The Aftermath of the Rat Tide and the Unseen Hand of Fate

In the encroaching darkness, green lights flickered, as the rat horde seemed to contemplate, hesitate, and then scrutinize the man.

Just then, a young man, clad in opulent robes, emerged from behind him.

He held a scepter, a bishop’s miter adorning his head, and a belted silk tunic draped his form; every detail proclaimed his noble status.

The rat horde stirred once more, their black mass rippling like a tumultuous sea, as several impatient creatures lunged forward, only to be cut down by the resolute man’s flashing sword.

The young man raised his scepter high, a white flame igniting the gem at its tip, surrounded by concentric halos of light.

He then removed his miter, holding it aloft as well, clearly displaying his identity to the wizards lurking behind the rat horde, signaling that he was the one they sought.

“They truly seek death,” Noren muttered, glancing towards the castle gate.

Tolke held her tighter, the membrane encasing their bodies tautly, sealing them together, as it resisted the gnawing of the rats’ hard incisors.

The rat horde had descended with such abruptness that by the time she considered slipping away, the castle courtyard was already a veritable sea of vermin.

Rats swarmed over the membrane’s surface, completely obscuring her vision.

Each powerful punch sent countless rodents flying, only for an innumerable host to climb back on the next instant.

Tiny tentacles, sprouting from the membrane, coiled around the rats’ bodies, tightening like pythons, relentlessly crushing them, yet it was a mere drop in the ocean.

She attempted to move, but the ground beneath her feet was slick with rat blood after crushing them, making it nearly impossible to stand firm, let alone escape this accursed place.

As the wielder of Hercules, this was the first time she had ever felt such immense strain, a sensation that transported her back to a past life, swimming in the ocean, where the current relentlessly pulled her away from the shore, deeper into the abyssal waters.

No matter how desperately she struggled, it was all in vain, a futile expenditure of strength.

Fortunately, she had ultimately encountered a wealthy man on a small boat who rescued her, an experience that remained etched in her memory.

Now, facing this tide of rats, the terror of that moment seemed to transcend time, casting its shadow once more upon her heart.

Amidst her emotional turmoil, the bloodstone membrane appeared to reach its critical point, rupturing with gaping holes.

Rat heads burrowed through these openings, squealing as they thrashed wildly.

‘No, I cannot die here with Tolke!’ the girl thought, gritting her teeth and holding on, yet the successive ruptures tearing through the membrane vividly betrayed her current mental state.

Noren—Stress +100

Level One Stress!

Her heart was tormented, caught between agony and virtue, as fate began its decree:

………………..

………

…

Beneath the Yggdrasil tree, within a palace that pierced the clouds,

The three goddesses hung Noren’s silken ribbon.

Skuld glanced up at her two unmoving elder sisters, then was the first to cast a die, its faces indistinguishable as it spun madly.

The die came to rest.

“One,” Skuld announced, raising an eyebrow and shrugging. “Her future has been decided.”

Verdandi, the second sister, took the die between her middle finger and thumb, giving it a spin.

After dozens of seconds, the number finally settled on three.

She lowered her gaze. “Fate believes she cannot make a change now…”

Urd, the eldest sister, peered through thick clouds at the girl struggling amidst the rat horde, her gaze profound, her thoughts inscrutable.

She descended from her throne, her hand brushing over the countless ribbons hanging from the palace’s impossibly high ceiling, before returning to her seat.

Closing her hands, then opening them, a damaged wooden die appeared in her palm, its numbers faded and indistinct.

With a gentle flick of her finger, she precisely stopped the die on one face.

Skuld, who presided over “the Future,” called out ahead of Verdandi, “One hundred!”

Then, the three sisters who governed Past, Present, and Future declared in unison, “The past has long prepared her script; this is not yet her end.”

………………..

………

…

Virtue!

A resolute light flared in Noren’s eyes.

“A mere pest, one of the four scourges (TL Note: A common Chinese idiom referring to rats, flies, mosquitoes, and cockroaches as pervasive nuisances), daring to defy the natural order (TL Note: An idiom meaning to act outrageously or against what is proper)!”

The ruptures in the membrane abruptly constricted, severing rows of rat heads before expelling them from within.

A crimson hue spread and intensified from the bloodstone across the tentacled membrane, eventually dyeing its entire surface red.

The delicate tentacles sharpened, each penetration draining the rats’ blood, and the energy from this blood surged back to Noren.

Her punches grew faster and stronger, sending countless rat corpses flying into the air.

Tolke watched the girl’s somewhat frenzied face, and despite his worry, he could only cling tightly to the cushioning membrane.

“Ohm—!”

Suddenly, all surrounding sounds were instantaneously sucked away.

Tolke blinked in confusion.

The next moment, an explosive wave of air blasted away the rats clinging to them.

After a brief ringing in his ears, the incessant squeaking and scuttling vanished, replaced by the re-emerging nocturne of birdsong.

Noren released her tight grip on Tolke.

The bloodstone membrane retracted like a fishing net, twisting into a rope, then slurping back into the bloodstone itself, leaving her so intensely dizzy that she dropped to one knee.

Forcing herself to endure the dizziness, she propped herself up, surveying her surroundings.

The entire castle courtyard presented a horrifying sight: all buildings save for the main keep had collapsed.

Only the faint light emanating from the castle gate offered a dizzying reassurance that some were still alive.

As Noren’s dizziness slightly receded, the cotton-candy-like halo of light at the castle gate slowly coalesced, finally condensing onto a single torch.

Following the arm that held the torch, her gaze met a resolute face—the man and the young man in opulent robes had survived.

However, others seemed less fortunate.

Besides those who had retreated into the castle’s interior, most of the people on the ramparts had not been spared.

Only one or two armored warriors still held swords and torches, though they too were gravely wounded.

Everyone else was dead.

Each mound covered by rat corpses marked the resting place of a fallen individual.

‘Huh? Why is there such a large mound in front of them? Oh, a horse.’ Noren rubbed her temples.

She realized it was time to leave.

The piled-up hay had vanished, replaced by an ankle-deep sea of rat corpses around her.

Even with numerous questions swirling in her mind, she had to depart, for she knew neither if another rat tide would follow nor if they possessed any remaining means to destroy such a such a horde.

She patted Tolke, who was still in a daze. “Tolke, it’s time to go.”

Tolke remained oblivious, his gaze fixed intently on the castle gate.

“Why are you gawking? Let’s go!” she exclaimed, pushing the boy’s shoulder.

Noren swiftly climbed onto the castle wall, then extended a hand to Tolke.

Tolke was pulled onto the wall, but before scaling down, he couldn’t resist turning his head for one last look.

As if by unspoken accord, the young man at the castle gate also looked up, their eyes meeting.

The Norse boy, startled, quickly lowered his head and tugged at his hood, terrified his blond hair would expose his identity.

Yet, the young bishop offered a smile, waving the scepter that was now broken in half.

Watching the ‘little thief’ disappear into the night, Jaromir—Bishop of Prague, brother to the Duke, and younger brother to Conrad—withdrew his gaze and addressed the resolute man.

“See how many people are still alive.

If the castle steward survived, call him over, and bring me a chair while you’re at it.”

‘Lazy Jaromir,’ the resolute man grumbled inwardly, yet he executed the command without hesitation.

Before long, the four surviving guards and the steward were brought before Jaromir.

The steward prostrated himself on the ground.

“My lord, I—I—I had already mobilized all the guards to welcome you, but—but the appearance of these rats has nothing to do with me!”

Jaromir leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, and used his broken scepter to lift the steward’s chin. “Look up.”

The steward’s face was a tear-streaked mess, green snot sniffling in and out of his nostrils, and tears traced winding paths down his deeply furrowed cheeks—a truly repulsive sight.

Jaromir replaced his bishop’s miter, its gems sparkling, and watched the steward.

After a moment, he closed his eyes, then, after a brief pause, spoke. “The truth. Wood, sheathe your sword.”

The steward spun around to see a gleaming sword being returned to its sheath by the resolute man.

He was utterly terrified, his breeches instantly soaked with urine, emitting a pungent, ammoniac odor.

“Alright, alright, you few take him away.

Have the servants prepare two bedrooms; Sir Wood and I will be staying tonight.”

Jaromir pinched his nose and waved his hand, signaling their dismissal.

Wood noticed his lord closing his eyes and drifting off again, his eye twitching.

He then grabbed the chair and gave it a forceful shake.

Jaromir steadied the chair and adjusted his miter. “What is it, Wood?”

Veins seemed to throb on Wood’s face. “My lord! The coven of wizards remains hidden in the shadows, and the wizard who performed the Grand Ritual has yet to be found.

How can you possibly sleep?”

Jaromir slumped back in his chair. “Rest assured, Father Peter has already gone to search for him.

He carries a holy relic, and any wizard who just performed a Grand Ritual cannot escape its detection, as long as they are still alive.”

“What about the damage to the domain from this rat plague, the casualty count among the populace, the remaining defensive strength, the church construction, the relocation of holy relics…” Wood peppered him with incessant questions.

Jaromir stroked his smooth chin, closed his eyes, and with a gesture of surrender, declared, “We’ll discuss it tomorrow.”

Helpless, Wood could only stand by, keeping a silent vigil.

********

When Jaromir awoke, he was no longer in the chair in the castle courtyard.

He lay now in a large bed within a dim castle room, where only an iron brazier in the corner provided light, banishing the dampness from the keep.

He gestured for Wood to open the window.

Outside, day had already broken.

Jaromir had slept soundly, but Wood’s eyes were dark-rimmed—though perhaps it was merely the brazier’s light creating that impression.

The priest’s dark robes blended seamlessly with the surrounding gloom.

Only when Father Peter cleared his throat did Jaromir notice someone standing by his bed.

Jaromir grumbled, “Peter, stand somewhere brighter, or it would be a shame if you were mistaken for an assassin and struck down.

And take off your hood.”

Peter removed his hood, revealing a comical Mediterranean (TL Note: A slang term for male pattern baldness, where hair remains on the sides and back of the head, resembling the Mediterranean Sea on a map).

His face, however, remained serious, a stark contrast to his absurdly humorous hairstyle.

He stood silently, like a statue atop a cathedral.

Jaromir rubbed his temples, knowing Peter was awaiting his question. “Brother Peter, have you found the wizard?”

“No.”

Jaromir furrowed his brow, a ripple of doubt crossing his mind. “Impossible.

What about the holy relic I gave you? Don’t tell me you lost it.”

“Indeed, he was not found,” Father Peter explained.

“Though the relic detected a wizard’s aura, it was extremely faint.

I spent ten days scouring all the villages, castles, and cities within the Opava earldom, but the area is too vast, and my hurried search yielded no results.”

Wood, standing nearby, interjected, “The castle steward mentioned that the Grand Ritual’s influence lasted for a week.

On the night the wizards sacrificed to the evil god, they found three of them, but one still escaped.”

Jaromir replied, “Conrad already informed me of all this in his letter, which is precisely why I sent Peter and several soldiers to Opava at a gallop, specifically to find this wizard.”

Wood continued, “I heard from the castle steward that Opava also dispatched five soldiers.

These five were on patrol at the outermost perimeter at the time, least affected by the Grand Ritual, and thus were sent to apprehend the one who slipped through the net.”

“However, those five soldiers are still missing.”

Jaromir concluded, “So, the one who slipped through the net wasn’t found either?”

Wood nodded. “Indeed.”

Jaromir sighed deeply. “Wizards…”

Jaromir felt both agitated and helpless.

He had anticipated that this mission, escorting the holy relic to Moravia, would proceed smoothly.

To his surprise, while he was still preparing his travel arrangements in Prague, he received word that wizards were conducting a Grand Ritual in Opava.

If it had merely been a single Grand Ritual, that would have been one thing; as the Archbishop of Prague, he possessed ample means to halt it.

What astonished him further was that these mad wizards, adherents of an evil god, had precisely calculated his arrival in Opava for the previous night.

Thus unfolded the horrifying scene of last night—

“An overwhelming tide of rats.”

“Damned wizards! The scepter bestowed upon me by His Holiness the Pope was overloaded and destroyed.”

Yesterday, to annihilate the rat tide, Jaromir had driven the miraculous scepter with all his might.

The scepter had broken into two pieces, utterly ruined.

Jaromir suppressed his anger and continued, “How fare the common folk?”

Wood reported, “Hundreds of commoners were bitten by rats, and thirty of them died.”

Jaromir asked, “How many soldiers remain?”

Wood replied, “Twenty men.”

“Of those, seventeen suffered minor injuries, and three were gravely wounded.”

Jaromir felt another headache coming on. “What impact did the Grand Ritual have?”

Wood pondered for a moment. “According to the steward’s account and my investigations last night within the Opava domain…”

“Under the influence of the Grand Ritual, many commoners were abducted by soldiers and brought into the castle, leaving the populace in constant fear.”

“Furthermore, in the seven days following the Grand Ritual, the occurrences of crimes like r*pe and murder were too numerous to count.”

“Yes,” Peter interjected. “When I first arrived in Opava, the public order was indeed chaotic, and the castle gates were locked tight.

That night, we were forced to camp outside the city, only gaining entry to the castle four days later, in daylight.

The soldiers were all drunk and disheveled, and the castle hall floor was covered in sticky mucus or caked yellow grime.

All women of childbearing age had been brutalized, most of them commoners abducted from the domain, the rest being cooks and maids.

There were over twenty of them in total, and all had died from lacerations and bleeding.”

Jaromir’s fury burned.

“These hypocrites, blaspheming God! If they were truly pious, how could they have been swayed by a Grand Ritual performed by four people!”

He glared fiercely at Peter. “Are any of those people still alive? I will drown them and burn them!”

Peter lowered his gaze, not daring to meet the angry bishop’s eyes, and made the sign of the cross over his chest.

“I regret to say, my lord, if there are no unforeseen circumstances, those affected by the Grand Ritual would have been physically weak.

Even if their bodies had recovered somewhat after the ritual, they could not possibly have survived the rat plague.”

The duke’s younger brother, the Bishop of Prague, shed tears of sorrow.

He clasped his hands together, as if praying to God, wishing that since he could not punish the sinners, the innocent souls who died because of the Grand Ritual might rest in peace.