{Chapter: 65: Island Outbreak}
His soldiers were trained to withstand disease. The weakest among them could still endure what would kill a normal man. They were veterans. Hardened. Powerful. And yet, something was feeling them in droves. That meant one thing:
This was no common illness. This was something born of rot, humidity, and desperation. Possibly a parasite. Possibly a new strain of tropical disease native to this godforsaken island. Either way, it was spreading.
And they had no medicine.
The small number of military doctors they had brought with them had little more than bandages and tonics. Their supplies were depleted in the first two weeks. Without herbs, pills, or holy water, there was no way to truly treat something of this magnitude.
Harry began pacing, his boots squelching in the muddy floor of the hut. He knew the protocol. In such scenarios, you isolate the infected. If symptoms worsen, you burn the bodies. If things become critical, the harsh choice must be made: kill the infected and preserve the untainted.
But this wasn't a battlefield. This was a prison. These men had been exiled, betrayed by their nation. Their morale was already hanging by a thread. If he ordered the killing of their comrades without even trying to save them...
It could ignite rebellion.
The soldiers followed him now out of habit and fear. But should he give them a reason to doubt his intentions—if they thought he saw them as expendable livestock...
It would be the end of him.
Harry stopped pacing. He turned to the officer. Rain was still pouring in through the open door. His voice was grim, but clear.
"Find a remote part of the island. Clear it out and start relocating anyone showing symptoms. Make sure they're comfortable. Don't make it look like we're exiling them. Let them believe it's for their protection."
The officer straightened. "Understood, sir."
Harry continued. "Next, fetch the Apothecary. I want his full report. Don't let him sugarcoat it. I want to know what we're dealing with. Tell him I'll give him anything he wants if he can find a solution."
The officer saluted and dashed off into the storm.
Even though there is no medicine, it would be a waste of effort to treat it...
But as long as the appearance is achieved, it should be enough to perfunctorily appease the soldiers...
For more detailed information, he needs to hear the apothecary's opinion.
After all, there is no medicine, but the experience is still there.
If they thought they could still save them, Harry had no reason to sacrifice those soldiers.
If they thought they could still save them, Harry had no reason to sacrifice those soldiers.
Once alone, Harry slumped back into his chair, feeling the weight of command press down harder than ever before. He had made it look like a confident plan, but in truth, he had none. He had no idea what disease was spreading or if it could be stopped. The truth was as bitter as the rainwater dripping into his hut: he was helpless.
Still, appearances mattered.
If he looked strong, the men would follow. If he pretended to act with conviction, they might just survive. Maybe the apothecary would know something. Maybe they could find local herbs. Maybe...
Maybe he was just delaying the inevitable.
But for now, he had to look the part of the leader.
Even if it was nothing but a hollow act, it was better than chaos.
---
More than two months later.
The middle-aged officer, clad in the dark naval coat that denoted his rank, stood solemnly on the deck of the iron-plated warship. The ocean breeze tugged gently at the worn fabric, but his body remained rigid, posture stiff, and eyes locked onto the dark silhouette of the island in the distance. It was supposed to be a lifeless, barren land of exile, yet now it loomed like a cursed mass—silent, scorched, and soaked in invisible dread.
Smoke no longer rose from the island's interior, but the charred blackness of what used to be a settlement lingered like a permanent stain on the land. A cold unease coiled tightly in the officer's chest, its grip unrelenting. He had spent months overseeing this island, ensuring none of the exiled Ar army escaped or built rafts from scrap wood. Yet nothing had prepared him for what he had witnessed over the last fortnight.
More than ten days ago, the Ar soldiers had gone mad.
Not the madness born of isolation or despair. No. This was something else. Something primal. Savage. It was as if every one of them had turned into a feral beast overnight—faces twisted in rage, eyes hollow of reason, and bodies unnaturally resilient. Their tactics were brutal but coordinated, unholy blends of raw instinct and war-born discipline. The officer had seen through his long-distance scope soldiers tear through each other like rabid animals. He had watched teeth and claws sank into flesh and men scream without fear or hesitation, only bloodlust.
Now, there was nothing left but decay.
The once crude buildings, cobbled together by desperate hands, had become heaps of ash. Trees were splintered. Trenches collapsed. Even the wooden watchtowers had been reduced to blackened stumps. The few birds that once circled the sky no longer came near.
He swallowed hard as he thought of the monstrosities.
For the last two days, twisted things had begun emerging from the corpse-piled valley in the island's heart. Each was a towering abomination—measuring five to six meters tall, hulking figures of pulsing, rotted flesh. They moved like malformed puppets, dragged forward by grotesque limbs that seemed sewn together at random. Human hands jutted from their knees, a horse's jaw protruded from one's ribcage, and pus-laced veins ran like serpents across their hide. The very ground beneath them sizzled with acid decay where they walked.
Some of the monstrosities were so grotesque, it was almost impossible to look at them without feeling the bile rise in the throat. Their forms were twisted, a grotesque patchwork of human flesh fused together in a nightmare of body parts. One of them was a hulking behemoth, its massive body held together by grotesque, melted skin, the contours of its form undulating like wax in a furnace. Its head—if it could even be called that—was a jagged amalgamation of three faces, each one screaming in silent agony, with eyes bulging outward, their pupils black voids of madness.
Another monstrosity crawled forward on twisted, broken limbs. The lower half of its body seemed to belong to a giant, the legs gnarled and malformed, ending in twisted, clawed feet. Its upper torso was a horrific fusion of multiple humans, spines jutting from its back like jagged splinters, and arms that were too long, stretching unnaturally toward the ground, fingers ending in hooked talons. Its chest was a patchwork of ragged skin, swollen and pulsating as though the heart was no longer contained within it. Its eyes, multiple and disorienting, blinked erratically, staring at nothing, but somehow aware of everything.
The third monster lurched forward, dragging itself on the ground, a grotesque mass of severed limbs and rotting flesh. Its back had been fused with the torso of another body, and the hands on its back—still twitching with unnatural life—clutched at anything they could grab, its fingers coated in blackened blood. Its face, a grotesque mockery of humanity, was missing its lower jaw, exposing raw, dripping tendons and muscle beneath. From its empty eye sockets, two gory tendrils of flesh hung like grotesque ribbons, and its breath came in harsh, wheezing gasps as it dragged itself forward, leaving a trail of pulsing, disgusting fluids behind.
The officer wanted, more than anything, to order the ships to unleash their cannons. To fire every round and reduce the monsters to vapor. But fear anchored his hand.
What if the monsters could swim?
They hadn't shown signs yet—but what if bombardment provoked them? What if they dragged themselves into the sea and floated toward the mainland or other nearby islands?
He shuddered.
That was not a risk he was willing to take—not without direct orders.
And those orders could only come from one man: James Woz.
---
Inside a dimly lit chamber miles away, James Woz, known for his ruthless pragmatism and cold logic, read the officer's letter under the flickering light of an oil lamp. He traced the lines slowly, eyes narrowing as the words painted a picture more grotesque than he had expected.
The previous report had dismissed the initial incident as internal strife. Mere exiles turning on one another. Common enough in abandoned places. But this...
This was no ordinary descent into chaos.
He pressed the letter down on the desk, fingertips drumming in thought. A silence lingered in the air before he finally spoke:
"Go down and have a rest first," he told the soldier in front of him. "Tomorrow, I will write a letter for your superior. You'll deliver it personally."
The soldier nodded and saluted. "Yes, Commander."
As the footsteps receded down the stone hallway, James leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. He hadn't slept in two days. Too many pieces on the board were moving, too many threats bubbling beneath the surface.
"If we let this fester," he murmured to himself, "we may be dealing with more than an outbreak."
---
Later that afternoon, in a sun-drenched chamber high within a marbled tower, Dex sat lazily on a windowsill draped with silk curtains. His figure cast a lean shadow over the floor as golden light glinted against his glass of crimson wine.
James Woz stood several steps away, not daring to meet Dex's amused gaze directly.
"You're saying," Dex said, swirling the wine with a lazy flick of his wrist, "that the church has taken notice of the island? That rumors have already begun to circulate among passing sailors and traders?"
James nodded. "Yes, sir. The abominations that have appeared are... too conspicuous. We may not be able to keep this under wraps for long."
Dex chuckled.
"Of course you can't. That's what happens when you dabble with powers you don't understand. But... you're right. It would be troublesome if this became a holy crusade."
He stood up, letting the wine slosh slightly. He gazed out the window, toward the southern sea where the cursed island lay far beyond the horizon.
"In that case, then it's up to you. Anyway, I have already got what I needed."
James gave a low bow, his relief palpable. "Thank you, sir. I will begin the purge immediately."
As the commander turned to leave, Looking at James Woz who was leaving, Dex shook his head slightly and gave a mocking smile.
Dex muttered under his breath, eyes still lost in the sky:
"Being weak is the greatest mistake a man can make."
The shadows lengthened as the day waned, and somewhere beyond the waves, the island continued to rot from within—its horrors growing bolder with every passing hour.