The Cuckoo patrol arrived swiftly, their spears pinning the skeletal madman to the cobblestones. Before they could catch their breath, another scream erupted nearby. A second lunatic burst through a window, clutching a burning oil lamp. He hurled it blindly, letting out a garbled, incoherent shriek.
Houses ignited. The Cuckoos cut the man down and turned to the stunned crowd, roaring at them to fetch water from the lake. Only after the fires were quenched did the town fall silent, leaving behind a weeping homeowner, a row of mutilated corpses, and a lingering scent of ozone and burnt hair.
Don sat motionless in the shop, absorbing the aftermath. He listened as the other patrons whispered in hushed, terrified tones.
"That's the second time in ten days."
"The perfumers can't find a cure. Even the priest has no answers."
"War without, madness within. Is there no mercy left in the world?"
Don had long harbored a suspicion. Humanity was as fragile as it was resilient—like weeds that regrow after a fire. The Shattering had scarred the Lands Between, but the demigods weren't fools; if they slaughtered or drove away everyone, they would have no one to tax and no one to conscript. Peace should have brought prosperity back.
But the future the Tarnished saw was a graveyard of deformed, skeletal husks incapable of speech. This wasn't merely the result of war.
Watching the tragedy outside, he finally understood. If you strip away the concept of "sanity," the world collapses into an abyss from which there is no return. Two madmen had nearly razed a block; if two thousand went mad, the town would be nothing but ash.
"A blessing... or a curse?" Don touched his own eyes. It was naive to think the Greater Will had sent the Golden Order across the stars just to hand out free gifts.
Is this a side-effect of the Ring being shattered?
He made a mental note to investigate this "Madness." He bore the Grace of the Erdtree himself; he had no intention of ending up as a mindless husk. He dropped a few runes on the table, pulled his mask low, and stepped out to follow the patrol. The Cuckoo captain, seeing a sorcerer approaching, greeted him with cautious respect.
"My lord, how may we serve the Academy?"
"Tell me everything you know about this sickness," Don commanded, his voice cold and arrogant as he produced a quill. "Do not omit a single detail."
The captain blinked. He found it strange that a cloaked bookworm would suddenly care about the common lot, but he didn't dare question a sorcerer. "The madness appeared long ago, but it has become frequent of late. We've put down ten men this month. They simply... snap."
"Randomly?" Don asked.
"Mostly. None of the soldiers have fallen yet, though some complain of failing memories. The knights seem untouched."
Linked to the strength of the individual, Don noted. "And the symptoms? Are they all violent?"
"No. There are a few in the North District who haven't moved in days. We left them be, so long as their families report in."
"Take me to them."
The soldiers led Don toward the docks. This was the slum of the gate town, where the air was thick with the stench of rot and poverty. A typical sorcerer would have turned back, but Don didn't flinch. His disguise remained perfect.
As they navigated the narrow alleys, Don noticed a bald man leaving bread at a doorstep. He paused. It was the initiate who had served him at the welcoming feast. The bald man saw Don and froze, looking terrified.
"My lord? Shall we seize him for questioning?" the Cuckoo captain asked, hand moving to his sword.
"No. Do not waste my time." Don gave a curt nod of recognition and stepped into a nearby shack.
The interior was worse. It smelled of stagnant water and unwashed bodies. The captain cursed as he looked around. "The woman ran off. I told her to watch him."
Don ignored him, walking to the bed. A man lay there, so emaciated he looked like a bundle of dry sticks. Don kicked the frame. The man's eyes snapped open. The gold of Grace was still there, but the eyes were hollow, devoid of any soul or spark.
Like a walking coma.
As Don watched, the skeletal figure sat up. The soldiers gripped their hilts, but the man didn't see them. He crawled to a basin, drank a mouthful of foul water, and swayed back to the bed to stare at the ceiling once more.
Don felt a chill climb his spine. He knew the perfect term for this.
The living dead.
Aside from base instinct, this man was no longer human. He was a vessel kept alive by a Grace that wouldn't let him die. In the Lands Between, the Golden Lineage did not perish of age or illness. This man would remain here for eternity, unless the shack collapsed and crushed him into the mud.
The room was deathly quiet. Even the gore of the battlefield felt more merciful than this.
The captain swallowed hard. "My lord... is there a cure?"
"No," Don replied flatly. He wasn't Marika.
The captain, sickened by the stench, gave a brief salute. "We have our rounds, then. I'll leave you to your study." He beckoned his men away, leaving the "eccentric" sorcerer alone.
Don didn't look back. His time with Sellen had sharpened his analytical mind. He pressed his staff against the man's forehead. A flash of light illuminated the skeletal face, and a Glintstone Pebble ended his eternal torment.
Don closed his eyes, sensing the energy plundered by his Dragon Heritage. A few seconds later, he opened them.
Nothing. It was less than a hound. Negligible.
He had tested his power on crabs and wolves; even they provided a minute boost. But this human, a bearer of Grace, was so weak he barely registered.
If the body is intact, is the soul already gone? Is the Grace keeping the shell 'immortal' while the essence has been drained?
He stroked the chin of his mask, mimicking Sellen's pensive habit. If the Golden Order was responsible, this was a sustainable harvest on a cosmic scale.
He was pulled from his thoughts by a sudden creak. He spun, leveling his staff. "Who goes there!?"
The wooden door swayed in the wind. A figure stood in the doorway, draped in a priest's robe and wearing a wide, tattered straw hat that obscured his face. He radiated a power that was intangible—like a reflection in a disturbed pool.
"I did not expect a sorcerer to pity the hollowed," a low, resonant voice said. "Ending his pain was the correct choice. Order is a brittle thing, and it is beginning to crack."
The priest stepped forward, adjusting his hat.
"Who are you?" Don demanded.
"I am one who seeks the truth, just as you do." The man bowed slightly. "I am called Shabriri. Tell me, friend... would you be interested in learning of a new faith?"
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