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Chapter 278: Happy End (3)

Crash!

The meeting room door of the Heavenly Sword Clan burst open as the Sword Master, Chenko Verstappen, strode in with heavy steps.

He hadn’t even sat down before demanding,

“What in the world is going on?”

“A terrorist attack, my lord.”

His loyal level-7 knight, Larsen Moore, answered without hesitation.

Receiving his master’s gaze, he continued,

“Unidentified smoke has spread throughout the city. Those who inhaled it began to convulse.”

“Convulsions? Explain in detail.”

“They lose their sanity and start biting other people.”

“Wait… you mean the victims also turn into the same state afterward?”

“Yes, sir.”

A low groan escaped Chenko’s lips.

He had seen similar symptoms once before—through the intelligence sheets issued only to Shadow Trackers.

“Damn those Black Fingers… they’ve finally done it.”

Suppressing the anger boiling in his chest, Chenko forced himself to stay calm.

Now was not the time for emotion—cold reason was needed.

“Happy End… so that place really was connected to the Black Fingers.”

“Yes, my lord. Evidence suggests that Dust released the smoke to survive the attack.”

“A plan of this scale couldn’t have been prepared in mere days… which means there were rats hiding in the city.”

Chenko clicked his tongue and turned his head.

“What’s the damage?”

“So far, the infected areas are: District 3 along the Bettis River, Industrial Zone 5, and the southern residential quarter. The eastern new city remains safe for now, but the wind direction is unfavorable. It may not stay that way.”

“Casualties?”

“Around 200 confirmed cases.”

“...200?”

Chenko’s brows rose slightly.

“That’s less than expected.”

“The heavy rain tonight reduced foot traffic, and the smoke didn’t spread easily. That seems to have helped.”

“Thank the heavens.”

Had the weather been clearer, the devastation would’ve been far worse.

He issued his next orders swiftly.

“First, subdue those showing symptoms—but don’t kill them. I repeat, subdue, not execute.”

“Understood.”

“Where are the mages from the White Tower?”

“They all headed to the site to eliminate Dust.”

“Send knights to retrieve them. We’ll need their wind magic to contain the smoke. Then contact the Imperial Court and the Holy Church—request top-tier healers and high-ranking priests.”

Innocent lives could not be left to die.

The afflicted must be restrained first, then cured.

Sensing the Sword Master’s intent, Larsen cautiously added,

“My lord, there’s an unverified rumor… that Oscar Crucian once treated similar patients in Saint Hill.”

“Oscar Crucian?”

Chenko recalled the young mage he had met only hours ago in the council room—

the prodigy who had restored the crumbling White Tower within a single year.

He frowned.

“I’ve never heard that story.”

“They say he developed a cure, but the nobles feared releasing the recovered patients back into society, so they eliminated them. It’s only a rumor, of course.”

“Ha!”

A bitter, disgusted laugh slipped out of him.

And yet, ironically, the sheer pettiness of that tale made it sound all the more plausible.

He had seen too many highborn fools act that way.

“Let’s hope the rumor’s true.”

Checking his watch, Chenko noted the time—12:52 a.m.

By now, Dust’s situation should be nearing its end.

‘So the casualties are lower than expected…’

He exhaled slowly.

But even as relief brushed his thoughts, a troubling question surfaced.

‘Why here?’

The Black Fingers were evil, yes—but they weren’t stupid.

They’d survived for over a decade in the Empire’s shadows.

Such recklessness was out of character.

‘Judging by the scale, this took months of preparation.’

This was no spur-of-the-moment act.

And yet they’d chosen this city—the one guarded by the Empire’s strongest power,

the Heavenly Sword himself.

As long as that man lived, Sicadel would never fall to a mere terrorist attack.

‘They knew that… and still attacked?’

A deep unease twisted in his gut.

Outside, the rain hammered down like the heavens had split open.

* * *

At the rear gate, Oscar and his companions noticed the anomaly almost simultaneously.

Like startled meerkats, all four of them looked up toward the rooftop.

“Oscar, that mana…”

“Yeah, I feel it too.”

It wasn’t their imagination.

The mages stationed on the roof were frantically drawing power.

‘Enemies? Should we check it out?’

Before Oscar could decide, the rear gate creaked open—

and a knight from the Heavenly Sword Clan stepped through.

“Ah.”

Recognizing him, Fran took a step forward.

“You’re Sir Mateus, level-7 knight of the Heavenly Sword Clan, right? Is the situation inside under control? There’s strong magic on the roof—”

“……”

Step. Step.

The knight approached them, head bowed.

Fran tilted his head, reaching out instinctively—

and a flash of steel sliced through the rain.

“Huh?”

He touched his neck—his body had already become wind.

His automatic defense, Wind Spirit Form, had triggered.

Meaning—he had nearly died.

“Why would a Heavenly knight attack—?”

“He’s not a knight anymore!”

Oscar shouted sharply.

The aura around Mateus was… wrong.

Minutes ago, the young knight had been full of life.

Now—nothing.

Like an undead.

“He’s already dead! Everyone, prepare for combat!”

The corpse twitched grotesquely,

its body bending in impossible ways as it swung its sword again—

clang!

Oscar’s shield deflected the blow.

He shifted his stance.

Crash!

Tilting the barrier, he redirected the sword into the ground.

Mateus twisted again for an upward slash—

“Nice one!”

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Killian lunged from behind, stomping down on the sword.

Crunch!

The blade sank deep into the stone floor.

For a knight, losing his weapon was like a mage losing mana.

And what followed was merciless.

“Steel Breath!”

Boom!

The enchanted armor crumpled like tin under his strike.

Mateus dropped his sword, skidding down the rain-slick alley.

When he tried to rise—

“Heads down!”

A surge of mana flooded the air.

Raindrops evaporated mid-fall—

for two seconds, the world fell silent.

Then Veronica’s Wind Arrow streaked through the alley,

piercing the knight’s chest clean through.

Everyone froze, waiting to see if he’d rise again.

But instead—

his head rolled off, splashing into a puddle.

The body collapsed lifelessly.

“I-I didn’t do that! I aimed for the chest!”

“We know. We saw.”

“Then what—”

“He was already dead when we met him.”

Oscar crouched beside the corpse, examining it.

“Decapitated… reanimated by some power… and destroyed again from the shock.”

“Necromancy?”

“No. Not from the Black Tower.”

If it were true necromancy, he would’ve recognized it immediately.

This was something older—darker.

“Wind Archive.”

Opening his magical tome, Oscar scanned the body.

Data materialized before his eyes.

Life signs: None

Residual mana: Minimal / Original mana pattern erased

Cause of death: Complete severance of cervical spine

…

Then his eyes caught a flashing alert.

[Warning! Trace amounts (0.7%) of demon blood detected.]

Demon blood.

Oscar’s expression hardened.

“Analyze the blood composition.”

The Wind Archive—a book of all winds and memories—

contained not only information gathered by magic, but by his previous life.

‘I have records of nearly every named demon’s blood.’

If luck was with him, he could identify whose it was.

Moments later, the result appeared.

Blood Code: D4R-W1N-EVO-212-Aβ

Match rate: 58% with archived sample

Just two short lines—

but enough to shake him to the core.

“You’ve got to be kidding me…”

He remembered that code.

How could he not?

It belonged to one of his most troublesome adversaries.

‘Darwin… the Darwin?’

One of the Four Demon Counts.

Not the strongest—but the most insidious.

The match rate was only 58%, yet that made it even more certain.

Darwin’s blood—constantly evolving—would never stay identical for 21 years.

Oscar swallowed hard, glancing toward the rooftop.

‘Could he be here himself?’

A chilling thought—but he shook it off.

‘No. If he were, Mateus wouldn’t have fallen that easily.’

The 0.7% trace must’ve been diluted blood.

‘Darwin must’ve given his blood to someone inside… likely Dust.’

If Dust truly carried Darwin’s blood,

his strength would far exceed that of a typical level-7.

“Oscar, what’s going on?”

“The corpse had demon blood. According to Wind Archive—it’s Darwin’s.”

“Wait—Darwin? As in…”

Fran’s face turned pale.

“Yes. One of the Four Demon Counts.”

“So he fed his blood to a corpse and used it like a puppet?”

“Seems so. Which means Dust isn’t an ordinary 7th-level anymore.”

Oscar looked upward.

The intense mana clash above still raged on.

“We move—now.”

Before more time was lost, they surged upward—

the wind lifting them onto the roof.

There, the sight that greeted them was grim.

Bloodied mages lay scattered across the tiles.

“Kh…!”

Anatol Kincess of the Blood Tower coughed blood,

looking at them with a mix of relief and regret.

“New prey has arrived,”

the hulking man murmured, smiling darkly.

Oscar’s eyes narrowed.

‘Now I see… why he’s so confident running wild in this city.’

Level 8 — the threshold of high demons.

That was the level attained by Dust,

the man who had tasted the blood of a Demon Count.

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