Necromancer Of The Black Bible (55)

“They say High Priest Raiernov has begun healing.”

“They say he already saved someone?”

“Who?”

“You know, the daughter of the Blackleaf Merchant Guild Branch Chief.”

“That daughter? The one who looked like she’d die any day, so they even posted a bounty?”

“Exactly. I didn’t believe it either, so I went to the Guild, and she really was running around, completely fine. And that’s not all—apparently Father Raiernov will start seeing patients. The First Monastery is in chaos because of it.”

“Oh… if that’s true, I shouldn’t be here. I have family suffering from illness. I’ll see you later.”

The news that High Priest Mikel von Raiernov had begun healing spread like wildfire through the Theocracy.

So many had been desperately waiting for him.

It wasn’t only the Theocracy’s citizens.

In truth, countless incurable patients from across the continent had gathered here.

Not just from the Valkyr Empire, but also from the West, the East, and even the South.

Some had received treatment from renowned healing priests, but most had not.

For cancer or stroke, their blessings brought no relief. The same was true for gangrene, leprosy, and asthma.

There were many other incurable illnesses.

Unexplained seizures, heart diseases, polio, fractures from osteoporosis, and more.

The most despairing were those with deadly epidemics like the Black Death, measles, and plagues.

They were forbidden past the gates and lived in tents outside.

Priests visited occasionally, but always under strict quarantine out of fear of contagion.

The news of Raiernov reached them too.

Among them was Lady Natasha of the Principality of Tarnia, far from the northwest.

Afflicted with gangrene, her face was wrapped in bandages except for her eyes, nose, and mouth, stained black from constant oozing pus.

Yet her eyes still shone like stars.

Because she saw hope in her maid’s words.

“So you’re saying High Priest Raiernov has begun healing?”

“Yes, My Lady.”

“And he even saved the Merchant Guild’s Branch Chief’s daughter who was dying just days ago?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then… how can I meet him?”

The maid could not answer.

Natasha’s status was not low here.

She was the third daughter of Grand Duke Sigmund Astaros IV.

But the problem was money.

It had been three years since she arrived with royal support.

Since then, communication with the Principality had dwindled, and support had ceased.

It was understandable.

Her condition never improved, and just staying here cost a fortune.

The Theocracy provided shelter outside the gates for the infected—but demanded payment.

Twenty silver per month.

The equivalent of a peasant’s yearly living expenses.

And every priest’s visit cost one gold.

If they prescribed medicine, it was two.

And that wasn’t all.

They sold treatment materials at exorbitant prices.

Lady Natasha’s funds were nearly gone from buying such things.

That was why she had not changed her bandages in so long.

When her maid gave no reply, Natasha spoke.

“The problem is money, isn’t it?”

“There are thousands waiting for tickets to the First Monastery. I hear the tickets are sold for hundreds of gold on the black market.”

“Oh? That much?”

Natasha scratched the bit of chin peeking from her bandages and continued.

“It makes sense. He saved a dying girl. Of course they’ll line up, no matter the cost, no matter the price. He is certain.”

Her voice was clear, yet heavy.

It carried three years of pain, lingering hope, and present despair.

Natasha’s voice was clear, yet heavy.

It carried the pain of the last three years, the hope she held, and the despair of now.

If such an opportunity had arisen three years ago, when she first arrived here, she could have gotten a ticket immediately.

If so, she might already be cured and back home.

Her father would have acknowledged her as his daughter, and she could have reunited with her lover and married.

Don’t worry too much. I’ll wait. No matter how long it takes, I’ll wait here.

As the face and gentle smile of her lover Kaspar flashed before her eyes, tears rolled down her cheeks.

She had survived this long with the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, God’s blessing would descend on her too.

Life in the tents outside the city walls was harsh.

She endured sweltering heat by day and bitter cold by night.

The food was dry, hard to digest.

And the winters were brutal.

Lighting a fire in the center of the tent helped a little, but firewood was expensive.

She had no male attendants to chop it for her.

Her old maid had tried a few times, but it was too much for her.

Chopping wood was far too strenuous for someone over eighty.

“Perhaps this winter, we’ll die here.”

Natasha’s voice was tinged with self-mockery.

It wasn’t pessimism—it was reality.

Each spring, the Theocracy sent workers to drag out those who had frozen to death in their tents.

Then they cleaned the interiors and brought in new patients.

Until last year, it was someone else’s problem. But next year, it could be hers.

“If only he had come a little sooner.”

Now tears streamed endlessly from Natasha’s eyes.

To be so close to a miracle yet unable to reach it—it was bitter. And cruel that her fate was simply to die like this.

And so Natasha wept.

She sobbed silently, alone.

But she was not the only one.

Every night, such cries filled this place.

The maid waited silently for Natasha’s tears to subside.

And when she stopped crying, the maid quietly spoke.

“I’ve heard there’s someone who can get us inside the city—for a price.”

“Really?”

Natasha wiped her tears and asked again, though without much hope.

The word ‘money’ weighed on her.

But her maid continued softly.

“The entrance fee is one gold. Another gold, and he’ll take you directly to High Priest Raiernov, no ticket needed.”

Natasha’s eyes widened.

“How much money do we have?”

“About three gold.”

That meant they had enough left for treatment after paying the fee.

No matter how noble or wealthy, the Theocracy charged only one gold for healing.

And once she was cured, she wouldn’t need much. A single silver would be enough to send a messenger pigeon to Tarnia.

“Then…”

Natasha couldn’t continue, but her maid understood what she wanted to say.

The maid nodded.

“We can try at least once.”

“Once is enough.”

She had never hoped for more.

Just once.

If she could meet the high priest who wrought miracles, she would give anything.

Resolute, Natasha spoke.

“Good. When can we meet him?”

“Tonight. At the third night watch, behind the gates.”

Natasha nodded.

Outside, the sun was just setting. The third night watch meant well past midnight.

She had plenty of time to prepare.

“We still have bandages, don’t we?”

“Yes.”

“What about bathwater?”

“I’ll fetch it.”

“Then prepare it.”

Natasha began preparing for her final outing.

While the maid fetched water, Natasha carefully undressed and slowly unwound the bandages wrapped around her emaciated body.

Her skin tore from the dried pus, but she felt no pain.

Srrrk, ssrrrk, thud-

When the bandages were finally off, blood and pus oozed all over her body.

Her face was no different.

Before the disease, she had been considered one of the Principality’s greatest beauties.

But that was in the past.

A past she could never return to.

Natasha stood before a dim mirror and looked at herself.

Her body was covered in black blisters, a hideous sight.

Most of her skin had sloughed off, barely holding form, and in places, bone showed through.

Even if cured, she would never regain her old beauty.

‘But that is fine.’

She had already given up hope of reuniting with her lover.

When she left, Kaspar had been twenty-six.

Now, three years later, the chances of him being single were slim.

He was the heir of a powerful count’s family, and the center of high society.

‘Kaspar… I hope you are well.’

Natasha closed her eyes and forced away his image.

All she wanted now was simply to live as a person.

Not the life of the past three years, but one without suffering.

After a long journey from her homeland, she had come here.

She still remembered the beautiful sights she had seen along the way.

The salt desert that mirrored the sky like a giant mirror.

The lush forest that shielded her from the midsummer heat.

The serene pond where mystical faeries held nightly dances.

If she were cured, she wished to travel alone to see the world’s beauties.

“My Lady, the bath is ready.”

“All right.”

Natasha followed her maid and sank into the bath.

The water was cold, but she didn’t mind.

It might be her last bath.

As a child, she hadn’t realized, but now she knew—it was a luxury not everyone could afford.

Natasha immersed herself in the water and slowly combed her hair.

The only part of her body that remained intact was her hair.

It still flowed with ebony-like gloss as before, but years of illness had thinned it considerably.

Even so, Natasha carefully combed it, and with each stroke, strands fell into the bathwater one by one.

At some point, her maid approached and used a ladle to pour bathwater over Natasha’s body.

Each time the maid’s wrinkled hands rubbed her skin, yellowish pus peeled away, revealing pale flesh beneath, marred by wounds.

After washing for quite some time.

Natasha stepped out of the bath and dried herself with a towel.

Then she tightly wrapped herself in the last of the fresh bandages.

After that, she changed her clothes.

It was the attire she had worn upon first arriving here, the dress of the Third Princess of the Principality of Tarnia.

Fully dressed, Natasha no longer looked like a gravely ill patient.

She was fairly satisfied with the reflection she saw in the mirror.

“Will people be able to tell that I have gangrene?”

“No one will know.”

“Let us hope so.”

Natasha and her maid crossed themselves and prayed briefly to the god Kallios.

Then they pulled out a box from under the bed.

It was the box her mother had given her when she left the Principality.

Inside, a treasure was kept.

‘Gladius Animae’

A dagger imbued with the blessing of the ancestral spirits.

Though the meaning sounded lofty, her mother’s reason for giving it was clear.

If you cannot be healed and the pain becomes unbearable—use it then.

Natasha lifted the dagger, still in its sheath.

The sheath was a dark silver engraved with fine patterns, its center marked with the winged emblem of the Principality of Tarnia.

The hilt, made of black ebony wood, was wrapped in dark bronze-colored leather.

Natasha gripped it and drew the dagger.

Its translucent silvery blade exuded a chilling aura.

Ancient runes were carved into the blade, their intricate patterns glinting faintly in the candlelight.

‘I might need this tonight.’

Sliding the dagger back into its sheath, Natasha carried it outside.

There was no moon in the sky.

Only countless glittering stars filled it.

From the constellations, she could tell the appointed time was drawing near.

“This way, My Lady.”

The maid walked ahead.

Natasha followed behind, her steps unusually light.

And someone was watching her from behind.

Ceres, the ancestral spirit bound to the dagger.

With tranquil eyes, she quietly followed in Natasha’s footsteps.