Conflagration

"We should check behind the house first," Elin said. "There's a window back there. Maybe someone has already escaped."

Jorgen didn't know about the window at the back, but he understood that the nearby forest was the likely escape route for Jemar, leading towards the adventurer's camp. He called a few guards and joined Elin to head to the back of the house. As their gaze swept around the corner, illuminated by the firelight, they spotted a small figure kneeling at the edge of the decaying woods, unmoving. Initially, Jorgen thought it might be Amy, but the owner of that silhouette had dark hair. Elin hurried past him to reach the figure.

It was Coersta. Elin crouched in front of her, placing his right hand on her shoulder, and said, "Coersta, do you remember me? Is anywhere on you burning?"

The girl remained silent. Her face was blackened, some of her hair had already singed, and though there were no obvious burn marks on her skin, there was blood flowing from her forehead and knees, though not in significant amounts. She looked at Elin with clear yet bewildered eyes, then turned her gaze towards the depths of the forest. Elin looked past her shoulder towards the back wall of the isolation building, where the fire was less intense, but the only window there also had flames licking outward. Whatever happened, Coersta couldn't have just escaped moments ago.

"Who is she?" Jorgen asked.

"Coersta Dipsadong," Elin replied.

"Another one of... Amy's patients?"

"Yes, but she isn't infected with the plague. Coersta, please talk to us. How did you get out?"

Coersta remained silent, unwilling to speak.

"Don't force her; she seems to have experienced something traumatic..." At that moment, Jorgen noticed something. He took a torch from one of the guards and shone it on the ground. There, he saw a scattered trail of bloodstains leading from Coersta's feet into the forest.

Elin also noticed and turned to inspect the bloodstains, confirming that they weren't coming from the girl. Just then, a muffled gunshot rang out from within the forest. Coersta flinched in panic and covered her ears.

"Stay with her," Jorgen instructed Elin. "I'll take a few men in to investigate."

"Be careful."

Jorgen and three soldiers entered the forest. Why would there be gunshots? Regardless, in the darkness of this night, a gunman choosing to hide within a plague-infested forest, where broken branches and unilluminated ground obscured visibility, wouldn't likely be attempting a sniper attack. While Jorgen determined that the gunshot came from this direction, it was practically impossible to shoot at Coersta, standing in the open space in front of the isolation building, under these conditions. It might have been a warning shot, or perhaps something else hidden in the deeper parts of the forest that remained out of sight.

They spread out, trying to eliminate any signs of movement. Despite the limited visible light, it was challenging to move without making sounds: the rustling of branches, the crunch of collapsing earth, all uncontrollably echoed. Even if they ran forcefully, the sound would carry at least thirty yards. Jorgen could at least estimate that the gunman was still lurking within the forest.

The other three soldiers were within Jorgen's line of sight. The second gunshot rang out, and one of the soldiers fell, but he didn't seem to be fatally wounded. Jorgen took the risk of exposing his position and raised his voice, ordering the nearest soldier to crawl over to tend to the injured one. However, the gunner in the darkness did not fire a third shot.

Why? In fact, the soldier who was shot wasn't an obvious target. He fell while in complete darkness, making him practically invisible. His being hit was either due to the shooter's remarkable skill or an accidental injury. Jorgen considered both possibilities, and in either case, it was difficult to comprehend why the gunman didn't shoot at him, who was in an exposed position – unless he somehow discerned that Jorgen was not to be harmed by the sound of his voice.

Considering this, Jorgen took the risk of raising his body slightly and quickened his pace. Soon, he heard the sound of someone running ahead – it seemed there was more than one person. Jorgen drew his dagger and pursued them, catching sight of a black figure fleeing in the faint moonlight – holding a gun in their right hand.

It wouldn't be hard for Jorgen to catch up with the person, but when they were within a few steps of each other, another figure rushed out from the right and knocked the gunman down.

It was Jorgen's case, Jemar. He swung his sword towards the gunman, who rolled away to maintain a distance of three meters between them. Then, the gunman knelt and aimed the gun at Jemar. Just before pulling the trigger, he noticed Jorgen, and their eyes met.

Jemar was dressed in a cleaned set of Bloodscar Crusader armor. If not for his disheveled hair and the black marks on his body, he would have looked like a crusader ready for battle. He was breathing heavily, seemingly unsurprised by Jorgen's arrival, but his eyes showed a hint of fatigue. As for the gunman, Jorgen didn't recognize him. He appeared like an adventurer in his outfit. His eyes were wide open, sweat dripping from his forehead, and his grip on the gun was still steady, but his intent to pull the trigger against Jemar was uncertain.

"Put down the gun," Jorgen said. "Be smart about this." He understood that the gunman's target was only Jemar, so he approached him without concern.

As Jorgen closed in, the gunman's breathing became more and more frantic. He glanced at Jemar, who stood steadfastly before the gun's muzzle, and then at Jorgen. He then reversed the gun and pointed it into his own mouth, pulling the trigger. Half of his skull was blown away, and a mixture of brain matter and blood spilled out as he collapsed to the ground, his knees twisted into an unnatural shape.

Jorgen and Jemar posed no threat to the gunman's life. His suicide was clearly to protect the secrecy of his identity and motives. This was consistent with his overly generic adventurer attire, which was not the type typically worn by military personnel. The gun he wielded was also not of standard military issue.

Jorgen didn't sheathe his dagger. He turned around and saw that Jemar had a bullet hole on his left side, which was likely the source of the blood trail at Coersta's feet. The first gunshot Jorgen heard was a warning shot, and at that moment, Jemar had silently moved behind the gunman. Now, Jemar visibly struggled with pain and fatigue, his throat moved, but he didn't lose consciousness. Jorgen instructed the nearby guards to find medical personnel and then squatted down in front of Jemar.

"Can you hold on?" Jorgen asked.

Jemar nodded slightly, his mouth dry from pain and fatigue. Sweat dripped from his scarred lips to the ground.

"It has been a long night. I won't ask you what happened now, but be prepared," Jorgen said.

Jorgen noticed a small leather pouch hanging from Jemar's waist. As he reached for it, Jemar didn't resist.

The pouch felt weighty in his hand, and he could sense a rectangular object inside. Jorgen opened it and reached inside, pulling out a dark blue urn – the Arlaki's ashes.

Upon hearing the news of the quarantine building fire, Nehari was not particularly surprised. While a wartime fire was indeed troublesome, it wasn't a matter concerning the military camp, the armory, or the food storage. It was just the quarantine building that soldiers had to take a detour to avoid. It held no strategic importance, nor was it a target for tribes or adventurers. The fire was either an accident or possibly caused by remnants of the Scourge — Nehari was no expert in fires, and he wasn't overly concerned.

Accompanied by guards, he arrived at the scene when the quarantine building was already reduced to ashes. Nehari addressed Renner, who was overseeing soldiers trying to put out the remaining flames, "What a terrible disaster... It's my fault for not having a more comprehensive security strategy. Are there any survivors?"

"At the moment, we've only found one," Renner replied.

"Is it Nurse Amy?"

"No, it's Coersta Dipsadong."

"So, Nurse Amy... May the Holy Light protect her and grant her soul relief." Nehari didn't remember who Coersta was, but he didn't bother dwelling on it. It didn't matter.

"Bishop Nehari," Renner said, "Let's not dwell on these words for now. I believe you have more pressing matters to attend to. Let's go check behind the building."

"Very well. Your hard work is appreciated, Colonel Renner. May the Holy Light bless you."

Nehari felt as though he could see animosity in Renner's eyes. He believed the dutiful colonel had always resented Nehari's decision to suppress the news of the missing soldiers. However, in the grand scheme of things, Renner was far from being a troublesome issue.

He walked to the back of the building and saw a stretcher with Jemar lying on it, being attended to by medical personnel.

Nehari froze for a moment. Even when the soldiers around him reminded him, "Bishop, they've caught Jorgen," he still didn't move.

Jorgen stood beside the stretcher and noticed Nehari. He walked over to him.

"Did you find Jemar? You've done me a great favor, Detective Jorgen. I was negligent to let him escape through the back door..." Nehari said.

Jorgen didn't say anything. He continued to approach Nehari until they were just a meter apart, then extended his right hand. Nehari then noticed the blue alakir urn clutched in Jorgen's hand.

"Since it's something you worked hard to obtain, you must take good care of it, Bishop Nehari," Jorgen said calmly.

Nehari reached out to take it, but he felt Jorgen's hand tighten, preventing him from pulling out the urn.

"I want to ask you something," Jorgen said. "Did you know Jemar took this thing with him when he left?"

"No, no. I did notice the urn was missing, but I only just now confirmed that it was Jemar who took it. It seems we need to reconsider our decision to return it," Nehari replied.

"I understand," Jorgen nodded. "This time, please keep it safe. You know better than I do that this urn is no laughing matter."

His grip loosened, and Nehari retrieved the alakir urn. In this moment, Jorgen could see strong displeasure and suspicion in Nehari's eyes, even a hint of intimidation. Despite being enemies, they had to pretend to be on the same side and speak with feigned cordiality. Jorgen suddenly found himself yearning for the straightforward dealings he had with goblins. Enemy or friend, win or lose, life or death, everything was so simple and clear-cut.

Demitria woke up from a nightmare. As she remembered she was in a military tent in the wilderness, and there were no handmaidens around her, she slightly eased her mind and wiped the sweat from her forehead. If her fervent followers knew that the Blood Saint had been startled awake in the middle of the night, looking anxious, they would also be troubled, fearing that she had had a prophecy dream about failure and destruction. She would have to have her guards come out to explain, falsely claiming she had a minor ailment, which caused her to wake up in the night.

She stepped out of the tent and noticed a red glow in the distant western sky. Was Andorhal under attack again? Or was it a conflict between the Alliance and the Horde? No, the firelight wasn't intense enough; it was probably just an accident.

"Holy One," High Inquisitor Ethenrion appeared to her left, "you haven't been sleeping?"

"I just woke up," Demitria replied.

"Under these circumstances, it's understandable that your sleep is not quite peaceful," Ethenrion suddenly chuckled for no apparent reason and then said, "Look at that blaze. Andorhal is on fire. Do you think it's related to him?"

"I don't know," Demitria replied.

"Hearing 'I don't know' from the Blood Saint is quite rare."

"Enough," Demitria snapped.

She continued to gaze at the blaze in the distance. She had witnessed almost every type of fire: the slow, ascending flames that engulfed the feet of Scarlet traitors during execution; the raging fires that swept through the war-torn ground; the pillars of fire used to heat the branding irons for torture, and more. She also remembered the flickering candle flames, with shapes resembling dewdrops; the campfires on grasslands, where the aroma rose alongside the cooking food; the crackling hearth fires that provided warmth. Now, as she watched the distant flames in the sky, it was difficult for her to say which kind of fire she saw: destruction or solace.

"You seem somewhat melancholic, Holy One. No ominous prophecies forming in your mind, I hope?" Ethenrion said.

Demitria shook her head. She wasn't sure herself what the gesture meant.

Ethenrion smiled again, tapping the hilt of his sword with his right index finger. He said, "Rest assured, I will stand by your side until the moment we witness the end of this."