Chapter 26: The Best News

“The child’s home and the factory—both are gone. Completely destroyed.”

The master druid, known as Claw, had reverted to his half-man, half-bear form. With a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of mountains, he lowered the unconscious minotaur youth onto the ground.

“As long as he’s still alive, that is enough.”

Marlon bent down, attempting to lift the young minotaur—Ester. Yet as soon as he strained, he realized his own wiry frame was no match for the youth’s massive body. Panic flickered across his face, and he quickly turned his head, calling out in a louder voice, almost pleading:

“Someone give me a hand here!”

At once, two sturdy lads—orphans who had been helping with the construction crews—hurried over. Their arms were thick as beams, their backs broad. They carefully supported Ester between them and, under Marlon’s instructions, carried the unconscious minotaur toward the orphanage’s one long row of workers’ sheds.

Inside the orphanage grounds, space had become scarce. The air was thick with the sound of restless bodies—refugees huddled together, children crying softly, whispers of worry filling the cramped corners. Were it not for Marlon’s foresight and the strict organization of old Andrew and the retired veterans who aided him, the very passageways would already have been choked with people, leaving no path to walk.

Yet the sheds themselves were not entirely packed. That long wooden row, at least, still held some emptiness. Within one of those sheds, the little fox-girl Amy, the quiet Adela, young Anvi, the brooding Musa Mein, and Claw’s beast companion—a massive, striped-faced wolverine named Lukas—had space enough to claim a room of their own.

This world still clung tightly to its ancient customs of hierarchy and unspoken rules of privilege. Equality was not something people aspired to here.

Thus, even with Ester being brought in unconscious and lain down within the shed, there was still sufficient room for all without it feeling oppressively crowded.

Claw helped ease the boy onto a cot, then turned to Marlon with a faintly apologetic look in his ursine eyes.

“Forgive me, my friend Marlon. I am no healer. My druidic arts lean toward claws and combat, not the softer touch of restoration.”

The apology was genuine. In this world, the difference between life and death often hinged on whether a healer or priest was present. A severed head, a ruptured heart—if a cleric or caster skilled in holy restoration was near, even such wounds could be reversed. Without them, even a minor fever could spell doom.

In Ester’s case, his unconscious state was not immediately fatal. At least, not yet. Time might allow him to awaken naturally—though that was little comfort in a place where death lurked so close.

Marlon, nodding as though expecting this, asked quietly:

“Old Kang, what exactly is happening in the northwest district right now?”

Claw’s amber eyes glinted, recalling the scenes he had witnessed only hours before. His voice was steady, unnervingly calm, as though recounting someone else’s nightmare.

“When I arrived in the northwest district, I saw the enslaved Durel people breaking free of their chains. Their pent-up rage exploded in fire and violence. They rose against the overseers and the factory masters. The factories burned—great flames devouring the night. Anything that could serve as a weapon was seized, and they struck down any outsider who came into their sight. They looted, killed, violated women… madness ruled. No different from the riots before.”

He paused briefly, then continued, his tone still eerily neutral.

“The plants whispered to me. They said a false god, Balto, had a priest who tormented them. This false god, born of the Durels’ desperate faith in their suffering, sought to prove his power through blood and chaos. Fortunately, that priest was swiftly slain—by a powerful elven psion.”

His gaze darkened slightly, but his voice remained even.

“The plants also told me of foolish demon-worshippers who used the unrest as cover, sowing the same madness and ruin as the enslaved Durels. Their cruelty was indistinguishable.”

“Then I saw the soldiers of Blue Storm Fortress—the veterans, hardened by fire and war. They descended from the skies in floating airships, joining the anti-air battalions already stationed there. Street by street, they advanced, sweeping with rifles and bayonets. I fear most of the Durels… will not live to see dawn.”

Claw spoke with chilling detachment. To him, death was part of the cycle, the turning of seasons. Yet to Marlon, every word was heavy, sinking like stones in his chest.

“Ten… no, over a hundred thousand lives… all gone in a single night?”

Marlon’s expression turned pained, his eyes shadowed with pity. White Sand City boasted three hundred and sixty thousand citizens—but that number never counted the slaves of Oshana District. They were not considered people. And tonight, tens of thousands of them would vanish beneath the veil of fire and blood.

It was merciless.

To Marlon—who had already died over thirty times in another world’s battlefield, the infamous “Battle of Coriasa”—this night still felt unbearably cruel.

Claw merely shrugged, murmuring:

“Perhaps. But death is the root of life’s renewal.”

Then, as if brushing aside the weight of tragedy, he asked suddenly:

“Marlon, my friend—the Book of Aery. Where is it now?”

Marlon hesitated. After a moment, he confessed everything that had happened in Claw’s absence—though he carefully left out the deal he had struck with Delft, the third-circle psion.

Claw’s massive shoulders tensed, the gleam in his eyes sharp as though he were ready to storm back to that cursed crossroads and seize the book by force.

Alarmed, Marlon quickly raised his hands.

“Old Kang, wait! Don’t be rash. I’ve already deciphered and translated the remaining contents of the book. The truth is… I only kept quiet because I didn’t want you to leave. That’s all.”

He lowered his head, shame flickering across his boyish face.

“This was my fault. I’m just a pauper who came into sudden wealth—easy prey for thieves. Anyone with a bit of skill could take advantage of me. But you, Old Kang—you fear no thieves. You’re a master druid, protector of the wild.”

His words were clever. A confession mixed with flattery. But he braced himself for Claw’s anger, expecting to be scolded harshly.

Instead, the druid master simply shook his great shaggy head and said, with quiet warmth:

“Marlon, my friend… do you know? This is the best news I have heard tonight.”

Even as those words settled, the shed’s wooden door creaked open. The old paladin stepped inside, his armor gleaming faintly in the lamplight. His movements were hurried, his expression weary but disciplined.

“Master Lister,” he addressed Marlon respectfully. “The refugees are mostly settled. Patrols have been stationed along the walls. Is there anything else we should prepare for?”

Marlon rubbed his temples, forcing his mind to focus. He thought for a moment, then began listing practicalities with the sharpness of a commander:

“Water. They’ve marched a long way, and fear dries the throat quickly. We need large pots boiling constantly, enough to quench everyone’s thirst. Sanitation too—send people to the public latrines. We cannot have waste fouling the grounds. Keep the lines orderly.”

The old paladin nodded gravely as Marlon’s instructions spilled forth. It was not easy—nearly twenty thousand refugees had arrived. To settle them all, even temporarily, was a monumental task.

By the time Marlon had finished giving orders, his young face was pale with exhaustion. Time had slipped past swiftly in the whirlwind of crisis. Midnight was long gone; the night was deep.

His body—still only that of a fourteen-year-old boy—was near its limit. Worse, the backlash from overextending his psychic energy earlier still lingered, gnawing at his strength.

He turned, eyes heavy-lidded, and glanced once more at Ester, the minotaur boy. Adela had bound his wounds, yet he remained unconscious. Marlon hesitated, then faced Claw, the old paladin, and Inspector Bernard.

“Old Kang, Uncle Bernard, Sir Carnegie… I cannot hold on any longer. Please, take charge of the night watch. If anything urgent happens, wake me at once.”

He bowed deeply, his voice sincere despite his exhaustion.

Bernard patted the holster at his waist with a loud smack-smack, the sound of leather and steel.

“Sleep, boy. You youngsters need rest. Leave the rest to us grown men. The sky held up by the gods of Maine will not collapse tonight.”

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