Paimon Fortress’s Plight and a Baron’s Desperate Choice

Autumn in Paimon Fortress this year was unusually desolate. Few figures could be seen on the streets, in the markets, or across the farmlands.

This was typically the season of harvest, a time when, by custom, a grand Harvest Festival celebration would be held.

The lord would gather respected elders near Paimon Fortress, invite jesters and performers, and ignite massive bonfires.

Every citizen of Paimon Fortress would then have the honor of witnessing the spectacle and sharing in the joy of the bountiful yield.

Yet, as vibrant as it once was, so too was it now desolate.

This autumn, an unforeseen, inescapable, and insurmountable calamity had descended upon them.

A sinister disease had begun to spread throughout the vicinity of Paimon Fortress.

No one knew when the illness had first begun to spread, nor could anyone pinpoint its origin.

Initially, farmers along the Elven Defense Line developed fevers, which gradually progressed into debilitating body aches, confining them to their homes.

Eventually, the disease found its way near Paimon Fortress, though by whom, no one could say. Merchants, blacksmiths, and even officials soon succumbed to the terrifying malady.

At first, the ailment was diagnosed as an autumnal flu. Doctors, their faces obscured by long-nosed black masks, examined numerous cases and declared their findings with absolute certainty. Yet, their pronouncements were swiftly proven false.

The disease spread through water, air, and bodily fluids, its transmission rate incomparable to a mere flu.

At times, merely brushing past an infected person was enough to contract the illness.

Hospitals mobilized, and the Church followed suit, taking in many of the afflicted and isolating them for observation.

Doctors attempted treatments with herbs and bloodletting, but to no avail; these methods only seemed to accelerate the symptoms in some patients.

Clerics from the Church cast healing spells upon the sick, yet these only momentarily improved their complexions. Soon after, their conditions invariably worsened.

No known remedies proved effective. Hospitals and churches across the domain were utterly helpless, and even medical staff continuously fell victim to the contagion.

Fortunately, clerics with higher magical aptitude remained uninfected. After observing numerous cases, they made the difficult decision to temporarily close the church doors, ceasing to admit new patients.

Fever—sweating—coughing—hemoptysis—coma, culminating in death.

Regardless of the tireless efforts of doctors and clerics, the disease’s progression remained unstoppable, irreversible.

It was as if this affliction were the unquenchable wrath of the gods themselves.

****

Baron William Smith of Paimon Fortress had not closed his eyes for three days and three nights.

At this moment, he paced ceaselessly within his office, his brow furrowed with profound worry.

“Father, I have new information,” Albert announced, breathless as he opened the door, pulling off his bird-beak mask. His face was etched with exhaustion. “It’s about the Church.”

“Speak quickly!” William exclaimed, grasping at the words like a drowning man clutching a lifeline. He fixed his gaze intently on his son. “Has the Church found a solution?”

Albert shook his head, his face contorted in a bitter grimace. Seeing his father’s crestfallen expression, a wave of bitterness washed over him.

“The Church… they say there’s currently no remedy. So…” He hesitated, glancing at his father. “They’ve given us an instruction, one we must carry out.”

A dreadful premonition seized William. He sank slowly into his chair, leaning his head against the backrest, and with closed eyes, he said, “What instruction? Tell me.”

Albert took a deep breath, then slowly spoke: “Seal Paimon Fortress. No one is to be permitted to leave the Smith family’s domain.”

“What about the sick?”

“They are to be dealt with collectively…”

“Dealt with?” William muttered, rubbing his throbbing head in frustration, his expression initially bewildered, then slowly shifting to one of shock.

‘Without any treatment, what good would collective handling do…? Wait a moment, could they mean…?’

As the Baron of Paimon Fortress, he understood the Church’s callousness and ruthlessness far better than most. A terrifying realization seemed to strike him, his eyes widening with horror.

“Yes, the Church means…” Albert said, a shiver of dread running through him, “to dispose of those people.”

“Do they not understand the consequences of such an action?!” William roared, his right hand clenching into a fist that slammed violently onto the wooden desk.

“If I were to do that, before the plague could even reach our gates, the very people who serve our family would raze my castle to the ground!”

Albert fell silent. He, too, understood the outrageous and unreasonable nature of the Church’s decree.

If they were truly to follow its demands, the Smith family would undoubtedly face the wrath of the people.

“I cannot die, I cannot die…” William mumbled, clutching his head. “Leave me now. I need to think.”

Witnessing his father’s near-frenzied state, Albert felt a profound sense of helplessness.

As the eldest son of the Smith family, he possessed some talent in the path of magic, yet he had never seriously managed their domain.

It was only because he had angered a sorceress previously, resulting in his confinement within Paimon Fortress and forced study of governance, that he now found himself burdened with such anxieties.

After bidding his father farewell, a wave of irritation washed over him, prompting him to retreat to his own bedroom.

“Master…”

“Master…”

His twin maids approached from either side, deftly helping him remove his outer garments.

As they attended to him, Albert collapsed onto the large bed, lying stiffly like a plank of wood, utterly drained.

“Help me out,” he mumbled, burying his head in the soft pillow, avoiding their gaze.

He closed his eyes, savoring the gentle ministrations of the two warm bodies at the foot of his bed, yet his mind conjured the image of another woman.

‘That woman… Freya…’

Slowly, the image of a white-haired, violet-eyed woman formed in his thoughts.

‘Alas, I shouldn’t have been so eager to strike her down back then. Otherwise, wouldn’t I have already tasted that woman’s flavors?’

‘How utterly vexing! This sudden plague, who knows when it will end, or if it can even be resolved.’

‘I’ve been cooped up in this castle for an eternity. If no solution is found, the Smith family might soon be fleeing for their lives…’

“Ah, mmph—” he exhaled, releasing himself with a shudder of his body. “Remember to clean it up…” he murmured weakly.

“Master…” one maid whispered, leaning close to his face. “It seems you haven’t cared for the two of us lately.”

“If that’s how you choose to see it, there’s little I can do,” Albert replied dismissively, like a cad. “You exist to serve my desires; it’s enough that I haven’t sent you away.”

Pain flickered in the maid’s eyes, and tears welled at their corners, making her appear utterly piteous.

“Then… then please, Master, do not abandon us sisters…” the maid at the foot of the bed pleaded, speaking earnestly as she continued her work. “We will strive to serve you diligently!”

Albert cast a complicated glance at the two of them, his mind drifting back to the circumstances of their first meeting.

At that time, he had yet to awaken his magical abilities and was preparing to attend a noble’s gathering.

En route, he had unexpectedly encountered a minor noble who had shackled these two women, their clothes tattered, their bodies covered in whip marks.

“What crime have these two committed?” he had demanded then, stopping the noble in his capacity as Paimon Fortress’s administrator.

“They committed no crime. They sold themselves into servitude to me to pay for their mother’s illness,” the minor noble had replied.

“What about the injuries on their bodies?”

“I was in a foul mood and tested their bodies. They resisted, so I disciplined them. I trust you won’t interfere.” The minor noble had then produced a gold coin.

“According to Imperial law, servants are not slaves, and a master may not inflict violence upon them.” He had then tossed a heavy pouch of coins into the minor noble’s face.

“I am purchasing them. You may leave.”

“Who are you, sir?”

“Albert Smith, son of the Baron of Paimon Fortress, eldest son of the Smith family. Remember it well.”

****

“I think you two are usually too fond of talking,” Albert remarked, placing his hands behind his head. “Far too talkative.”

The sisters’ eyes slowly dimmed.

Albert paid no heed to their expressions and continued, “If this calamity proves severe, there’s a wooden box beneath my bed, filled with silver coins.

Find an opportunity to take it then, and leave this place.”

The twin sisters paused, their movements ceasing.

“Why have you stopped?”

“Master, we will not leave you,” the twin maids said, embracing his body. “Never…”

“Hmph…”

Albert let out a cold snort.

“Suit yourselves.”

Yet, for some inexplicable reason, a warmth bloomed within his chest.