Chapter 474

"Mom, am I going to die?"

The child asked.

"No, of course not. Just sleep well for a few nights, and you’ll be okay,"

the mother replied.

"Okay."

The child couldn’t even open their eyes properly anymore, crusted shut with sleep.

The fever hadn't gone down for days, and now they could barely see.

"Grrggh..."

Watching her child foam at the mouth at dawn tore the mother’s heart apart.

One day, blue splotches had bloomed across the child’s body, followed by purplish swelling in the limbs and bulging veins.

That’s when the pain began.

‘I’ll take the pain instead.’

So let it be a guardian spirit, an ancestor god, whatever—please, save my child.

At daybreak, the mother left in search of herbs to dull the pain.

"It’s dangerous out there right now."

A warrior guarding the tents warned her.

In the West, villages were far less common than on the continent.

But danger wasn’t—whether here or there, a stroke of bad luck could mean death.

"It’s fine."

Sometimes, the thought of just dying came rushing in—but she couldn’t.

She had to endure.

"Mom, mom..."

Her child called out, still hanging on.

Resentment welled up.

A heat that started from her toes rose to her chest, burning hot and wild.

‘Why?’

This wasn’t natural.

Anyone could die—but it wasn’t his turn yet.

Why should a child suffer like this?

The mother pulled out a short dagger she kept tucked in her clothes.

A simple knife worn at the waist—called a Karananbi.

The dull gray blade wasn’t particularly sharp, but it was thin and well-honed.

Sharp enough to cut her own throat.

It would be easy—just one pull.

How much longer did she have to watch her child drowning in a river of pain?

Even if it hurt, death by blade wouldn’t last long.

Even drowning in a river wouldn’t be as cruel as this drawn-out torment.

‘This curse can’t be stopped with just a spring or stream. We need a lake—no, a mighty river.’

That’s what the shaman had said before he collapsed, his last words spoken with his eyes closed.

He never woke up again.

Frozen in a posture of prayer, he remained unconscious to this day.

The flame of hope had been snuffed out.

The world was now dark.

Her everything—her son—was dying.

He had eyes but could see no light, ears but could not hear birdsong.

He was slipping away in pain.

So the mother gathered herbs to ease the pain—even if she had to risk her life to find them.

"This way, over here!"

Wandering like that, she once came across a village.

Someone called out to her in her child’s voice.

A child’s desperate cry for help. That’s how it sounded.

She paused, listening closely.

Her head turned on its own.

She was delirious from days without proper sleep.

Crushed by despair and exhaustion, her body and mind trembled.

‘If I save someone else’s child, maybe someone will save mine…’

False hope blurred her vision and dulled her thoughts.

Just as she stepped toward the voice between the gaps of tents, someone grabbed her shoulder from behind.

"It’s a Kapikeji. You know that, don’t you?"

She turned to see a man with a square jaw and harsh eyes.

It hadn’t been long since her child’s father had died.

Claiming to be a member of the Rega lineage, the man had stepped up in his place.

Seeing her leave alone, he had followed.

"It sounded like my child."

"And you’d abandon him to chase after a sound? If you die first, what then? Is that what you want? To die before your child? Don’t be weak."

The man’s words hit her like a hammer.

Tears poured down her face.

He was right.

It was a Kapikeji—a monster that mimicked voices.

If the continent had man-faced dogs, the West had these.

Monsters that imitated the voices of loved ones.

A trained warrior could deal with one easily.

And if she’d been in her right mind, she wouldn’t have been in danger either.

But like this—she might not have survived.

They weren’t strong, but they were still monsters.

Their claws could easily tear through human flesh.

"Then help me."

She pleaded.

The man didn’t answer.

She would sell her soul if she had to.

She would break any taboo.

She would give up her virtue if that’s what it took.

Whatever it took—anything.

She’d offer her life.

Let them take what they wanted.

Demon, monster, beastman, cannibal—it didn’t matter.

Just save her child.

She wished for a miracle.

But no one answered.

Drenched in waves of despair, the mother fell to her knees.

There was no way out.

The curse cast by the diviners would kill her child.

Just like all those others who had died already.

"Why…"

She asked the sky.

Still, no answer came.

She’d seen men weep over lost lovers.

Women who gave up after losing their partners.

The chieftain had separated the cursed from the rest of the tribe—

not because the curse was contagious,

but because people believed it might be.

He wanted to keep their sorrow from spreading too far.

To some, the curse was still just a whisper.

A faint superstition.

A minor thing to the tribe as a whole,

but for the individual—it was everything.

The curse was eating the West from within.

And she was one of those it had consumed.

‘If my child dies, I won’t leave anyone alone.’

A seed of malice bloomed in her heart.

If the enemy had broken a taboo, they must too.

But the chieftain chose restraint over rage.

He wouldn’t stand by and do nothing.

He’d never just let it happen.

Inside the half-mad mother’s heart, despair grew.

Grief, resentment, malice—festered like a wound.

That was the real curse.

Walking back with the herbs, she saw other children playing.

Just a few days ago, she would’ve looked on with quiet sadness—

now her heart brimmed with hatred.

Why my child?

Why were these children laughing?

Why was she the only one suffering?

"Move."

She told the children.

Barely restraining herself, she entered the cursed tent.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

She sat beside her child.

There were no flowers for the other children.

She tried to steel herself.

Veins swollen violet.

Splotches of blue.

Discolorations spreading across the face and body.

Was this really her child’s face?

Was this truly her child’s body?

"Hkkk…"

The mother swallowed her sobs.

Her child would never see again.

So then—

‘Chieftain…’

She wanted to ask:

What is the right path?

Are we to just endure?

Why are we letting ourselves be trampled by the Diviner clan?

The tent was heavy with darkness that even strangers could feel.

Those who knew better would call it dangerous.

Grief turned to hatred.

Hatred into malice.

That malice filled the tent like smoke.

Thick, choking, suffocating.

A storm was coming.

***

Shaman Hira was filled with worry—this curse was eating away at the tribe like rot.

And this was with the strongest shamans and top warriors physically holding the line. What about after?

Donbakel stepped inside the tent, frowning.

Lua Grne didn’t think much of it.

Enkrid, however, sensed the malice immediately.

What was with the atmosphere?

That was his first thought. As he entered the tent, a foul smell mixed with the scent of incense stabbed at his nose.

It was only natural—people here hadn’t been able to properly wash for days.

As he stepped further in, he saw a child lying near the entrance on a bed made of layered cloth.

The kid’s eyes were crusted shut—had no one even tried wiping them?

But just as he was thinking that, the child stirred their arm—not reaching out to hold his hand, just moving.

Still, Enkrid’s hand brushed theirs.

He wasn’t worried about some curse affecting him.

If it was something contagious, they wouldn’t even be in here.

The blood had already been spilled, already spread.

They couldn’t even do proper transfusions here. The only thing they could risk was the smallest hope.

Then the child’s lips moved slowly. Maybe their gaze just couldn’t keep up anymore.

“There’s nothing we can do,”

a mercenary commander once said while watching people suffering from an epidemic.

It was something they couldn’t fix with a sword—just one of those things.

They hadn’t had any Krona, no proper corpses to study, no healers around.

Back then, Enkrid had done something crazy.

Because there’d only been one thing he could do.

And he did it.

“Did you hear that?”

a companion who’d insisted on following him asked.

Enkrid didn’t answer.

He simply walked forward.

“Are you going to die here? Or are you coming with me?”

That had been at the home of a famous healer.

He hadn’t had time for tact, dunked his foot in a washbasin just to enter.

He pointed a sword at the healer’s throat and gave them a choice:

Die here, or come with me.

The greedy healer gave in.

“You’re a mercenary, not a thief,”

his companion had muttered, disapproving.

Not that he could blame her.

They were too busy to talk it out.

That’s how Enkrid kidnapped a healer.

The best he could do with a sword.

And that had made him a fugitive for a while.

“You really are insane,”

the same companion had said while helping him hide.

She explained her reasons when they parted—her voice wavering as she sniffled, a little embarrassed.

“Watching you... reminded me of the younger sibling I left behind.”

She’d been ten years older than Enkrid.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I saw you as a man, punk.”

A plain, straightforward farewell.

After that, he wandered the continent for a while.

Even with the healer he’d stolen away, a child had died in his arms and he’d had to bury the body himself.

That corpse haunted him.

But the child whose hand he’d just touched—this one was still alive.

He couldn’t give up.

Curse or not, there had to be a way to save them.

Even if there wasn’t, he had to try to the end.

Only then could the people left behind continue living.

Even if you have to say goodbye in the end, it matters that you tried.

That was the only thing that gave people the strength to carry on.

Tap, tap.

He gently tapped the child’s hand with his other, as if to say It’s okay.

He could feel the weak strength in their hand.

They tried to hold his—but didn’t have the power.

Their grip was feeble.

Enkrid gently took their hand, careful not to cause pain.

The child couldn’t be older than ten.

Then the mother appeared—the same woman who had passed by the village square earlier.

She’d seemed unusually tense, not openly angry at the other kids but with a chill in her gaze.

Now she quietly wiped her child’s face with a cloth soaked in water.

The crusted gunk around their eyes came off easily.

Why didn’t she clean them up sooner?

He wondered.

And that’s when the child opened their eyes.

Hira shouted.

The twins rushed over.

And then Rem came in.

As always, Owl was with him.

Behind them, Juul stood blinking.

“You steal that?”

Rem asked.

Enkrid lifted his hand and looked at it.

Was it his left hand?

No, right.

He switched hands, staring at it again.

He was good at thinking on his feet.

The situation clicked into place in his mind.

Something had happened because of his hand.

“Feels like I’ve awakened some holy power,”

he whispered as Rem approached, half-joking, like one of those fairy-tale jabs.

“This place is cursed too, isn’t it?”

Rem asked seriously, glancing around.

“This isn’t that kind of curse, source of malice,”

Owl said coldly, her eyes still locked on the child.

Even Owl looked surprised.

Rem nodded.

“So then what is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Enkrid shrugged.

He really didn’t.

But for one person here, that didn’t matter.

Hira looked stunned, lost in thought.

How was this possible?

They’d said you’d need something bigger than Shadow Spring to undo this curse.

And now the child whose eyes sparkled like starlight had opened them.

The child’s mother saw that the swollen veins were receding.

The splotches were fading.

“You…”

she said, looking at Enkrid.

“Yeah?”

he answered.

Honestly, he had no idea what he’d done.

But based on what he saw, and how everyone else was reacting, it seemed like something had happened when he touched the child.

The mother seemed to think so too.

She raised her fingers to the sky and bowed until her forehead touched the ground.

The cloth on the tent floor was filthy—blood, sweat, sand.

But she didn’t hesitate.

“I’ll do anything you want. Please, just stay by my child’s side…”

She couldn’t even finish her sentence.

She was shaking.

“What the hell did you do, man?”

Rem whispered urgently.

“You know what that means, right? She’s offering everything—her body, °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° her life, all of it.”

Even if Enkrid told her to come to his tent naked tonight, she’d probably smile and go.

That’s what this meant.

Of course, Enkrid had no idea.

Then Hira raised her head and slowly, thoroughly looked over Enkrid from head to toe.

Why had this happened?

She didn’t know.

But one thing was clear.

Hira was a shaman and a diviner—but her true strength was in healing.

Most healing was based on shamanism, and she specialized in neutralizing curses and the side effects of botched spells.

And now, her instincts told her—

the massive curse cast by the Diviner clan was weakening.

And it was because of this man.

She didn’t know why, but she had a guess about the mechanism.

He repelled the curse just by being here.

Which meant—

“I want to ask as well.”

Hira said quickly.

This curse was dangerous.

She hadn’t been able to tell the tribe—but she had feared their end was near.

Now that premonition had twisted into something else.

“Everyone, hold on.”

Rem stepped in to mediate.

Enkrid just stood there, dazed.

Because he genuinely had no idea what was going on.