prince Lucas.
He came not just as a royal, but as a warrior—one of the Emperor's sons, journeying with his brother across the land to earn allegiance and renown. Though the crown prince had already been named, both still threw themselves into the Empire's trials. It was more than duty—it was growth. Battle honed their bodies and struggle shaped their legacy.
Hearing the grim report, Lucas rode without delay. His goal was simple: eradicate the plague, uncover its source—be it monster or man—and obliterate it completely.
Two weeks later, clad in unassuming travel gear and accompanied by twenty Royal Knights under Captain Luna, Lucas arrived at Citra, the afflicted city.
Waiting for them at the outskirts was Lord Irvin of Astoria, once a famed knight captain, now the blade of the South. He was a man in his mid-forties, weathered by battle but unyielding. He did not cower behind titles or walls—he stood at the front, sword in hand, as a true warrior should.
Irvin greeted the second prince with respect and dignity. He ushered them into a military tent not far from the city's edge. For now, Citra was sealed—its gates barred, and knights patrolled to ensure the infection did not escape. Food was delivered regularly to prevent mass starvation.
The sun set. The knights rested. Tomorrow, the real work would begin.
Dawn broke.
The Astorian knights changed shifts as usual, but a strange detail emerged. Only a small handful had shown symptoms of infection. Before leaving, every knight was examined by the Empire's physicians—eyes checked for redness, skin for rashes or marks.
Oddly enough, those with aura mastery—2-star and above—remained untouched.
Lucas took note and pulled Lord Irvin aside.
"We've yet to identify the cause," Irvin confessed grimly. "The townsfolk whisper about the well, but no one's entered Citra. We can't confirm anything yet."
Lucas ordered the Royal Physicians to study the afflicted. But time passed, and no breakthrough came.
Still, the immunity of aura masters sparked something in Lucas's mind. Was it their strengthened bodies? Their mana-resistant flesh? Whatever the reason, he began considering a more direct solution—entering the city himself.
Before he could act, a trumpet's call echoed across the field.
An envoy had arrived.
A wagon marked with the sacred sigil of the Holy Kingdom came to a halt. From its door descended a woman whose presence made time stand still.
She was the Saintess.
Golden-haired, with eyes like endless night, her beauty was not of this world. Grace walked with her. Power followed behind. The knights bowed low as she approached.
Lucas and Irvin met her with honor. She returned their greetings with calm humility. But the moment she saw the dying, she rushed forward, heedless of the mud staining her robes.
Before her knelt a man—perhaps in his fifties, body ravaged by infection. Fungus clung to his skin, his eyes glowed with rot. Death was already claiming him.
She said nothing.
She simply reached out.
And with a single touch… the symptoms vanished.
Gasps broke among the knights. The man fell to his knees in tears, begging her to save his family. The Saintess nodded. Her knights tried to stop her, citing danger, but her resolve could not be moved.
And so she entered the city—accompanied by Lucas, Captain Luna, and Lord Irvin.
The city of Citra was a ghost of itself.
Fog hung heavy. Doors were bolted shut. Not a single soul roamed the streets.
From house to house, the Saintess passed, healing the sick with her divine grace. Despair turned to hope in her wake. But soon, they reached the old well—and something unnatural stirred within.
With the help of the knights, they drew up the source.
Rotting demon flesh.
The air turned rancid. The stench of malevolence filled their lungs. A remnant of darkness not seen in decades.
Lucas stepped forward. Fire erupted in his palm.
With a wordless snarl, he burned the demon's arm to ash.
The Saintess followed, purifying the water with holy light.
It was done.
Or so they thought.
But the next morning, a horror awaited them.
Those who had been healed… were infected again.
The plague had not been stopped.
Something far darker was at play.