The entire populace converged upon the town square: adults and children, local residents and outsiders alike.
The ground, softened by the recent rain, was pliable enough that one could dig a small pit with bare hands.
The pits didn’t need to be large or deep, merely enough to cradle a single seed.
Despite the multitude gathered, no superfluous sounds or movements disturbed the air as they evenly distributed themselves across designated spots in the square.
Within an atmosphere of eerie silence, they knelt in an orderly fashion, dug into the earth, and from their persons, retrieved a single seed to place within the freshly made hollows.
Once their task was complete, they departed, leaving behind muddy footprints, and returned to their ordinary lives, as if nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.
As the dense thud of their footsteps gradually faded into the distance, a piercing shaft of sunlight broke through the heavy clouds, casting a vibrant, verdant glow upon the oasis date groves encircling the square.
The searing pain in Konehl-Ghervil’s wrists abruptly wrenched her consciousness back from the encroaching darkness.
The sunlight, blinding in its intensity, prevented her from opening her eyes, forcing her to assess her situation purely by sensation.
Her body felt utterly drained and powerless, rendering her almost immobile; her limbs were stretched taut and fastened securely, bound by something unyielding.
The agony in her wrists persisted, and only after her eyes adjusted to the glare could she finally open them.
Indeed, blood was flowing.
She found herself bound by iron chains to a cross firmly planted in the soil, her bare feet precariously balanced on tiptoes, her toes barely digging into the mud for support, a desperate attempt to alleviate the excruciating pain of the chains biting into her flesh.
The sleeves of both her arms had been neatly shorn away at the forearms, revealing prominent, deep-looking wounds on her wrists, yet the bleeding was sluggish, each drop falling one by one into the soil at her feet.
Even the slightest movement of her fingers sent sharp pangs through her wounds, intensifying the pain.
“Please do not attempt to break free,” a voice drifted from behind her. “This controlled rate of bleeding is designed to preserve your life for as long as possible.”
Konehl-Ghervil recognized Penelope-Rose-Cambaton’s voice with ease.
“Why not simply end my life?”
Her dry, cracked lips parted as she spoke to the unseen speaker.
“…Because keeping you alive serves its purpose.”
“’It’ refers to Thrale-Erg-Gunoorse, does it not?”
Silence was her only reply, a tacit admission.
“No matter what ‘it’ intends, if I die, its objective will surely be thwarted.”
Still, no response came. Konehl-Ghervil began to twist and struggle with all her might, desperately attempting to force more blood from the wounds on her wrists.
“You are truly a nun of Solis Abbey. I do not regret our friendship.”
“I do!”
Gritting her teeth, she tried to move with even greater force.
“Perhaps I owe you an apology, though it will do nothing to alter our current predicament.”
These words successfully prompted Konehl-Ghervil to momentarily suppress her fury and cease her struggles.
She had misjudged.
The doctor’s disappearance, coupled with Penelope-Rose-Cambaton’s autocratic actions, clearly indicated a trap set specifically for them.
One crucial detail remained unclear: were these two truly ‘traitors’?
She desperately needed to know.
She could not die without understanding.
“I will grant you a chance to explain yourself, but do not dare attempt to use that pathetic excuse of memory loss again.”
“Yet, you too have experienced memory loss.”
‘Penelope-Rose-Cambaton entered her field of vision, engaged in her ‘work’.
Her primary task involved waiting for the blood to flow onto each seed, ensuring it was thoroughly soaked, before covering it with soil.
The blood seeping into the earth was drawn by an inexplicable force, flowing precisely into each small pit, with not a single drop wasted.
“But I never used amnesia as an excuse to conceal anything or commit evil deeds!”
“…I should have anticipated it. You possess a means of transmitting information to the outside world. Had no one moved against the ‘heart’ out there, we would have had more time.”
Penelope-Rose-Cambaton glanced up at her, her voice tinged with both reproach and weariness.
“Many things cannot be predicted by human will, just as no one could have guessed that ‘it’ would change its mind because of that vial of Nightmare Revelation, choosing to come to Florence City… We remain too weak before absolute power.”
“Had you perished in the first assassination attempt, or chosen to leave Florence City after escaping, this city might still have been saved.”
Konehl-Ghervil was utterly stunned.
These few simple sentences revealed that the anomaly in the dream realm stemmed from a threat to the real-world ‘heart,’ and the mythical creature’s arrival in Florence City was a direct consequence of the Nightmare Revelation potion.
In comparison, the possibility of Penelope-Rose-Cambaton being behind the first assassination seemed remarkably unremarkable.
“Ultimately, the true culprit is me; I should never have written that letter.”
Penelope-Rose-Cambaton rose to her feet, dabbing a handkerchief against the forehead of the girl who had utterly lost her spirited defiance.
“The letter was sent to me by the Royal Family, and you yourself mentioned the messenger went missing en route. I came to this city for another reason as well—a royal commission, in a sense,” Konehl-Ghervil uttered weakly.
“You… are certain it was the Royal Family?” Penelope-Rose-Cambaton stumbled back a step in disbelief, her handkerchief fluttering to the ground.
“Aside from the Royal Family, I can conceive of no other entity.”
“Impossible! Please reconsider. The Royal Family would never wish for a city’s destruction!” The woman’s voice rose sharply.
Konehl-Ghervil’s brows furrowed deeply, the woman’s sudden exclamations leaving her utterly bewildered.
‘Could it truly not have been the Royal Family who sent the letter? Then who…’
‘Ah, right.’
There was one other faction capable of such a feat.
Namely, the group that had once cut off Mistfall City’s support, seeking the Solis Abbey’s demise.
At that time, Mistfall City’s situation was understandable; they faced a fully intact Solis Abbey.
Who could know if its members were merely feigning death? Govet-Ghervil served as an excellent example.
From their perspective, a cautious approach allowing the plague to erupt made sense.
‘But now?’
Setting aside how they knew Nightmare Revelation could attract that mythical creature…
Surely, they wouldn’t sacrifice Florence City, with a population several times that of Mistfall City, just to deal with her, would they?
If that were truly the case, those individuals would be utter madmen!
“At this point, does it still matter to you?”
Konehl-Ghervil had no intention of letting this opportune moment to glean information about the Royal Family slip away.
Someone in this country had twice attempted to destroy a city because of the Solis Abbey; she refused to believe the Royal Family remained ignorant of this.
“You are correct; caring holds no meaning now.”
Penelope-Rose-Cambaton knelt down, resuming her ‘work,’ clearly disinclined to pursue the topic further.
‘…Clever indeed. Truly the daughter of a noble merchant.’
As her blood continued to drain, the dizziness intensified, leaving her without the strength to pose further questions.
Compounded by the scorching sun, she was now severely dehydrated, her body and mind teetering on the brink of collapse.
After an indeterminate amount of time, a sweet, refreshing liquid touched her parched lips, and instinctively, she began to frantically lick and swallow the clear water with her tongue.
It took several bowls before her vitality slowly returned.
A fragrant aroma wafted to her nose as a glistening, roasted lamb leg was brought to her lips.
She desperately wanted to refuse, to uphold the dignity of rather dying than accepting even a morsel of food from her enemy.
Yet, the realization that such a refusal would only lead to a muddled, meaningless death spurred her to open her mouth.
Thereafter, Penelope-Rose-Cambaton generally fulfilled her requests for food.
Unable to discern any taste, she chose foods based solely on their ability to restore her strength and provide nourishment.
Her wounds were bandaged to staunch the bleeding, preventing her imminent demise.
Approximately a quarter of the ‘work’ had been completed.
“Are you not curious about ‘its’ purpose in having us cultivate these Blood Roses?”
Having eaten and drunk her fill, Penelope-Rose-Cambaton settled beside her, engaging her in conversation.
“To concoct more Nightmare Revelation,” Konehl-Ghervil conjectured.
“What ‘it’ truly craves is your blood.”
“My blood?”
“It desires your blood, yet simultaneously fears the power it contains, hence this method of suppression,” Penelope-Rose-Cambaton affirmed with a gentle nod.
“As you know, Blood Roses are most commonly used for suppression and transformation. If it succeeds in the dream realm, ‘it’ will put it into practice once we return to reality.”
“Won’t ‘it’ detect you speaking of these things?”
This was far beyond mere casual conversation; it touched upon the mythical creature’s core objective.
Konehl-Ghervil wondered at the reason she divulged such information so readily.
Her gaze fixed on the crimson sun as it descended towards the horizon, gradually obscured by dark clouds, Penelope-Rose-Cambaton’s eyes grew dim.
“As long as we do not cross certain lines—such as facilitating your escape—we are granted a maximum degree of freedom.”