"Are you not feeling well?" Albrecht asked cautiously.

  Gareth, the innkeeper—and by default, Branlow’s closest thing to a mayor—looked pretty bad. His skin had a faint purplish tint, and the veins in his arms were noticeably swollen.

  “Ugh… don’t worry about it. Just a cold. Common in this region...” he muttered between fits of coughing, each word slightly strained.

  It was noon. Just yesterday, Albrecht and Thereon had agreed to leave for Azurheim within the next three days.

  His training had been progressing at least somewhat well. It was hard to tell, but he took Thereon’s cryptic feedback after demonstrating his first sword form as a good sign.

  Thereon had said, “Mhm, I’ve seen worse.”

  From him, that was practically a compliment.

  Albrecht left the inn shortly after, only having stopped by to catch his breath. He made his way toward the fields.

  After a few minutes, he found him.

  Thereon stood at the edge of a sprawling wheat field, facing away, flute in hand. The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light over his silhouette.

  Albrecht stopped a few paces back, arms crossed.

  To call what Thereon was doing “playing the flute” would’ve been generous.

  ‘More like… producing random noise that doesn’t follow any kind of musical structure,’ Albrecht thought.

  “Why are you playing the flute?” he asked aloud, raising an eyebrow.

  Thereon paused mid-wheeze. After a few seconds of winded silence, he answered without turning.

  “I need to ask Gareth for a favor. Specifically, to lend us a horse so we can get to Azurheim faster. I also want to teach you mounted combat—and I’m guessing you’ve never even ridden one?”

  “You’re right,” Albrecht replied.

  “But again...how does playing the flute help us in getting a horse?”

  This time, Thereon turned around a mischievous grin on his face.

  “Gareth’s wife used to play. He misses the sound. So, I’ve been playing it regularly to lift his spirits. Impress him, even. Thought it might soften him up for the favor.”

  Albrecht stared.

  “I mean… I’m not saying you’re bad at it,” he began carefully, “but I think you might have achieved the opposite. Gareth looks really sick. His face is all purple. His veins were bulging like they were about to pop.”

  Thereon's smile vanished in an instant.

  “What did you just say?” he asked sharply, stepping forward.

  “Relax, I’m sure it’s not your fault—he said it was just a cold. Honestly, if you tell him why you’re playing, he might even appreciate the—”

  “Where is he?” Thereon cut in, already moving.

  “The inn—why? What’s going on?”

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  But Thereon was already gone. He crossed the field in seconds, closing the distance that had taken Albrecht minutes to walk.

  Albrecht sprinted after him, heart pounding—not just from the chase but from the look on Thereon’s face. It wasn’t anger or embarrassment.

  It was fear.

  And when someone like Thereon had fear, it meant that something was very, very wrong.

  Albrecht hurried after him, catching up after a minute of running as fast as he could.

  Some part of his brain still insisted that Thereon was just playing a bad prank, but his expression looked really serious.

  It was similar to how he looked at Albrecht after he woke up from the nightmare.

  “Gareth!”

  Albrecht reached the inn, breath ragged, and slid the wooden door open.

  Thereon was already inside, crouching over Gareth’s motionless body.

  The innkeeper had collapsed—face-down near the edge of the counter.

  And now… now it was clear.

  This wasn’t a simple cold.

  Before, Albrecht had exaggerated a bit—joking about Gareth’s purple skin and swollen veins. The man had looked unwell, sure, but not dying.

  On Earth, he would have immediately called emergency services upon seeing something like purplish skin. But in a world like this, symptoms like that could certainly be considered more normal.

  Also, Albrecht wasn’t a moron. If it had looked like his veins were actually going to explode, then he would have been concerned, magical world or not.

  But… what he was now seeing looked like something out of a horror movie.

  Gareth’s skin had turned a deep, unnatural violet—like bruised fruit left too long in the sun.

  His veins bulged and twisted under his skin like thick cords, pulsing grotesquely across his arms and neck. One had ruptured near his elbow, blood leaking out in a slow, oozing stream. It was dark. Almost black.

  If it had been an artery, it would’ve sprayed. But even as a vein, it was… wrong. All of it was.

  Albrecht froze, the horror settling in.

  “This… it wasn’t this bad earlier,” he said, voice quiet, almost disbelieving. “I swear.”

  Thereon didn’t respond immediately. His hands hovered above Gareth, eyes scanning the body, his focus absolute.

  “You said he didn’t look like this earlier?” he asked, his voice low and sharp.

  “When describing his look, I might’ve… exaggerated a bit. He looked off, yeah, but nothing like this. Just a little pale, purple in the face, some swelling. It didn’t seem… serious. I just wanted to tease you for your bad flute-playing skills.”

  Thereon exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” he said.

  “At a glance, the symptoms resemble a common illness from this region. Usually harmless—especially for adults. But I saw Gareth earlier today. His skin was clear. No redness. No flushed face. And that would be the first sign of the cold you're thinking of.”

  ‘I see… that's why he immediately knew that something was off.’

  The non-dangerous disease had similar symptoms to this; it was just that those symptoms developed differently.

  Thereon stood up slowly, voice hardening.

  “That leaves only one possibility.”

  He looked Albrecht dead in the eye.

  “Wither Vein.”

  Albrecht swallowed.

  “That… sounds serious.”

  “It’s not just a disease,” Thereon said flatly. “It’s a curse. And worse, it can spread.”

  “There’s no treatment?” he asked.

  “We have no time. He’s as good as dead.” Thereon said, looking at Gareth.

  Albrecht took a shaky breath, then nodded. “What do we do?”

  “There’s only one rule for now: don’t drink any water. Not from the well. Not from barrels. Nothing. If this is Wither Vein, the source is likely waterborne.”

  Thereon moved toward the door, cloak swaying behind him.

  “We need to warn the others. You knock on the nearby homes—start with the east side. There aren’t many.”

  “What about the farms?” Albrecht asked.

  “I’ll take the outer fields,” Thereon said. “They’re more spread out. And I can move faster.”

  Albrecht hesitated for a second, then glanced at Gareth’s collapsed body.

  “Is it safe to touch him?”

  “There’s a good chance it is,” Thereon said.

  “But don’t. A curse is man-made. Someone crafted this. From what I have seen before, it only spreads by water, but It could have been modified to spread through other ways.”