Dusk fell heavy. Blackstone Fortress squatted over the mountain pass like a great beast, its coarse walls gleaming with a cold luster in the fading light.

The fortress gates were heavily guarded, and the air was thick with tension.

Only after they presented credentials bearing the Royal Family’s insignia did the heavy, iron-bound wooden gate slowly open a crack with a piercing squeal.

However, what lay behind the gate was not the well-ordered scene of a military stronghold they had expected.

The moment they stepped into the fortress’s inner gatehouse, a foul, hot wave of air washed over them, thick with the mixed stench of sulfur, rusting metal, blood, smoke, stale sweat, and the faint odor of excrement. It was almost suffocating.

Beyond the gatehouse was not an open square, but a narrow passage choked with makeshift shanties, piles of debris, and a shuffling stream of people.

In the dim light, there was a sea of bobbing heads, dazed and exhausted faces, and the sound of suppressed sobs filled with pain and fear.

It was less a fortress and more a vast, chaotic refugee camp.

A soldier on duty ran ahead and to the side of the carriage, trying to clear a path through the dense crowd.

"Make way! Royal Family carriage! Make way!" he yelled himself hoarse.

Outside the carriage window, the crowd parted slowly like a disturbed, murky current, creating a gap just wide enough for the carriage to struggle through.

Countless eyes swept over the magnificent carriage. Most of the gazes were empty, holding nothing but deep-seated numbness and a flicker of instinctual fear.

Many people dropped to their knees where they stood. The motion was fluid and natural, born of a bone-deep, instinctual obedience and fear of the High-tier class.

Elizabeth’s fingers unconsciously tightened on the hem of her dress. She was used to seeing people kneel, but this time was different. Instead of feeling normal, her stomach clenched.

She had seen the prosperity and clamor of the Royal Capital and read accounts of the cruelty of war, but she had never so viscerally experienced what a place could become when order collapsed.

Just as the carriage struggled through a particularly crowded area, its sides nearly scraping the makeshift shanties, a heart-rending wail erupted from a low hovel cobbled together from tattered cloth and sticks.

"No! Don’t touch him! I’m begging you! He’s not dead! He’s still breathing!"

A woman in ragged clothes, her hair a disheveled mess, desperately clung to a figure lying on the ground. The figure, wrapped in blood-soaked burlap, was motionless.

Two men in logistics corps uniforms were roughly trying to drag her away, their faces etched with impatience and exhaustion.

"Get off, you damned hag! How many times do I have to tell you? He’s long dead!" one of the soldiers barked, raising his foot as if to kick her. "You want to get more people killed by blocking the way? We need to get him buried, now!"

"No! He’s not dead! Look, his hand! It just moved!" The woman shook her head frantically, her gaunt fingers digging desperately into the body beneath her, nails nearly tearing through the filthy burlap. "Please, just a little more medicine... just a little bit... My son..."

Her cries were like a dull knife, sawing at the oppressive air.

Elizabeth could even see the tear tracks on the woman’s face and its despairing contortions.

Her pleas were met with an even rougher tug from the soldiers, one that threatened to pull her frail body apart. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

A few figures huddled nearby let out weak whimpers, but most just watched impassively, their eyes vacant, as if long since numbed to such tragedies.

Elizabeth’s breath caught. Her gaze locked onto the struggling woman, and a chill crept up her spine.

’This was different from the fear of facing monsters at the pass. This was a slower, colder dread, one that utterly consumed hope.’

The instant the soldier’s boot was about to strike the woman, a dark blue figure moved to block the view from the carriage window.

It was Murphy.

He placed a hand on the soldier’s shoulder.

The soldier turned, annoyed and about to snap at him. But then his gaze fell upon Murphy’s Knight’s Armor—dust-stained but clearly of fine quality—and the antique Longsword at his hip. When he met the man’s dark eyes, calm and placid yet seeming to see through everything, the curse died in his throat.

The hostility on his face vanished, replaced by a respectful expression tinged with fear. "S-Sir... this..."

Murphy didn’t look at the soldier, nor did he immediately move to comfort the hysterical woman.

His gaze first swept over the exposed wrist of the corpse on the ground.

The skin was ashen and lifeless. His eyes then fell upon the woman, whose body trembled from extreme grief and malnutrition.

"Let her go." Murphy’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried an undeniable authority.

The two logistics soldiers froze. As soon as they met Murphy’s gaze, they instinctively let go.

Only then did Murphy crouch down. He didn’t touch the lifeless body, but instead reached out two fingers and quickly pressed a point on the back of the woman’s neck.

The woman’s body jolted, and her violent wails cut off abruptly. She went limp and slumped to the side, but Murphy caught her with his other hand and gently lowered her to the ground.

"Move her somewhere with better ventilation and give her some warm water," Murphy instructed the two still-dazed logistics soldiers, his tone level. "Dispose of the deceased according to procedure to prevent an outbreak."

He stood up and took a small leather pouch from his coat. Without looking, he drew out five gleaming gold coins and placed them in one of the soldier’s calloused palms.

"This is for the burial and for taking care of the mother. Give the rest to whoever around here seems to need it most."