Chapter 47: Ch47 Wounds That Don’t Heal
Luther stood frozen, staring in disbelief.
The uncanny resemblance of the statue to him was almost insulting. From the sharp jawline to the curve of the brow, it was like staring into a mirror—but older, with longer hair flowing down its shoulders like a monarch’s crown. The stone figure carried itself with a solemn dignity, its lifeless eyes fixed straight ahead as though passing judgment on him.
He snorted, breaking the silence.
"Wow. Really convincing," he muttered sarcastically, circling the pedestal. "A statue of me? What’s next? A shrine to my dirty boots?"
But beneath the sarcasm lingered unease. This temple wasn’t built around him—it was built around this statue. He noticed it immediately. The very foundation of the structure wrapped around the stone figure like protective arms, as though the temple existed only to preserve it. Whoever had lived on this land centuries ago hadn’t just carved an idol; they had enshrined it.
And from the weathered nameplate at its base, the truth pressed against him like a hammer.
The resting place of the First Hero, the first son of Asmethan.
His smirk faltered.
"...You’ve got to be kidding me."
Was this some elaborate trick? Some sick joke the elders had staged to convince him of his ’destiny’? The thought crossed his mind, but he shoved it aside. The craftsmanship was ancient, far beyond anything recently chiseled. Even the cracks in the stone carried the weight of centuries.
He stepped closer, ready to examine the finer lines of the statue’s face, when—
"Over there! I heard something!"
The sharp cry shattered the heavy silence.
Luther’s head snapped back. Shouts swelled, echoing through the hall, growing louder by the second. Torches flickered at the far end of the corridor, voices overlapping.
"Saint! He’s near!"
"Surround the chamber!"
"Saint." The word left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Without thinking, Luther bolted. He darted past the statue, boots striking against the bricked path. His pulse hammered in his ears as the shouts closed in.
Then came the dead end.
His heart lurched. Thick vines hung like curtains over the final wall, woven so tightly they hid everything behind them.
"Oh, great," he spat, throwing up his hands. "A dead end. Just what I needed."
He spun on his heel, ready to retreat—but the motes appeared again. Tiny flecks of light, floating gently like fireflies, hovering just beyond reach.
And then, impossibly, they drifted straight through the vines as though the barrier wasn’t even there.
Luther blinked.
"...No way."
The shouts thundered closer. Boots scraped stone. He didn’t have time to think. Cursing under his breath, he clenched his teeth and hurled himself through the vines.
He expected to collide with stone. Instead, he stumbled forward, weightless, passing cleanly through what should have been solid. His body phased, like walking through mist—and then he hit the floor on the other side.
"—What the hell?!"
He spun around. Behind him, the vines were gone. The wall was gone. Everything was gone. It was as if the passage had never existed. His stomach twisted.
Instead of a hidden chamber, he now stood in a familiar corridor—the one near the ruined door, blasted off its hinges during the traitor’s assault. His chest tightened at the memory.
"Did... did I just—teleport?" he muttered.
He tried to retrace it, but nothing remained. No vines. No motes. Only solid stone. His thoughts churned in frantic circles, but the voices cut through again, louder, chasing him down.
"Damn it all," Luther hissed, spinning. Left, right—then forward. He sprinted.
He ducked through a broken archway, lungs burning, until he stumbled past a half-open gate. The iron bore a faint crest—wings etched across its center. But he didn’t notice. Not in his panic.
He collapsed behind a pillar, chest heaving.
A roll of guards swept past the gate moments later, their armor clattering. One slumped to the ground, groaning in frustration.
"How does an injured brat run like this?!" he gasped, clutching his knees. "I swear, I’m done. Let him go."
Another knight yanked him upright. "Don’t even think about it! We can’t fail. Commander Liliana and Sir Aithur are counting on us. Find the boy!"
The words pricked Luther’s ears. He narrowed his eyes.
Liliana and Aithur left with the royal family...
His lip curled into a mocking smirk.
"Of course they did," he whispered to himself. "The mighty rulers hiding in their golden shells while everyone else burns. Some leaders they are. Pathetic cowards."
The knights, unaware of him crouched just meters away, pressed onward. Their footsteps faded into the distance.
Luther stepped from his hiding place, dusting off his hands. He tilted his head up, noticing the sunlight streaming weakly through the shattered ceiling. The sun was dipping low. Almost evening. His gut sank at the thought of sleeping outside.
"Perfect," he muttered, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Survive lunatics, teleport through walls, get hunted like a stray dog... and now I’m homeless."
But before he could decide his next move, a sharp cry pierced the air. A cry of pain.
Luther froze.
Something inside tugged at him, like a moth to flame. Against his better judgment, he followed. Past a flickering lamp, through another hallway, until he stumbled upon it—
And stopped dead in his tracks.
The chamber stretched wide, filled with rows of the injured. Bed to bed. Roll to roll. Those without beds lay on makeshift cots, or even bare cloth spread across the floor. The stench of blood, sweat, and herbs choked the air. Groans of agony overlapped, a symphony of suffering.
Luther’s chest tightened.
His eyes fixed on one corner, where a young female apprentice struggled over a small boy—no older than seven. The child’s shoulder and side were charred black from fire, his skin peeling, his cries sharp enough to pierce bone.
The apprentice’s palms glowed faintly, healing magic flowing. For a moment, the wound closed. But seconds later, it split open again, raw and bleeding, spreading deeper with a cruel hiss.
"No... no, no, no!" the girl cried, sweat running down her face.
Around her, other apprentices shouted in frustration.
"It’s not working!"
"The burns keep reopening!"
"Why is this happening?!"
The boy screamed, writhing, his tiny hands clutching the sheets. The apprentice bit her lip, on the verge of tears herself. She reached again to heal—but froze when Luther stepped forward.
Her eyes widened.
"S-Saint!" she stammered, stumbling back.
The others turned, startled, and hurriedly bowed despite their panic. "Saint!"
Luther ignored them. The title would’ve made his skin crawl if he’d been paying attention. But all he saw was the boy.
He crouched beside the child, placing a steadying hand near the wound. His voice was softer than he expected.
"What’s wrong with him?"
The apprentice, flustered, answered in a trembling rush.
"M-My lord... the wounds won’t close. No matter how much we heal them, they keep reappearing. And it’s only those burnt by... by the fire. Our magic—it’s useless against it."
Luther’s gaze sharpened. He studied the wound closely. The charred flesh. The blackened veins crawling out from it like spiderwebs. He knew instantly.
These weren’t normal burns.
Luther stomach sank. He knew what was wrong.
The wounds...
Were corrupted.