TWWSY 61

Chapter 61

Haah.
Mia let out a sigh inside as she turned around to face the intruder. Standing there was an elderly man in a priest’s robe.

At first glance, he looked utterly ordinary. His clothing was different from that of Etalon’s priests, but that was to be expected—this was Veridian. His appearance was no different from the clerics one could see on the streets: hollowed eye sockets, a neatly groomed beard, and a disciplined posture.

His expression, however, was filled with anger. Understandable enough. After all, what priest wouldn’t be furious to encounter an intruder inside his temple?

But when Mia locked eyes with him, something felt… different. She hesitated.

“Something about him… doesn’t seem human.”

There was an unsettling intensity in his gaze. It wasn’t the kind of reaction one expected from an ordinary clergyman in a fit of outrage. Mia scrutinized him more closely. Even as she stared, the priest’s breath came heavy and ragged, as if he could barely contain his emotions.

The more she looked, the stranger he seemed. His skin, which she had assumed was flushed from anger, gleamed with an unnatural sheen, its texture almost wax-like.

“Did he smear something on his skin? No… it doesn’t look like that either.”

His breathing, though rough, was oddly steady and regular. And his eyes—Mia finally realized why his gaze had felt so disturbing. She focused on his pupils and felt a chill run down her spine.

At first, she had dismissed it as a trick of fury, something any inattentive observer might overlook. But his pupils were dilated far beyond what the dim temple lighting could explain. And deep within, there flickered a faint, almost imperceptible light.

“There’s nothing ordinary about this at all. If anyone stared long enough, they’d notice it clearly. How come no one else has?”

Her thoughts grew heavier.

“You people are not welcome here.”

The priest, oblivious to her scrutiny, continued speaking. Now that she paid closer attention, even his voice carried something odd—an oddly mechanical cadence, as if rehearsed.

“Piety? Loyalty? Ha. The Goddess sees through your lies.”

Mia exhaled slowly. Ignoring him and moving on would be more troublesome than dealing with him directly.

“I have every right to remain here as much as you.”

Her words twisted the priest’s face into something grotesque. But before he could retort, Mia spoke again.

“The Goddess’s domain exists in Etalon too. In fact, isn’t the worship in Etalon the very source of your faith? Can what you venerate here even be called the true Goddess?”

That struck a nerve. The mask of composure shattered instantly, and his face contorted with a fury so inhuman that Mia’s breath caught reflexively.

She had no trouble facing the anger of others. Usually, she could take it in stride. But this…

“This face…”

Before her thought could even finish, the priest’s expression snapped back to normal, his ordinary façade settling over him once more.

“You know nothing of the Goddess’s will. Preachings of divine truth would fall on deaf ears with the likes of you.”

“Heh…”

“In her mercy, I will give you a final chance. Leave. Leave this place at once, or she herself will punish you!”

His words came like lines read from a script—mechanical, impersonal. The hatred radiating from him felt borrowed, not his own, and Mia’s curiosity only deepened.

Instead of stepping back, she moved closer.

There was something she needed to confirm.

“Tell me, Father,” she asked in a soft, almost innocent tone—like a devout girl, curious and eager.

“How long have you been serving in this temple?”

The question seemed to strike something deep within him. His eyes blinked rapidly, and that eerie light in them lost its focus.

“I… I have always… always been here…”

His voice faltered. The mechanical cadence was gone, replaced by something almost childlike.

As his words deteriorated into incoherent mumbling, Mia’s suspicions hardened into certainty.

Whatever influence was gripping this man, his mind was no longer wholly his own. And if a priest of a whole parish could be dominated like this, how many others in the city had already fallen under the same control?

Could she even be sure she had never encountered someone like this in her previous life?

The sky was painted in shades of orange and violet. From the quiet grasslands, the sunset was breathtakingly beautiful—a rare piece of romance amid the harshness of military life.

But there was no time to bask in beauty during a grueling march. Injured soldiers from the last battle needed to be checked on frequently, especially while moving at this pace.

Squish, squish. Boots pressed into the damp ground as tents were hastily erected. The Supreme Commander walked briskly among them, leaving deep imprints in the soft earth.

As Étienne approached the makeshift infirmary, the first people he noticed were two soldiers he knew well.

“Alain. Marcel.”

They sat slumped on a wooden crate outside the tent, their faces haggard. Alain’s left arm was wrapped in a bloodied bandage, while Marcel anxiously picked at the scabs on his knuckles.

At the sound of their names, both men straightened in shock. Clearly, they had never expected the Legion Commander to remember mere soldiers like them. Their rushed, awkward salutes made Étienne smile faintly as he waved a hand.

“At ease. I only came to check on your condition.”

He sat beside them and handed out pieces of bread he had brought along. Even such a small gesture left the two looking deeply grateful.

“You’ve suffered a great loss. At the very least, fill your stomachs. How are you holding up?”

Alain tried to force a smile, but it came out as a grimace, lips twitching upwards while his brows furrowed.

“We are enduring, Commander. Thank you for asking.”

His voice was hoarse, like that of someone who had spent hours shouting—or perhaps crying.

Étienne nodded slowly.

“It must be hard. Losing comrades is never easy. I understand your grief.”

Just those few words, almost perfunctory, made Marcel lower his head.

“It’s as if… he had been waiting all along to hear something like that.” Étienne thought briefly.

He considered offering more comfort, but before he could, Marcel spoke, his voice breaking apart.

“Fr-Frambet shouldn’t have… it shouldn’t have ended like that…”

His words cracked heavily, and Étienne held his silence. The tone was less a report to a commander and more a broken confession to himself.

The commander let the quiet linger, hoping it would help them speak freely—but perhaps expecting soldiers to talk openly in front of their commander was asking too much.

They fell silent again, the only sounds being the clatter of pots from the mess tent and the agonized groans of the wounded inside the infirmary.

“I’ve intruded.”

Étienne rose, giving them space. Only then did Alain whisper, his voice faint but resolute, as though determined to share this before the commander left.

“It happened in an instant. We still can’t believe Frambet is… gone. He was always the one who came back from battle unscathed. We were joking around just before it happened, and then suddenly…”

His words trailed off into silence, head shaking in disbelief.

Étienne had no reply. He had witnessed countless deaths on the battlefield, but never the loss of someone so close. In this case, silence seemed the only answer.

And so silence fell again, heavy with grief that none of them could put into words.