‘Fuck.’

  This was the third house Albrecht had entered.

  Well, broken into was more accurate. Nobody had answered the door, so he’d forced his way in.

  And every time, it was the same… everyone was already dead.

  The sight inside each home was horrific. Their bodies twisted unnaturally, skin a deep, bloated purple. Their veins bulged in grotesque patterns, making them look less like people and more like something alien.

  He didn’t know any of them. Not their names. Not their stories.

  But that didn’t make it easier.

  Thereon had said this was a human-made curse.

  But who the hell would do this?

  And, more importantly—why?

  ‘Branlow is just a small village…’ he thought bitterly.

  When reaching the fourth house, he barely held onto hope as he raised his hand to knock—but then, he froze.

  A sound.

  Crying.

  Faint. High-pitched. Fragile.

  ‘A child?’

  Without any hesitation, he stepped back and slammed his foot against the door. The wood splintered and cracked, giving way beneath the force of his kick.

  It still startled him a little—how easy it had been. Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have had the strength. But now, with Thereon’s training behind each movement, he didn’t struggle.

  After all, someone inside might still be alive.

  He stepped through the broken doorway into darkness.

  The smell hit first—blood and rot, heavy and cloying. The floor creaked beneath his boots, the wood sticky in places. In the faint light slipping through a cracked window, he saw streaks of blood trailing across the floor.

  A small figure was crawling near the back wall.

  Albrecht’s stomach twisted.

  The child’s parents lay nearby, their bodies unmistakably afflicted—bloated, purple, unmoving.

  He gripped the hilt of his sword tighter.

  When he'd brought the blade with him, he'd done so with quiet resolve. Thereon had told him the truth: there was no cure for Wither Vein without a Paladin. If the curse had taken root, the only mercy left was a clean death.

  And now, a child was crawling beside the corpses of his parents.

  Could he do it?

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  His chest tightened. Could he really do it if he had to?

  Kill a child?

  The boy looked no older than three—maybe four.

  Albrecht stepped closer, slowly, voice low and careful.

  “Hey… what’s your name?”

  The child froze.

  Then, after a long pause, he whispered:

  “Lio.”

  It was barely a breath, more a vibration in the air than a word.

  Albrecht forced a smile though his hands still trembled.

  “That’s a cute name, Lio. Can you do something for me?”

  No answer.

  But he continued anyway.

  “I need you to turn around, okay?”

  His heart pounded. His breath slowed. One hand hovered near the hilt of his sword.

  He didn’t want to. Gods, he didn’t want to.

  But if Lio turned and revealed those telltale signs—bloated skin, violet veins pulsing beneath the surface—then there would be only one option left.

  Not just because the curse might spread through more than just water.

  But because ending it quickly… would be the only mercy he could offer.

  The boy began to shift.

  Each movement felt like it took hours. He crawled slowly, arms trembling beneath him, the blood on the floor smearing beneath his palms. His sleeves were long, covering most of his arms. His face was still hidden.

  Albrecht took half a step forward, holding his breath.

  Finally, Lio turned around.

  His skin was clear. No purple tint and no bulging veins.

  Just a pale, frightened face streaked with tears. His eyes were wide and glassy but alive. Fully, unmistakably alive.

  Albrecht exhaled sharply—relief crashing over him like a wave.

  He moved quickly, crossing the room in two strides and scooping the child into his arms. Lio clung to him instinctively, small arms wrapping tightly around his shoulder.

  It was familiar—uncannily so.

  For a moment, Albrecht didn’t see the village, the cursed house, or the bodies.

  He just saw Nora.

  His little sister, years ago, after their parents died. The weight of her in his arms, the tremble in her voice.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered.

  He turned and walked out of the house, shielding Lio’s face from the sight of the corpses behind them.

  There was no need for him to see that.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  He couldn’t possibly take Lio with him while checking the other homes, so he brought the boy back to the inn and left him in his room.

  Albrecht knew how cruel that was.

  Lio was likely in shock, traumatized beyond comprehension. He needed comfort—a steady voice, the warmth of someone who cared.

  But there was no time. No better option.

  He had to warn the rest of the village. There were only a few houses left, and so far, the streets remained eerily quiet. Then again, in a place as small as Branlow, that wasn’t unusual.

  When he reached the bakery—where the owners lived in the rooms beside it—relief washed over him.

  They were still alive.

  He managed to warn them and two more families as well. One was unharmed. But in the other, the father had already died.

  If Thereon was right, and Wither Vein spread through water, then survival came down to one simple thing: luck.

  'What if I had decided to drink something while resting at Gareth’s inn?'

  The thought sent a chill through him.

  It could’ve been him lying on the floor. Bloated. Purple. Dead.

  The only reason he hadn’t shared their fate… was his reluctance. He’d never fully trusted the hygiene in this world—not when it came to food, and especially not water.

  So he made a habit of collecting rainwater in a glass and heating it before drinking it, just in case.

  He’d felt silly at the time, even paranoid.

  But that same caution may have saved his life.

  The village’s well was close to the inn. Gareth had likely drawn water from it. And so had everyone else living nearby.

  There were still far too many unanswered questions about Wither Vein.

  But one thing seemed very likely: the well had been cursed.