Sein returned to the church with the lingering smell of smoke clinging to his clothes.
He had taken a break outside, leaning against the stone wall near the back, finishing a cigarette with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had narrowly avoided death and had not yet fully processed it. The quicksand still weighed on his thoughts more than the danger itself. One wrong movement, one moment of panic, and he would have been gone. Buried alive in a forest path that no one would think to search.
He looked down at himself with mild disgust.
Mud streaked his trousers, his boots were caked in wet earth, and his sleeves bore stains that would not come out without serious effort. His hair felt stiff from dried grit. If not for that strange girl with the turban, he would be dead. He owed her his life, even if she had walked away as if pulling a grown man out of the ground was no big deal.
A bath. He desperately needed a bath.
With that mundane thought in mind, he pushed open the heavy wooden door of the church.
"Brother, I'm back—"
The words died in his throat.
A chill ran down his spine so sharply it made his knees lock for a fraction of a second. It was not fear in the usual sense. It was something deeper, more instinctive. A sense of contamination. Of something vile and wrong pressing against the world like a wound that refused to close.
Sein's skin prickled. Cold sweat broke out across his back.
It felt like screaming.
Not sound, but sensation. As if something unseen was howling from the abyss, its echo seeping into the air itself. Tainted. Heavy. Wrong in a way that had nothing to do with physical danger.
He swallowed and slowly turned his head toward the source.
The feeling came from a door down the hall.
The church was quiet, candles flickering softly along the walls, their warm light doing nothing to dispel the sensation crawling over his nerves. The miasma was faint but unmistakable to someone like him, someone who dealt with healing, curses, and the unseen rot that sometimes clung to wounds.
Before he could take another step, the door creaked open.
His brother stepped out.
"Sein," the priest said, relief flickering across his face before it shifted to concern. "Where have you been? And what happened to your clothes?"
Sein exhaled, the pressure easing slightly now that the door was open, though the feeling did not vanish entirely.
"I was stuck in quicksand," he said flatly.
The priest froze. "What?"
"We'll talk about it later," Sein added quickly, waving a hand. "I got out."
The priest frowned but nodded, clearly filing that conversation for another time. "There's a boy who is extremely wounded. He needs your help."
Sein's expression sharpened. "Huh? Let me see."
He did not ask further questions. He moved past his brother and down the hallway, boots echoing softly against the stone floor. With every step closer to the room, that strange sensation intensified. It was not demonic mana in the way he expected. It was something twisted, as if several different wrongnesses were layered atop one another.
He pushed the door open.
The smell hit him first.
Blood, herbs, sweat, and the sharp tang of failed healing magic hung thick in the air. Candles burned low near the bed, their light revealing a scene that made Sein stop short.
A red-haired boy lay on the table, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His skin was pale, lips tinged faintly blue. Bandages wrapped his torso and limbs, but dark stains spread through them, stubborn and ugly.
Sein's eyes narrowed as he stepped closer.
What are those wounds…
They were stab wounds. That much was obvious. But they were wrong. The edges were too clean in some places and too jagged in others, as if the blade had changed shape mid-strike. The tissue around them looked irritated, not infected in the usual sense, but as though the wounds themselves rejected being closed.
A purple-haired girl stood near the bed, hands clenched tightly around her staff. Her eyes snapped toward him the moment he entered.
"Are you Sein-sama?" she asked quickly, voice tight with urgency. "Please treat Stark-sama."
Sein nodded once, his gaze never leaving the boy. "That's me."
Another figure stepped forward.
An elf.
Silver hair fell straight down her back, untouched by age. Her green eyes were sharp, ancient, and calculating. She looked young but he doubted that.
"I'm Frieren," she said calmly. "This is Fern. That's Stark."
Sein inclined his head slightly, acknowledging the introductions.
"He was fighting a demon, warrior type mage," Frieren continued. "She used some strange blade. These wounds won't mend. We came from Graf Garant's domain. The priest there tried everything and gave up. He recommended you."
Sein felt his throat tighten.
A demon.
Capable of doing such damage?
That explained part of it. But not all.
"I… I'll try my best," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "Let me take a look first."
He set his satchel down and rolled up his sleeves, pushing aside the lingering grime of the day. This was not the time to think about baths or cigarettes. Whatever had done this to the boy was still out there. And judging by the feel of those wounds, it was something that should not exist so easily in the world.
Sein leaned over Stark, eyes focused, senses open, and began his examination.
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