The sun rose over the town as it always did, indifferent and radiant. The golden light spilled across tiled roofs over the cobbled streets through half-opened shutters. Yet, beneath that gentle warmth, something had changed.
The air felt heavier as if the entire town inhaled but forgot how to exhale.
Baston stood by the window of the inn's second floor, watching the pale morning seeped into the alleyways that were quieter than they should be.
No children ran across the street, no merchants called out the prices, and even the stray dogs lay still.
He did not need to ask why toward this phenomenon. When the statue shattered last night, the invisible net that was casted over the town should have unraveled.
The dark potion's lingering influence which was woven through the stone, water, and the whispered incantation had snapped like a cut string.
Those who had consumed the strange juice would awaken to find something missing. They would find their life was miraculously diminished.
They would not understand why their bodies had grown cold in the night. They would not know why the corruption that was siphoning their vitality had merely completed its cycle once its anchor was destroyed.
The mayor would have been alerted too late and the guards would have found no signs of struggle. There were no broken doors and no screams. It was just the people who went to sleep and did not wake up.
He closed his eyes briefly. At least, they would not have felt pain.
He clung to that thought the way a drowning man held to driftwood. It was for the greater good, it was necessary, and it was also for the quest.
The old book had demanded the statue's destruction. It had not warned him of the collateral consequence. Perhaps, it had but he did not have other choices.
For a fleeting second, the image of the cracking statue resurfaced in his mind. The sound had not been loud, yet it echoed like the thunder inside his chest. The fine fractures were spreading across cold stone and a hollow vibration was traveling through the ground.
He remembered how the air had felt at that moment. It was heavy and suffocating as if something unseen had been screaming without voice.
He had hesitated for a while, long enough to wonder if there was a gentler solution hidden somewhere between the destruction and the surrender but the old book had remained silent. Its pages were unmoving and its judgment was absolute.
In the end, he chose the certainty over doubt. And such certainty, it demanded the lives of people.
He left the window and joined Panto downstairs.
The dining hall was unusually silent. Several bowls of simple meat porridge and thin vegetable soup were set on the table which were far less generous than the previous mornings.
He lifted his spoon but the aroma of broth felt strangely distant.
Around them, few guests murmured in a hushed tones. A woman sobbed quietly in the corner and a man clutched a cup of tea as if it was his anchor.
"Excuse me…" Baston called gently to the innkeeper though he already knew the answer, "Is something happening? It seems everyone is in sorrow."
The innkeeper's shoulders sagged and he looked ten years older than yesterday.
"It was like this…" he began with low voice, "Someone broke into many houses last night and they quietly poured poison into drinks. The victims never realized until it was too late. They slept and never woke up again."
Baston lowered his gaze, "Have you reported it?"
"Of course…" the innkeeper replied quickly then he hesitated, "But… there are no traces. There were no footprints and no forced locks. There is no clue at all. It's as if the death simply walked in through the walls."
A murmur rippled through the dining hall at those words. Someone quietly whispered that perhaps it was not a poison but a curse. Another made the sign of protection against the evil beneath the table with trembling fingers.
One elderly guest insisted that his neighbor had died at the exact same hour as the others as if an invisible bell had tolled across the entire town at midnight. The innkeeper quickly hushed them but the fear had already seeped into the room.
It was no longer merely grief. It was uncertainty and such uncertainty was far more contagious than the sorrow. He then forced a polite smile.
"I'm sorry, young master... The breakfast is simple today. Most of the town has gathered at the graveyard. We… We are doing what we can."
"It's alright…" Baston said softly.
The lie was fragile and there were too many inconsistencies after all.
There was no thief that could enter dozens of homes without a single sign and no poisoner that could strike so many victims simultaneously without being seen.
They were panicking over the hidden fact.
If the truth spread, that many townspeople had willingly consumed a dark elixir over several months, slowly draining their own life force in pursuit of fleeting vigor, the town would be branded as evil.
They would be shunned and treated like a nest of plague. The commerce would die and the reputation would rot. In the end, they invented a villain which was a phantom poisoner.
Panto ate in silence but his eyes flicked toward Baston more than once. He knew exactly what had happened when the statue fell.
He knew it was cruel for everyone. He knew it was necessary to expel such evil miracle.
The merchant boy did not understand the dark magic deeply but he understood the profit and loss. And sometimes, such loss was inevitable to prevent the catastrophe.
However, even he could sense the weight that was pressing upon Baston's shoulders.
"Most people are at the graveyard," the innkeeper added when Baston inquired further, "The mayor himself is leading the funeral."
Baston paused since there was still a guilt in him. It crawled under his ribs and refused to be quiet.
"At the very least," he murmured, "I should pay my respects."
The innkeeper nodded gratefully and arranged for a worker to guide them.
*****
The graveyard overlooked the town from a gentle hill.
The clouds drifted slowly overhead, pale, and thin as if it was unwilling to darken the sky further. Several rows of fresh soil cut through the grass like wounds. Many flowers were scattered in clusters.
Some were neatly arranged while the others were tossed in haste.
The sound reached them before the sight did. The weeping sound reverberated not only in the air but in the heart of people. The dozens of voices layered over one another. Some were quiet and some were raw.
At the center, the town mayor stood and soon collapsed before a newly dug grave.
"Why… why did you leave before me?" he cried hoarsely, clutching the edge of the wooden coffin,
"Do you hate me so much? Do you not love me anymore?"
His voice cracked, rising in desperate absurdity, "We promised to be one in life and death! Now you go first? What am I supposed to do? Marry a younger woman tomorrow? Is that what you want? If you're angry, come back and stop me!"
"Mayor, please…" the butler pleaded, gripping his shoulder, "Madam deserves her peaceful rest…"
"WHY CAN SHE REST WHILE I AM STILL WORKING?" the mayor roared, "IT'S NOT FAIR!"
The crowd averted their eyes, giving him a space to unravel. Baston watched silently. He had expected the grief but he had not expected this kind of love.
The mayor's devotion was not fake. It was not a noble's convenient mourning. His feeling was raw, undignified, and sincere.
His throat slowly tightened. If the statue had remained and if the dark current had deepened, perhaps the entire town would have perished slowly over years.
Perhaps, the worse things would have emerged from beneath the ground. That was what he told himself.
He walked past the mayor step by step until he found the grave he was looking for. It was a smaller mound with small flowers and a simple wooden marker.
The little girl's family stood beside it and her parents wept openly. Her older sister tried to remain composed though her red eyes betrayed her.
He stopped several paces away. The ground looked freshly turned and the petals lay scattered like the fragments of memory.
His chest tightened unexpectedly. He had prepared himself and he thought he had yet now, standing here, he felt unworthy to even approach.
"Excuse me…" the older sister's voice came gently though her exhaustion lined it, "Who are you?"
"I… am just a guest staying at the inn," he hesitated, "A few days ago, I bought flowers from your sister. She was always smiling. I… did not expect…"
"You're the young master she mentioned," she said softly with her recognition, "She said someone finally cherished her flowers."
The father bowed hurriedly, "Thank you, young master. She was so happy that day and she said she could sleep peacefully."
The words struck harder than any accusation could have. Indeed, she could sleep peacefully. She had slept peacefully forever.
"I did nothing special," he replied quietly, "The flowers were beautiful and it would be a shame to let them wither unsold."
The family believed him since they saw only kindness in his presence. After a brief conversation, they stepped aside to give him the privacy. He stood before the small grave.
"I'm sorry we meet again like this," he whispered.
The wind rustled the grass lightly, carrying the scent of damp soil.
"You were persistent…" he continued softly, "Even when no one bought your flowers, you smiled. Even when your eyes betrayed the sadness, you forced the smile back."
He swallowed hardly, "I wish I could have saved you."
The truth twisted inside him. He could have warned the town and he could have exposed the dark influence. But then, the panic and the chaos would loom across the town.
Despite his feeling and effort, the old book only judged his efficiency and not the mercy.
"If I were stronger…" he murmured and his fingers were curling slightly, "If I had more knowledge…"
From a distance, the family watched him and mistook his regret for the innocent sorrow. After saying whatever he wanted for several minutes, he stood up. He reached into his pouch and withdrew a heavy pouch of coins that was amounted to one thousand pounds.
The father recoiled, "Young master, this is too much…"
"Please…" Baston insisted quietly, "I will not rest well if you refuse."
After much protest, they accepted. After all, they indeed needed the money for their daily life.
"You are a good man," the mother said through tears, "Our daughter was fortunate to meet you."
He was not a good man. The words felt like a blade that was wrapped in silk. He forced a faint smile and stepped away.
*****
As he turned, something stirred in his heart.
It was a faint ripple. Killing the people eventually made him so much guilty. Even though he did not do it directly, but still, he understood the price of what he had done.
For a brief second, he started to correct himself. It was the old book's fault and it was not him. He was just a controlled puppet in the bigger picture.
He believed so but his conscience rejected such idea. In the end, he made his own decision. The old book just stated the quest.
Whether he did beautifully or carelessly, it was done and thought by him alone. He took a full responsibility over his own action.
The humans indeed wanted to stay away from the wrong things yet they hardly believed everything was their fault. Eventually, he also thought so. In such incident, his morality tried to stay higher even though it was his own concocted lie upon the heart.
He said nothing to Panto and they soon returned to the carriage. The town looked smaller as they descended the hill and the mourning bells rang dully in the distance.
Inside the carriage, Panto busied himself by arranging the luggage, pretending not to notice his silence.
The quest had been completed and he could feel it. The old book rested in his bag. It was quiet but it also felt heavy. He should look for his performance yet he had not dared to open it.
For once, he did not crave the reward. He stared back at the graveyard until it vanished behind the trees. The memory of a little girl insisted on staying inside his heart, unable to be forgotten easily.
While his mind was unable to forget, his fingers brushed unconsciously against something beside him.
He looked down at the flowers, the ones he had bought from the little girl. They were still fresh. Such thing was quite impossible. Several days had passed yet their petals remained vibrant and the dew was still clinging as if it was newly picked.
He lifted them carefully.
For a moment, his lips curved faintly and her smile surfaced in memory. By then, a faint pulse brushed his palm.
He froze toward such sensation.
It was subtle and almost imperceptible like a heartbeat. He leaned closer, sensing no visible magic and no mana fluctuation. It was just warmth eventually.
The carriage rolled forward and the wheels were grinding against the stone. He glanced back once more at the distant hill.
"I hope you live in a house full of flowers," he whispered softly.