The sun rose over the town as it always did, indifferent and radiant. Golden light spilled across tiled roofs over cobbled streets through half-opened shutters. Yet beneath that gentle warmth, something had shifted.
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 seep into alleyways that were quieter than they should be.
No children ran across the street, no merchants called out prices, and even the stray dogs lay still.
He did not need to ask why.
When the statue shattered last night, the invisible net cast over the town should have unraveled.
The dark potion's lingering influence which was woven through stone, water, and whispered incantation had snapped like a cut string.
Those who had consumed the strange juice would awaken to find something missing.
Their life was miraculously diminished.
They would not understand why their bodies had grown cold in the night. They would not know that the corruption siphoning their vitality had merely completed its cycle once its anchor was destroyed.
The mayor would have been alerted too late. The guards would have found no signs of struggle.
No broken doors and no screams. Just people who went to sleep and did not wake.
Baston closed his eyes briefly.
At least, they would not have felt pain.
He clung to that thought the way a drowning man clings 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 collateral consequence. Perhaps, it had but he did not have other choices.
For a fleeting second, the image of the statue cracking resurfaced in his mind.
The sound had not been loud, yet it echoed like thunder inside his chest. Fine fractures spreading across cold stone and a hollow vibration traveling through the ground.
He remembered how the air had felt at that moment, heavy and suffocating as if something unseen had been screaming without voice.
He had hesitated then only for a breath, long enough to wonder if there was a gentler solution hidden somewhere between destruction and surrender but the old book had remained silent.
Its pages were unmoving and its judgment was absolute.
In the end, he chose certainty over doubt. And certainty, it seemed demanded lives.
He left the window and joined Panto downstairs.
The dining hall was unusually silent. Bowls of simple meat porridge and thin vegetable soup were set on the table which were far less generous than the previous mornings.
Baston lifted his spoon but the aroma of broth felt strangely distant.
Around them, guests murmured in hushed tones.
A woman sobbed quietly in the corner and a man clutched a cup of tea as if it were an 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. He looked ten years older than yesterday.
"It was like this," he began with low voice, "Someone broke into many houses last night. They quietly poured poison into drinks. The victims never realized. They slept and never woke again."
Baston lowered his gaze.
"Have you reported it?" he asked.
"Of course," the innkeeper replied quickly then he hesitated, "But… There are no traces. No footprints and no forced locks. There is no clue. It's as if 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 poison but a curse.
Another made the sign of protection against 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 fear had already seeped into the room.
It was no longer merely grief. It was uncertainty and uncertainty was far more contagious than sorrow.
He forced a polite smile.
"I'm sorry, young masters. 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. There were too many inconsistencies.
No thief could enter dozens of homes without a single sign and no poisoner could strike so many victims simultaneously without being seen.
They were panicking over the fact.
If the truth spread, that many townspeople had willingly consumed a dark elixir over 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.
Commerce would die and reputation would rot.
So, they invented a villain which was a phantom poisoner.
Panto ate in silence but his eyes flicked toward Baston more than once.
He knew… He knew exactly what had happened when the statue fell.
Cruel?
Yes, it was.
Necessary?
Perhaps, it would be.
The merchant boy did not understand dark magic deeply but he understood profit and loss. And sometimes, loss was inevitable to prevent catastrophe.
Still, even he could sense the weight 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. There was still 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.
Clouds drifted slowly overhead, pale, and thin as if unwilling to darken the sky further. Rows of fresh soil cut through the grass like wounds. Flowers were scattered in clusters.
Some neatly arranged while others 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.
Dozens of voices layered over one another. Some were quiet and some were raw.
At the center stood the town mayor, 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 peaceful rest…"
"WHY CAN SHE REST WHILE I STILL WORK?" the mayor roared, "IT'S NOT FAIR!"
The crowd averted their eyes, giving him space to unravel.
Baston watched silently. He had expected grief. He had not expected this kind of love.
The mayor's devotion was not fake. It was not a noble's convenient mourning.
It was raw, undignified, and sincere.
Baston's throat tightened.
If the statue had remained, if the dark current had deepened, perhaps the entire town would have perished slowly over years.
Perhaps, 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.
A smaller mound with smaller flowers and a simple wooden marker.
The little girl's family stood beside it. Her parents wept openly. Her older sister tried to remain composed though her red eyes betrayed her.
Baston stopped several paces away.
The ground looked freshly turned. Petals lay scattered like 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 exhaustion lined it, "Who are you?"
He hesitated.
"I… am just a guest staying at the inn," he said, "A few days ago, I bought flowers from your sister. She was always smiling. I… did not expect…"
Recognition flickered in her eyes.
"You're the young master she mentioned," she said softly, "She said someone finally cherished her flowers."
The father bowed hurriedly, "Thank you, young master. She was so happy that day. She said she could sleep peacefully."
The words struck harder than any accusation could have. Yes, she could sleep peacefully. She had slept peacefully forever.
"I did nothing special," Baston replied quietly, "The flowers were beautiful. It would be a shame to let them wither unsold."
The family believed him. They saw only kindness in his presence.
After brief conversation, they stepped aside to give him privacy. Baston stood before the small grave.
"I'm sorry we meet again like this," he whispered.
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 sadness, you forced the smile back."
He swallowed, "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, panic and chaos would loom across the town.
Despite his feeling and effort, the old book only judged efficiency and not mercy.
"If I were stronger…" he murmured, fingers curling slightly, "If I had more knowledge…"
From a distance, the family watched him and mistook his regret for innocent sorrow.
He reached into his pouch and withdrew a heavy pouch of coins 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.
"You are a good man," the mother said through tears, "Our daughter was fortunate to meet you."
A good man. The words felt like a blade wrapped in silk. He forced a faint smile and stepped away.
*****
As he turned, something stirred in his perception.
It was faint ripple. Not mana and not wind but something colder. He glanced toward the older graves at the edge of the hill.
For a brief second, only a second, he thought he saw movement near a crooked headstone.
A figure half-obscured by mist. He was tall, still, and watching.
Baston blinked and suddenly, there was nothing. It was just a drifting fog. His heartbeat quickened slightly.
Was it imagination?
Was it a residual dark energy dispersing?
For an instant, a faint pressure gathered behind his eyes, subtle but undeniable.
It felt like being measured. Not attacked and not threatened but observed. As if someone or something had taken note of his presence and committed it quietly to memory.
The wind paused for half a heartbeat.
Even the distant weeping seemed to dim beneath that invisible scrutiny.
Then, it was gone.
No trace and no sound.
Only the ordinary rustle of grass and mourning bells in the distance yet the sensation lingered like a shadow at the edge of his thoughts, refusing to fade completely.
The statue had been destroyed and the anchor severed but what if it had not been the only one?
He said nothing to Panto.
They returned to the carriage.
The town looked smaller as they descended the hill. Mourning bells rang dully in the distance.
Inside the carriage, Panto busied himself arranging luggage, pretending not to notice Baston's silence.
The quest had been completed. He could feel it. The old book rested in his bag, quiet but heavy and yet, he had not opened it.
For once, he did not crave the reward.
He stared back at the graveyard until it vanished behind trees.
Was it truly over or had he merely cut one thread in a larger tapestry?
He remembered the ripple. The sensation of being observed. The dark wizards had planted the statue.
They had distributed the potion but all of them were networks and not singular roots.
If this town had been touched, how many others were the same?
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. It was quite impossible.
Several days had passed yet their petals remained vibrant, dew clinging as if newly picked.
He lifted them carefully.
For a moment, his lips curved faintly. Her smile surfaced in memory. 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 circle and no mana fluctuation.
It was just warmth.
Had they always felt like this or had something changed after the statue's destruction?
The carriage rolled forward, wheels grinding against stone.
He glanced back once more at the distant hill.
"I hope you live in a house full of flowers," he whispered softly.