The moment that fetid, reeking liquid splattered onto her cheek, a chilling certainty seized her: she was doomed.
Unlike the common plague rats that foolishly charged headlong into battle, the Ratmire White Rats possessed a distinct intelligence.
They feigned death, toyed with their prey, and moved with astonishing agility.
One had to locate their hidden true form.
Even armed with a weapon capable of inflicting harm, she could conceive of no way to emerge victorious…
At least, that was her grim assessment until a series of bizarre images flashed before her eyes.
Her head swam, that familiar sensation returning once more.
‘Whose memory was this now… or perhaps whose past…?’
“Why…”
The voice belonged to someone utterly exhausted, their cries hoarse and ragged.
Within her vision, a man clad in a dark overcoat was mangled, nearly half his body shredded by a two-meter-tall, red-eyed giant rat, held aloft in its jaws.
The blood staining his body, pooling beneath him, could have belonged to either man or beast.
Yet, the colossal rat had paid a price that would surely cost it its life.
The power emanating from the man’s eyes had plunged the rat’s true form into a deep slumber.
In his excessive use of power, his own eyes had nearly gone blind.
But it had been enough.
During the preceding battle, he had pinpointed the location of the creature’s hidden core.
His shattered arm, still clutching a specialized firearm, flexed with a surge of strength, reaching through the narrow gap between his own body and the rat’s gaping maw, into its chest cavity, and squeezed the trigger against a sleeping white-furred rat whose body was laced with crimson tendrils.
“Bang!”
Even though the shot was fired from within the rat’s body, the deafening report echoed through the surroundings.
Amidst the night, illuminated by a pillar of fire, it sounded like the rat’s final, desperate shriek.
The colossal body began to disintegrate, tottering backward, and in a fleeting moment, both the man and the rat plunged together into the chasm below.
“No!”
“Kayol…”
The woman, dragging her weary body, crawled to the cliff’s edge, the searing pain of abraded knees and arms nothing compared to the agony of losing her beloved.
She was unwilling to accept this, consumed instead by profound regret; she believed she should have been the one to stop the white rat, the one to perish alongside it.
This outcome, she simply could not bear.
Physical exhaustion, compounded by overwhelming grief, caused her to faint, and the vision dissolved into darkness.
“Pop.”
It sounded as if something had burst open.
“How beautiful…”
Opening her eyes, Ghervil couldn’t help but marvel.
Beautiful red lotuses bloomed in explosive bursts across the air.
Each petal, meticulously sculpted, cascaded gracefully, spinning slowly as it descended.
Then, her face, skin, hair—almost her entire body—became drenched by these ‘red lotuses’.
They were warm, yet simultaneously reeked of something foul…
It felt as though someone had doused her with a basin of days-old, fermented, viscous, reheated foot bath water.
“It stinks!”
Something with the texture of gauze was tossed onto her face.
“Wipe your face clean.”
“No one wants an assistant who looks like they’ve crawled out of a sewer.”
‘That last remark was entirely superfluous!’
Angrily, she fumbled with the gauze in her right hand, haphazardly wiping her face.
‘Who was responsible for her current predicament? And how on earth was gauze supposed to clean this mess?!’
Just as she began to plot her revenge against the culprit—at the very least, they deserved a taste of rat blood too—she felt the sleeve of her left arm being pushed up.
“What’s wrong with your hand?”
A hint of firmness laced the voice, and before Ghervil could respond, a hand clasped her wrist.
“Ah!”
A jolt of pain triggered a reflex, and Ghervil tried to yank her hand back, but Dr. Callan’s seemingly effortless grip rendered her struggles futile.
“Stop it! Is this how you doctors treat an injured person?”
The woman paid her no mind, continuing to examine the girl’s other injuries, her gloved hands moving with purpose.
Within minutes, Ghervil felt as though her entire body had been thoroughly probed, leaving her consumed by a mix of shame and indignation.
Her face flushed a shade almost as deep as the bloodstains on her clothes.
‘Even if it was done out of good intentions, shouldn’t she have asked for permission first?’
“Are you afraid?”
Having finished the examination, Dr. Callan peeled off her blood-stained gloves and tucked them into an inner pocket of her attire.
Today, she wore a heavy, full-body black robe, somewhat resembling the attire of Sanctuary Doctors.
Its structure was far more intricate, featuring a white inner layer, a high collar that almost completely concealed her neck, and closed-eye cross motifs, symbols of the religious order, visibly adorning its buttons and belt.
Beneath the folds of the black robe, metallic clasps of unknown function were attached.
Her entire demeanor exuded a profound sense of solemnity, her hair pinned neatly at the back.
Yet, the delicate golden bangs on her forehead, the elegant strands framing her temples, and her beautiful face—along with a figure the long robe could not entirely conceal—softened this austere impression somewhat.
Having wiped away most of the blood from her face, Ghervil’s vision cleared, and she found herself staring, somewhat dazed.
It was far more striking than the dark overcoats worn by the agents, though this impression likely stemmed from Dr. Callan’s presence alone; others might not possess such advantageous conditions.
Dr. Callan, ignoring the girl’s astonished gaze, continued with a serious expression:
“Had I been a second slower, your head would have been as easily bitten open as an apple by that thing.”
“Becoming my assistant means you might face such dangers in the future, perhaps even as a regular part of your life.”
“Are you afraid?” she repeated, her voice dropping to a low tone as she pressed down firmly on the girl’s shoulders.
With disaster lurking in the shadows and actively seeking them out, and Solis Abbey—a place of extraordinary significance—now left with only a single soul, Dr. Callan bore a heavy responsibility.
Under these extraordinary circumstances, as one of the chief physicians of the Hospital Department, and even disregarding her past ‘acquaintance’ with Dean Anthea, she held the authority to override the local bishop and determine how and where the girl would spend her coming days.
“If I were afraid, would that help me find the culprit behind this, or resolve the disaster?”
After a few seconds of silence, Ghervil offered her reply, keenly aware that the question likely held a deeper meaning.
The doctor’s attire alone spoke volumes.
This wasn’t her first encounter with such peril, and now she questioned whether she truly felt fear.
To say she was afraid felt wrong; in moments of danger, she had saved Helm and hadn’t abandoned Lalviye-Komel to flee alone.
Yet, to claim fearlessness was also untrue; the terror preceding death and the visions she had witnessed were undeniably real.
Furthermore, afflicted by her own illness, the dream of a carefree, ordinary life had long since evaporated.
She had to resolve herself to face whatever lay ahead.
“No… your answer wouldn’t change anything.” Dr. Callan’s response came after a similar pause.
“Exactly, Doctor. Fear solves nothing.”
Ghervil gently pushed Dr. Callan’s hands away.
“Instead of me, you should be attending to the other injured person, whose wounds are far more severe.”
She handed Dr. Callan the blood-stained gauze she had used to wipe her face, then placed one hand on her hip, feigning a tone of profound wisdom.
“Don’t be so stingy! Twenty Denarii (TL Note: A unit of currency in this world.) a month is no small sum for me. I wouldn’t let a fat sheep I’ve finally gotten my hands on… I mean, a job I’ve finally secured, slip away.”
Dr. Callan lowered her head slightly, a helpless smile playing on her lips.
The serious matter had been deftly diffused, and it seemed she rarely gained the upper hand in verbal sparring against this seemingly naive individual.
Now, it appeared Ghervil was suggesting Dr. Callan sought an excuse not to pay her wages.
Yet, Ghervil’s point remained valid: fear solves nothing.
She had underestimated her.
“The Solis Abbey truly harbors a peculiar bunch.”
“Have you encountered other nuns?”
“Only your Dean.”
“Tell me more,” Ghervil pressed, “You’ve piqued the very thing a person my age should possess most.”
“What’s that?”
“Curiosity, of course!”
“No comment…”
“By the way, how did you kill that thing? I barely saw it happen…”
****
With lighthearted banter, the two women made their way toward the vehicle where the other injured person lay.