The ferryman had sensed something ominous, but he had no idea what it was. It did not necessarily have to be a person, but this time, it was.

In the Cult of the Sacred Demonic Realm, bishops oversaw small dioceses, while archbishops above them administered several dioceses together. Above even them stood the apostles. One of the evil cult's few apostles had personally taken action.

His name was Redit.

'I will make you food for insects.'

He steadied himself as he thought of that bastard Encrid. Rousing his determination would unleash his Authority. Rather than release it, Redit stored it up solely to kill one man.

The apostles of the Cult of the Sacred Demonic Realm were born with their Authorities. Redit had been born in a village bordering the Demonic Realm. Before he was even ten, he had slaughtered every villager, along with their livestock.

His innate ability was cursing. With a mere look, he could burst someone's heart or make insects swarm beneath their skin.

He had not always been an apostle. An encounter at fifteen had made him one. While wandering the continent, earning himself the name of demon incarnate, Redit had met someone his ability could not defeat.

["What an interesting boy."]

The man's heart should have burst, yet he was fine. Insects tore through the flesh of his forearms and swarmed all over his limbs, but he did not even frown. He smiled as flies gnawed at his skin.

["Try some more."]

Nothing worked on him.

["Follow me, and I will make that paltry power of yours worthy of being called an Authority."]

Redit saw a halo around the man as he spoke with a smile. He radiated light. He was Redit's savior.

["Who are you?"] Redit asked.

The man answered with a smile.

["I speak for those betrayed by a false god. I am an ascetic walking a path of thorns for my master."]

Redit wept. He could feel it. All his life, he had been living for this man.

["Follow your father. I will open a new world to you."]

The man who had found him was an apostle of the Cult of the Sacred Demonic Realm. Redit embraced his teachings and trained to make his ability worthy of being called an Authority. Thus, he became the Apostle of Curses.

["Father, I will be on my way."]

The Wolf Bishop was dead, and the cult's undertakings had been thwarted time and again. Who was responsible? By now, every prominent figure in the evil cult knew Encrid's name. They could no longer stand by and watch.

The apostle who had taken him in, the man he now called Father, nodded. Redit clenched his molars and pressed his oozing hands together, bowing his head as if in prayer. Seeing this, the father apostle said:

["Go and show them. Show them that no one may obstruct our work like that."]

They had met and spoken on a road in bright sunlight. By the time Naurilia's civil war ended, the apostle had already entered the kingdom.

His innate Authority prevented Redit from riding a horse and made it difficult to keep people nearby. Anyone who stayed by his side for more than a week would suffer misfortune.

He could control curses that constricted a heart or made insects swarm through skin with a look. But people being struck by lightning or swept away in landslides simply because they were near him—that was beyond his control. The curse was so vicious that some had died when a slight scratch from a branch became infected.

He was, quite literally, a walking curse caster. His peculiar constitution let him cast curses surpassing any shaman's without ever having learned how. On top of that, he had trained until his power fully deserved the name of Authority.

That was how he had learned to strengthen his power. The fewer people he kept nearby as buffers against misfortune, the stronger his heart and insect curses became.

But storing up the power of his curses required very careful control. Accumulate it for too long, and the misfortune would rebound on him.

For this mission, Redit had gathered curses to his very limit, enough to cause a backlash against his own body if anything went wrong. His skin had softened further and begun to ooze. Covered in scabs like pockmarks, his face seemed the very definition of hideous. At a glance, he could have passed for a Ghoul's brother.

His opponent was skilled enough to belong to a knight order. This much preparation would be necessary. For a single curse, Redit had traveled deserted roads, gathering its power like an ascetic fasting and praying.

Now that whole process was complete. Pockmarked skin, a body that creaked with every step, bones so fragile they broke under the slightest strain, innards that could not properly digest anything he ate, and withered muscles barely capable of doing their work. Such was the scourge of one born with curses.

He arrived at Border Guard with his body concealed in a loose coat and his hood pulled up.

"Who are you, and where are you from?"

"Just a traveler. Cough, cough."

A few words were enough to make his throat itch and his lungs feel as if they were burning.

'I pushed myself a little too far this time.'

Redit knew he had accumulated too much of his curse Authority. But it would soon be over. A few days at most, and he could forget this pain for a while. Unleashing curses on others temporarily relieved his afflicted body.

Exercising his Authority was his only means of survival. Otherwise, he would never have bothered killing every villager, wandering the continent, or killing again and again until he earned the name of the curse-wielding demon. These days, Apostle of Curses was enough.

"You look very ill."

"There's a clinic inside. Go have them look at you."

The guards at Border Guard's gate looked him over and nodded. They did not seem interested in taking a bribe. Border Guard had recently been growing into a trading city. It would have been no surprise for its guards to hold out their hands, but they all concentrated on their duties.

Redit nodded and passed them. One guard frowned at the discharge running down the bridge of his nose.

"Make sure you get that treated," the soldier called after him.

Redit dipped his head once and went inside.

He had no need to find an inn. He intended to go straight to the barracks. That bastard Encrid was said to be obsessed with training.

"Master Encrid!"

Just then, someone's voice caught his ear. He turned to see a man with black hair and blue eyes outside a smithy radiating heat. The man was putting metal gauntlets on both hands.

It was proof beyond doubt that the God of the Demonic Realm watched over him.

'God has watched over me.'

The true god dwelled in the Demonic Realm and did not shun anyone for being a demon. Reciting that teaching, Redit gathered every scrap of his power.

A wave of curses rose, unnoticed by anyone, and swept toward Encrid. No, a wave alone would not suffice.

Redit stepped forward. His afflicted, cursed body screamed. It would all be over soon. He approached and reached out a hand.

Encrid looked at him.

"I-it's an honor."

Playing the part of an ordinary citizen, Redit reached out. Encrid took no precautions, and at last, Redit's hand touched him.

* * *

["I ask you, apostle of the God of War. Is it true that you let a heretic go without punishment? Surely you knew that doing so was no different from declaring yourself a heretic?"]

Audin dreamed. After a scene from his past unfolded, the face of the man speaking to him warped. The distorted face soon became that of a monster molded from mud.

The monster shuffled along, alternately dragging two lumps that barely deserved to be called feet. Watching it, he could sense that it had traveled a very long way. It crept closer, almost crawling, then clung to a man, melting and crushing him.

Looking closely at the man beneath it, Audin recognized Brother General.

'Is this from the Lord?'

Audin thought it was some kind of prophetic dream. He did not know what the mud monster was, but the approach of danger felt like a certainty.

Opening his eyes, he realized he had briefly dozed off sitting upright in broad daylight. God must have arranged it so that He could grant a revelation through his dream.

The mad barbarian came into view.

"Where has Brother General gone?"

"Into the city to see the blacksmith."

Rem had just collected his axe and was swinging it to get used to its feel. It was different from the weapons he had been using, after all. Still, it felt similar to a weapon he had used long ago, so adapting would not be difficult. He was working through that process.

Audin sighed and told him, "If I am too late, it is because Father was lazy."

With that normally unthinkable reproach against his god, Audin set off. Rem wondered what had suddenly gotten into him.

* * *

What did it mean for something to be ominous? Encrid eagerly anticipated—no, waited for the ominous thing the ferryman had mentioned to arrive. But there was no news.

Not that he grew impatient. He simply went on with his daily routine.

"Let's have a bout once I'm used to it."

Rem said this as he came in carrying his new axe. The Lewis steel gleamed softly in the sun. Anyone could see it was no ordinary axe.

"How long will that take?"

"A day or so. Just wait. Why are you so desperate to get the shit beaten out of you?"

Their usual pointless banter.

"Oh, and the blacksmith said he has something for you."

"Why didn't you bring it back with you?"

"Said he wanted to give it to you himself."

Rem spoke while thinking of the craftsman who had tried to give his axe a strange name. He had considered taking the gift by force, but he liked the axe he had received far too much for that. This was a weapon that would not break easily even against Encrid's new sword, Aker.

Encrid nodded. The blacksmith sent by the palace wanted to deliver his own creation in person. Understanding another person's intentions and feelings was probably the greatest difference between Encrid and Rem.

"All right, then."

What was the trouble in a short trip? Becoming a general had not changed his daily life. Only the other commanders' attitudes had changed.

Battalion Commander Graham, in particular, remained unfailingly respectful. So did men like Platoon Commander Vengeance and Squad Leader Bell. More people looked at him with something beyond respect: admiration.

Of course, some did not. His own subordinates were the prime examples, along with Sinar. They were exactly as they had always been.

Walking along with these idle thoughts, Encrid saw Audin sleeping upright off to one side. It was remarkable how his posture never slackened, even in sleep. Passing him, Encrid went down to the market and headed for the smithy.

The day was hot. Fitting for the season of the Salamander. Salamanders were flame-spewing monsters, sometimes called spirits of flame, sometimes monsters of fire. People borrowed their name to describe the sweltering season.

Summer sunlight filtered through the trees onto the ground. As he walked, Encrid pondered new techniques, how to practice them, and how to use them. If he collected his gift, returned, and even managed a bout with Rem, today would be as fulfilling as any other.

He arrived at the smithy lightly sweating, and the craftsman greeted him with beads of sweat rolling down his face.

"The metal in your old sword was quite good. Its core was ruined, so I couldn't make it into another sword, but I could do this."

The craftsman was a man of exceptional pride in his work. He held out the gauntlets he had made. They had been forged from the melted metal of Encrid's old sword, Silver.

The metal gauntlets were lined with leather, with several layers of cotton beneath that. Metal alone could not absorb impacts. The exterior had been carefully finished into smooth curves that looked well suited to deflecting or knocking aside most weapons.

"Your craftsmanship is excellent."

Encrid did not stint on praise. He thought it a fine gift. He had accepted it and was turning to leave when someone called out.

"Master Encrid!"

Someone who recognized him approached, calling his name. It was the cobbler he had once had dealings with. A mage had been hiding beneath his shop, and that was when Encrid had opened his Sixth Sense. He could never forget it, even if he tried.

"Ah, well, I was just so pleased to see you."

The cobbler was more polite than he had ever been. Everything, starting with his status, had changed for Encrid since he explored the cellar beneath the man's shop. The cobbler had called out in delight, but now worried that a man equal in standing to a noble might reprimand him.

"Is your daughter well?"

"Have you taken a fancy to my daughter?"

"No, that's not it."

As they exchanged these simple pleasantries, someone approached Encrid.

"I-it's an honor."

The man reached out as he spoke. Encrid thought little of it. Plenty of people who recognized him behaved this way. Some came claiming to want a spar, only to stare at his face; others held out their hands like this man.

It never occurred to him that this could be the ominous presence the ferryman had spoken of. It would have been hard for anyone to imagine. Quite apart from his wretched appearance, the man was clearly incapable of physical violence. Everything from his stance to his presence made that plain. Judging by that presence, Encrid knew even a fifteen-year-old boy could beat him up.

The man's hand touched his arm.

"Who do you think you're touching?" the cobbler snapped at the sight.

Encrid waved a hand to say it was fine. He had felt something the instant the man's hand touched him, but it had vanished just as quickly. All that remained was a feeling he could not identify.

"Wh-what... this?"

The man's voice shook. He seemed utterly startled. Encrid blinked at the sudden change in his emotions.

'He looks very ill.'

Encrid clasped his hand in return. Was it right to rebuke someone merely for their wretched appearance? Surely not.

* * *

"What a fucking idiot."

Even the ferryman could not see everything. When today repeated, he could see most of that repeating day. But sensing an ominous presence approaching, as he had this time, did not tell him exactly what it was.

In other words, he had never imagined that idiot would bring something as paltry as a curse.

For once, the ferryman felt embarrassed. He had spent days warning of something ominous, and it had to be a curse. Nothing in this world could place a curse on that lunatic.

For several reasons, the ferryman knew full well that the man's curse would dissipate without accomplishing a thing.

'Fucking idiot.'

The ferryman cursed the group that had sent him. He did not even know who they were, but he kept cursing them all the same.

'Moronic bastards.'