LTTH C62

Chapter 62

“It seems the monsters he summoned have vanished as well… yet a patrol is still in order.”

“Hansol, you should rest. You’ve done more than enough.”

The moment Berthel dissipated into dust, the monsters encircling the village vanished with him, dispersing like smoke.

It would have been natural to ease their guard, but Isaac chose instead to reorganize their defenses. Kassie agreed with his decision, though he turned to Hansol and urged him to rest.

And truthfully, Hansol did want to rest. Berthel was dead, no monsters remained in sight. Yet how could he lounge about while the others worked? He rose to his feet.

“I’ll go as well.”

After such a battle, surely there would be places where a healer was needed.

“No. Absolutely not.”

There were no white tents now, so Hansol had prepared himself to walk the village and find the wounded. He had just opened his mouth to speak when Kassie cut him off.

“Sorry, but there’s no one about to die. So the best way for you to help is to rest. Unless you’re hoping I’ll have to waste my strength? Or perhaps you secretly enjoy running yourself ragged? Even so, I’d still forbid it. So sit. Quietly. At home. Understood?”

Kassie gripped both Hansol’s shoulders, smiling as he spoke without pause. His blue eyes glinted dangerously.

“No, I—”

Hansol’s ears ached. Had Kassie always talked this much? More than Isaac, certainly, but this much?

“Hansol’s answer can only be YES or YES. Nothing else will be accepted.”

Resolute—unyielding as stone. Hansol glanced desperately at Isaac for support, but the knight quickly averted his eyes. There was no ally for him here.

“Hansol?”

“…Understood.”

At Kassie’s insistent call, Hansol reluctantly bowed his head. He could hardly act on his own here, not with Kassie and Isaac watching. He had no choice.

“Go on now. We’ll move once we’ve seen you safely inside.”

Kassie turned him toward the now-familiar white building at the heart of the village and pressed him forward. Pushed along, Hansol still cast his gaze back wistfully.

The people, who had hidden themselves away, were now emerging into the streets one by one, emboldened by the certainty that Berthel was gone.

Berthel had been defeated. Britain had found its peace again.

The land was barren, the buildings pitiful compared to its former glory, yet the faces of the survivors were alight with smiles.

“We lived—we lived!”

“It’s all thanks to the Saint. You know that, right?”

“Of course! Long live the Saint!”

Laughter and embarrassed cries of joy echoed through the streets. Among them, only one face was absent. Hansol’s gaze drifted to the empty cot where once he had lain.

…Peter.

The young man who had been the subject of Hansol’s very first quest. Perhaps the one who would have most rejoiced to see this day. Of all who survived, he alone could not.

When Berthel crumbled to dust and the system proclaimed his death, the world itself began to shift. The first sign appeared in the darkened lands across the globe.

In America, where Hansol’s purification had reclaimed part of the darkness, the soil was quietly expanding, regaining its natural hue.

At first, no one noticed. The change was too subtle for the naked eye. Had not a diligent inspector paid close attention, the phenomenon might have gone unnoticed for weeks.

“Strange… does it look larger today?”

Following the path Hansol had cleared, the man paused, troubled. It might have been dismissed as a trick of the mind, yet recent months had brought heightened scrutiny to the dark zones. Overlooking even the smallest irregularity could bring ruin—as history had already shown.

So he measured carefully, and discovered the truth: the land had grown. Only by centimeters, but enough to stun him. Within an hour, the report had summoned several officials to the site.

They were the very men who had first welcomed Hansol to America.

“It has expanded.”

“My God. The miracle isn’t over!”

“How much? How much has it grown?!”

“Roughly… fifteen centimeters.”

Only a handspan. A trifling measure, perhaps, yet not a soul there felt disappointment. This was land once lost, now returned. Enough to move them to tears. And if the miracle continued? They would celebrate, not mourn.

“…It seems it isn’t stopping. It’s still spreading.”

“…What?”

“Let me see that!”

The official knelt, pressing his hand to the earth. Moments later, silence fell. Every face was set in awe.

A one-hundred percent purification rate.

A dark zone purifying itself. What had once been shouted in jest—“With the Messiah, it’s only a matter of time before the land is restored!”—was now reality.

“We must find him—the Messiah.”

The middle-aged man who spoke was the same who had bowed deeply when Hansol departed, begging him to return. His eyes now burned with fervor.

There isn’t time.

It was glorious news, yes. But within the darkness still lived the infected.

America had poured resources and research into cleansing the zones, even after Hansol’s intervention. Indeed, his work had only created more questions to study. The greatest among them: what happens if an infected steps onto purified ground?

The answer had been bitter. Some had hoped the land would purify the infected themselves. Instead, the reverse occurred: when the infected lingered too long, the purified ground darkened once more.

It was a sobering truth. Without purifying the infected, they could never escape the zones.

“What of the traitor?”

“James handled it. What remained was reduced to ash and scattered at sea. Not even dust will be found.”

“And the chance of another?”

“Less than one percent. We purged every settlement.”

“As it should be.”

Fools.

The middle-aged man’s face hardened as he gazed over the blackened horizon.

The Messiah was truly the Messiah. To have him would be a blessing beyond compare, but he was no man’s pawn. And those who guarded him were formidable—including James.

If they could not possess him, then what? They must cling to his side, as close as possible, flattering and coaxing. The tide of the world had begun to shift around him.

“About a month, was it?”

It had been only days since James announced he would accompany the Messiah to Britain. A month’s time, give or take. If James could ensnare him with charms, perhaps…

But would a Korean be swayed by his face? James had no Korean lovers, as far as he recalled.

Tsk. He should have diversified his conquests.

Betting everything on a libertine like James was folly. They needed surer means—something to make America the first to be considered when aid was sought.

“And Korea’s Association? Still the same?”

“Yes, still searching for the Messiah.”

“They’ve lost their minds.”

They should be cherishing him, protecting him. Instead, the Korean Association was gutting the golden goose.

Unless, perhaps, their folly drove him to emigrate here.

The man smiled faintly. It was a pleasant thought. A good plan was taking root.

“Send word. Pretend we’re pressing the Korean Association.”

“Pretend, sir?”

“Yes. Pretend. Strong enough for the Messiah to hear of it.”

Stand beside a villain, and you seem a saint.

“They say the Messiah signed some contract with them.”

“Likely the matter James mentioned—something tied to Britain.”

“Hmm. Add a penalty. A hundred thousand—no, a million dollars. Pay it to the Messiah. Call it recompense for purification costs.”

“I’ll see it done.”

“Our Messiah must not be hindered by that association.”

Before he returned, they would prepare a throne for him.

The man looked once more at the faintly widening band of golden soil, and a smile of satisfaction touched his lips. The future of America shone bright indeed.