As evening fell, Ser Harwyn arrived promptly to knock on Gawen’s door.
Having changed into fresh clothes, Gawen followed the knight through the corridors to the castle’s great hall.
The hall was spacious.
A long oak dining table stood at its center, already set with polished tableware and gleaming candleholders.
Portraits of generations of House Graceford’s ancestors lined the walls.
A roaring fire burned in the hearth, filling the room with the comforting crackle of burning logs and the scent of pine resin.
Lord Graceford stood at one end of the table.
Beside him was a young girl of about eleven.
“Gawen!
Come, come, sit!”
The lord took his seat at the head of the table and gestured toward the chair on his right.
“This is my daughter, Alys.”
Gawen’s gaze settled upon the girl.
His heart immediately tightened.
She possessed a fragile, almost ethereal beauty.
Her skin was unnaturally pale.
Her clear blue eyes resembled the spring sky after rain.
Long, pale-golden hair rested upon her shoulders, and she wore a simple light-blue woolen dress.
Yet the moment Gawen looked at her…
His druidic senses detected something else.
A chilling, unnatural aura seeped quietly from her body.
“Lady Alys.”
Gawen offered a polite bow.
“Young Lord Rowan.”
She returned the gesture gracefully, her voice soft and gentle.
“I’ve heard you come from Goldengrove.”
“Is it true…”
“…that there’s really a Golden Tree there?”
“There is.”
Gawen smiled.
“If you ever visit Goldengrove, I’ll gladly show it to you.”
Before she could answer, Alys suddenly broke into a fit of coughing.
She hurriedly covered her mouth with a handkerchief.
When the coughing subsided, her complexion had grown even paler.
[Life Manipulation Proficiency +1]
[Target: Alys Graceford]
[Vitality critically weakened.]
[Abnormal loss of life energy detected.]
Gawen’s expression remained calm.
Inside…
His heart sank.
“Young people should spend more time talking!”
Lord Graceford laughed heartily from beside them.
“Come, come!
This is Holyhall’s signature dish—roast suckling pig with honey mustard.”
“You simply have to try it.”
Gawen thanked him politely and picked up his knife and fork.
The food was excellent.
But his attention remained fixed elsewhere.
“Lady Alys…”
He spoke casually while cutting a piece of meat.
“Have you been feeling unwell lately?”
Alys lowered her eyes.
“I’ve been like this ever since spring began.”
“My hands and feet are always cold…”
“And I never seem to have any strength.”
“Has a healer examined you?”
“He has.”
Lord Graceford answered before his daughter could.
“A healer named Aldric arrived at the castle not long ago.”
“He’s an elderly fellow.”
“He prescribed several medicines.”
“They help for a few days…”
“But then the illness always returns.”
Gawen frowned slightly.
A recurring illness meant one of two things.
Either the underlying cause had never been removed…
Or…
It wasn’t an illness at all.
“Is this healer still staying in the castle?”
“He should be.”
Lord Graceford glanced toward the doorway.
“He lives in the eastern gallery.”
“At this hour, he’s probably in his room.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Gawen smiled naturally.
“I’ve studied a little medicine myself.”
“I believe I’ve encountered symptoms like Lady Alys’s before.”
“I may be able to help…”
“Though I’m not entirely certain.”
“I’d like to learn a bit more first.”
“Excellent!”
Lord Graceford’s eyes lit up.
With a broad wave of his hand, he ordered,
“Send for healer Aldric immediately!”
It wasn’t long before an elderly man entered the hall under the guidance of a servant.
He appeared to be around sixty years old.
His back was noticeably stooped beneath a coarse gray-brown robe.
The instant Gawen laid eyes on him…
Every instinct within him sounded an alarm.
The old man’s face was an unnatural grayish white.
Its texture resembled weathered, decaying wood.
His skin was rough…
Cracked…
Like the bark of a dead tree left to rot for countless years.
The fissures stretched from his forehead all the way down to his jaw.
And within those cracks…
There was no flesh.
Only hard…
Gray-black matter.
With every breath, a faint odor drifted through the room.
It smelled of rotting wood…
Mixed with damp earth and old bone meal.
[Nature’s Guardian Proficiency +2]
[Detected: Malevolent Entity—Husk Wraith.]
Gawen’s heart tightened.
Outwardly, however, his expression remained perfectly calm.
“Young Lord Rowan.”
His voice was dry and hollow, like dead leaves scraping across stone.
“His lordship said you might know how to cure Lady Alys.
So I’ve come to see for myself.”
Instead of approaching the fireplace, the old healer deliberately chose the corner farthest from the flames.
He placed his medicine basket beside his feet.
“You should warm yourself by the fire.”
Gawen spoke evenly.
“It’s much warmer over here.”
“What illness does Lady Alys suffer from?”
“A weak constitution.”
The old man withdrew a handful of dried herbs from his basket.
The moment they appeared, the smell of decaying timber grew even stronger.
“Cold has entered her body.”
“I’ve prepared warming tonics.”
“Poppy seeds…
dried mint leaves…
simmered with honey into a medicinal syrup.”
“It nourishes the blood and strengthens the body’s vitality.”
Gawen glanced at the herbs.
[Flora Mastery Proficiency +1]
[Decayed plant matter.]
[No medicinal value detected.]
“I see.”
Gawen nodded before abruptly changing the subject.
“You’ve practiced medicine for many years, haven’t you?”
“I imagine your experience is considerable.”
“I have a question I’d like to ask.”
“Please.”
The old man grinned.
His teeth were yellow…
Almost black.
“To be honest…”
Gawen spoke slowly.
“A healer once told me that an evil influence had entered my body.”
“Ordinary tonics suppress it temporarily…”
“But never cure it.”
“Each recurrence grows worse than the last.”
“That’s one reason I’m traveling to the Citadel.”
“Do you know of any remedy?”
The old man’s hand froze for an instant.
“Well…”
“That depends on what sort of evil influence we’re talking about.”
He hesitated before continuing.
“Cold…
dampness…
summer heat…”
“Each requires a different treatment.”
“Perhaps…”
“I should examine you myself, Young Lord Rowan.”
He rose to his feet.
Then slowly walked toward Gawen.
Gawen remained seated.
His hands rested naturally at his sides as he calmly watched the old man approach.
Three meters.
Two.
One.
“Old healer.”
Gawen suddenly spoke.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
The old man’s footsteps stopped.
The kindly smile remained upon his face…
But beneath those gray-yellow eyes, something dark began to stir.
“My lord jests.”
His voice changed.
It now sounded like dry branches dragging across the ground.
“I’m merely an old man.”
“What would I know about evil spirits?”
“What about this?”
Without warning, Gawen reached toward the nearby candlestick.
He lifted the candle.
A strand of golden-white flame blossomed from its wick, dancing quietly in the air.
The old man lurched backward.
The smile vanished instantly.
Only then did everyone else in the hall finally realize something was wrong.
“W-What is this…?”
Lord Graceford shot to his feet.
His chair toppled backward with a crash.
His face had turned deathly pale.
“Aldric…”
“You…!”
Alys cried out in terror.
Stumbling backward, she knocked over another candleholder.
Several guards instinctively drew their swords.
Yet as they watched the healer’s face begin to change…
None dared move closer.
“W-Who are you?”
The lord’s voice trembled.
The old man’s body began to twist violently.
The cracks covering his skin burst open.
Gray-black roots erupted from the fissures, writhing through the air like living serpents.
The bark-like face warped grotesquely beneath the mass of roots.
As the disguise peeled away…
It revealed gray-white bone.
No flesh remained.
The basket of herbs spilled onto the floor.
Its contents instantly collapsed into piles of black, rotting humus that reeked of decay and damp soil.
“Seven save us!”
One of the guards gasped.
His sword nearly slipped from his fingers.
Alys covered her mouth in horror, her face white as snow.
Lord Graceford instinctively pulled his daughter behind him, pointing at the creature with a shaking hand.
“W-What…”
“What in the Seven Hells is that thing?”
Gawen ignored the panic surrounding him.
Drawing his sword, he summoned golden-white flames onto its blade.
The burning sword flashed through the air.
One clean strike.
No blood flowed from the wound.
Instead…
A thick gray-black fluid oozed from the severed neck.
As the phoenix fire touched it, the liquid hissed violently, releasing clouds of white smoke.
The head tumbled across the floor.
For several seconds, the tangled roots protruding from the neck writhed wildly.
Then they slowly withered.
Yet…
The head remained alive.
It rolled twice before coming to rest face-up.
A grotesque grin still stretched across its bark-covered face.
Looking down at it, Gawen finally spoke the creature’s name.
“Husk Wraith.”
“How long have you been hiding inside this castle?”
“Husk Wraith?”
Lord Graceford’s frightened voice sounded from behind him.
“What…
what is that?”
“How could it—”
The severed head interrupted him with a low laugh.
It sounded exactly like dead branches snapping in half.
“So what if you know?”
The creature sneered.
“Everyone in this castle already depends on me.”
“Lady Alys has taken my medicine.”
“Our lives are bound together now.”
“If you kill me…”
“She dies with me.”
Gawen’s eyes narrowed.
The cold aura surrounding Alys was indeed extraordinarily strong.
Even Lord Graceford bore faint signs of corruption.
[Life Manipulation Analysis]
[A life-link exists between the Husk Wraith and its host.]
“You can try.”
The severed head laughed smugly.
“Burn me…”
“And she burns with me.”
“Let me leave…”
“And she’ll slowly recover.”
“D-Don’t listen to it!”
Lord Graceford shouted.
But terror filled every word.
His fingers gripped his daughter’s arm so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Gawen smiled.
Without another word, he poured lamp oil across his blade.
The golden-white flames surged skyward.
Phoenix fire blazed brilliantly.
As his sword descended…
The flames split into two streams.
One engulfed the headless body.
The other swallowed the still-grinning head.
“AAAAAAHHHHHH!”
The Husk Wraith’s scream exploded throughout the hall.
But it was no longer a single voice.
Men.
Women.
Children.
The elderly.
Countless voices overlapped, shrieking, sobbing, and wailing together from within the flames.
“No!”
“You’ll die even more horribly than I will!”
The head twisted.
Blackened.
Cracked apart.
The gray-black roots writhed frantically before withering one by one…
Until nothing remained but drifting ash.
The entire hall stood frozen.
The guards still clutched their swords, uncertain what enemy remained.
Lord Graceford held his daughter tightly, his lips trembling too violently to form words.
Gawen calmly sheathed his sword.
Then he knelt, placing one hand upon the floor.
[Rebirth Incarnation Proficiency +10]
[Book of Flame Proficiency +18]
[Malevolent energy successfully purified.]
[Nature’s Guardian Proficiency +12]
The oppressive chill vanished.
The fire in the hearth returned to its ordinary orange glow.
Outside, the violent storm had somehow subsided.
Only a gentle rain now pattered softly against the windows.
Gawen rose to his feet and turned toward Lord Graceford.
“My lord.”
“It’s over.”
His voice was as calm as though nothing extraordinary had occurred.
“Lady Alys will recover after several months of rest.”
“And that thing…”
“…will never return.”
Lord Graceford opened his mouth.
His throat worked silently several times before he finally managed to speak.
“What…”
“…what was that creature?”
Gawen smiled faintly.
“A Husk Wraith.”
“One of the creatures born from malevolent darkness.”
“But…”
Lord Graceford stared blankly.
“Aren’t such monsters only legends?”
According to the stories Gawen remembered, creatures like these existed only in ancient tales.
Which meant only one thing.
Something in this world had begun to change.
At last, he understood.
If he could cultivate natural energy…
If the Book of Flame and phoenix magic truly existed…
Then it also meant that the magic of this world was no longer merely fading.
It was slowly…
Beginning to awaken once again.
And as that awakening continued…
More people gifted with magical talent would inevitably emerge.
Send those stones my way—the more, the merrier.