Dark Secrets

The battle had come to an end. Exhausted survivors began their post-combat tasks. Crushing the lingering remnants of the Scourge, the lightly wounded attended to their own bandages, or simply sat on the ground to catch their breath, raising water flasks from within the tents and tilting them upward. As the water slid down their throats, mingling with the fresh blood at their lips, a sense of relief washed over them.

However, two individuals had yet to lower their weapons: Jemar and Flint. They stood about ten paces apart, locked in a tense standoff, their gazes fixed on each other. Despite nearly depleting their strength during the recent fight, the wariness and hostility between them began to escalate once the immediate threat had been eliminated. Two individuals driven by different reasons for bloodshed, their hands still gripped their blades tightly. Jemar held no personal grudge against Flint, but he saw no reason to back down from the challenging stare Flint directed his way. No soldier dared to approach the invisible line connecting the two; at most, a fleeting glance was cast, before everyone resumed their own tasks.

Approaching them, Elin intervened.

"Hey. Both of you, drop your weapons."

Flint remained unmoved. Elin understood that Flint had been under immense pressure from various angles since he and Jorgen arrived in the Plaguelands. The conflagration had clearly dealt a severe blow to him, and yet no one had taken responsibility for his suffering and endurance. Moreover, he was involved in the investigation, and now he was tasked with escorting Jemar – the very Crusader who was at the root of his burdens – to the Thondroril Bridge. In other words, his duty was to "protect" Jemar. Stripping away the element of being a member of MI7, Elin fully comprehended Flint's contemplation of killing Jemar. And as for Jemar, Elin had seen through his actions within the prison that he was not one to cower in the face of enmity. To extinguish this animosity, Jemar would unleash his true nature as a Bloodscar Crusader, showing no mercy.

Elin believed that if he didn't intervene, the conflict between the two might spiral out of control – though intervening might prove just as futile. Just as he was about to speak, he saw Jorgen emerging from the trees ahead, approaching them.

"Hey, Jorgen, come over here and deal with these two—"

Elin's words trailed off. He saw Jorgen's mangled left hand hanging at his side, clutching a dark blade, while his right hand dragged something along, causing his right shoulder to tense. Some of the soldiers who noticed Jorgen's approach, and the object he was dragging, immediately recoiled as if avoiding a poisonous swamp, although their gaze remained transfixed on that very object.

Jemar and Flint also took notice of Jorgen. It was the odd dragging sound that turned their heads, and it wasn't until they could distinctly see that Jorgen's right hand was gripping a chain – the other end of the chain was wound around an elbow. The forearm of that elbow was missing a hand. Jorgen halted before the three of them, and it was then that they realized what he was dragging: the corpse of a Death Knight, devoid of facial skin.

Jorgen glanced at Jemar and Flint. Involuntarily, both of them eased their stances, their attention shifting away from each other.

"You've been in a scuffle with that thing? Hey, medics, come over here..." Elin began, before realizing something. "Jopgen, where's Renner? Wasn't he with you?"

Jorgen didn't speak. He let go of the chain, and the Death Knight's arm fell to the ground.

"I'm asking about Renner"

Elin's voice abruptly stopped. He realized he had asked a foolish question.

Jorgen switched the dark blade from his left hand to his right, raised it high, and then thrust it downward. The ominous blade, so incongruous with his being, pierced through the Death Knight's chest, burying itself in the earth. He grasped the hilt and twisted, driving it deeper. The Death Knight's body suddenly convulsed, its jaw gaping open, and a putrid howl, laden with the stench of decay, burst forth from the gaping crescent-shaped gash in its throat. Its fingers clawed wildly at the earth, yet its torso remained entirely still.

Still, it refused to die. Throat torn open, facial skin removed, brain destroyed, heart punctured – it wouldn't die. But fragile humans, even treated with a much gentler approach, could no longer survive after that. Jorgen recalled the vacant stare in Renner's eyes just before he plummeted off the cliff; blood and flesh fragments slid from the edges of his ribs to the ground. That had been the Death Knight's final blow – an accidental strike, much like how a human might extend an arm when fighting for survival, that final swing of the chain in a bid to grasp something unseen. It stood once again, but it was now incapable of controlling its own body, like a puppet with shattered joints. Jorgen approached it and effortlessly wrested the longsword from its grasp, severing its hand. It was this ease that made Jorgen find it hard to accept Renner's fate – Colonel Renner Marwyn, who had survived unscathed in the Plaguelands for two years, succumbed in his final moments to the dying thrashings of his underling.

Then Jorgen realized that he could pull the remaining chain out from the severed wrist of the Death Knight. He stepped onto its chest, seized the chain, and forcefully yanked it out. The black blood sprayed out along with the chain, the Death Knight howling and convulsing incessantly, yet it wouldn't truly die. So you do know what pain is, Jorgen thought, well, that's just fine. Try to endure a bit longer. Once the chain was completely pulled out, he used it to drag the Death Knight back to the camp.

Flint and Jemar had already lowered their weapons, watching the black sword in Jorgen's hand and the Death Knight subdued beneath its blade. Purple-black mist billowed forth from the chest wound, almost like a living entity, gorging itself on the Death Knight's blood before spiraling up along the length of the sword. This bizarre and almost eerie scene held them in a transfixed state, unable to tear their eyes away.

"Jemar," Jorgen spoke. "Keep an eye on it."

He released the hilt of the sword with his right hand and retrieved a small cloth bag from a pouch on his leather armor. Loosening the drawstring, he turned it over. A pale gray dust spilled out – not a lot, and within seconds the bag was empty, scattering the dust onto the Death Knight. Its strength was nearly depleted, its howls gradually subsiding. The white dust either formed stark spots on its exposed facial muscles or mingled with the dark blood, vanishing without causing any apparent change.

"What in the world are you doing...?" Flint asked.

"Elin, do you remember when Nehari showed us the Arlaki Urn and stressed how the ashes of the Lich would reanimate dying Scourge soldiers?" He tossed the empty bag aside and turned to Jemar. "On the night of the blaze, I took the urn from you and returned it to Nehari. But before that, I secreted away some of the powder. This powder here. Reanimation... Do you see any changes in this fellow? I always thought that if Nehari intentionally let you go and if his aim was Demitria, he was taking an awfully big risk, one that involved losing the Arlaki Urn. Now, I'm certain he dared to do it because he wasn't actually staking anything. Those ashes are fake. Jemar, do you admit it?"

Jemar remained silent.

"I promised to wait until tomorrow. If this hadn't happened... I'd rather believe you. But now, Jemar, the blood debt you bear is too heavy."

Jorgen understood that his thoughts were drawing closer to Flint's perspective. It wasn't directly Jemar's fault that Rena had died. Yet he couldn't forget how Rena had faced those battle-worn, bloodstained tabards – over a dozen of them – and from that moment, Jemar had become a deeply burdened man. Without his presence, Rena wouldn't have encountered the Death Knight today – it was an impulsive, irrational notion, but Jorgen couldn't tolerate his own rationality any longer.

He withdrew the black sword, flicking away the bloodstains.

"Jorgen, what are you planning?" Elin said.

"Tell me everything, right now," Jorgen declared. "Otherwise, there won't be a tomorrow, Jemar. None. Many won't see tomorrow. You could, but I think you don't deserve it."

Elin felt a cold sensation slowly crawling up his spine. The foul odor in the air grew stronger. He had never seen Jorgen like this before: wielding a Scourge weapon, threatening a human's life. The sword seemed to have swung and slain for a decade in his hands, ready to deliver a verdict of doom on the next life without a moment's hesitation. Jorgen suited the Death Knight's blade, the Death Knight's blade obeyed him – the thought made Elin's forehead veins throb like a burning fire.

Jemar looked at Jorgen. He had battled Death Knights himself and witnessed other Crusader leaders slay them, yet this scene before him felt unfamiliar. There was something in Jorgen's expression that he had never seen, something that made him feel – perhaps not full-fledged fear, but certainly alarm: this man could kill me, with the Death Knight's sword. He would do it without hesitation, and I still want to see tomorrow. I must live to see tomorrow.

Just before Jemar could speak, Elin interjected, "Hold on. Figure out what you're going to say. We're surrounded by too many unnecessary ears. Over to the woods."

Jorgen glanced at Elin. "You all come over. Flint, relieve him of his weapons."

It took Flint a second to react, then he stepped forward and took Jemar's sword. Jemar offered no resistance.

They entered the woods and halted about fifty yards away from the campsite. "This spot will do," Jorgen said.

"Indeed," Jemar, who was in the middle, turned to face Jorgen and immediately began, "The ashes are fake. Nehari had me lure out the Scarlet Saint, and then his two snipers were supposed to take action. If I betrayed him along the way, they would have shot me first. I agreed to it... for atonement, you know."

"Why did Nehari Bishop insist on killing Demitria? Is there some special reason?" Elin inquired.

"He didn't say, but one of the reasons is likely because he had tried multiple times to assassinate Bloodscar Crusader officers in Hearthglen, all of which failed due to the Saint's prophecies."

"Assassinations? Bishop Nehari has never had such plans," Flint interjected.

"Just because you haven't heard of it doesn't mean it hasn't happened. The series of assassinations occurred before the final assault on Andorhal. Nehari probably intended to use this method to limit our involvement in the war, aiming to conquer the entire Andorhal in one go."

"Any other reasons?" Jorgen asked.

"Another reason is me. He wanted my loyalty, so he used this as a test. 'Together, restore the Charlostu family,' that's what he said, promising that if successful, I would work for him and cover up my Bloodscar Crusader history. I was convinced. At least, in that moment. Jorgen, I'm not the only one who knows that I'm not fit for the Bloodscar Crusader."

"He exploited your sense of guilt, and you started hesitating the moment you saw Coersta," Jorgen remarked.

"It could be put that way. Because at that moment, I saw a chance to break free from all of this."

"Is all of this true?"

"It's all true."

"But there's one thing that's not quite convincing, Jemar. Using fake ashes to lure Demitria out – it's like a child's trick. I can't believe a woman who claims to be the Scarlet Saint wouldn't foresee that risk."

"Because... Nehari believed I could do it."

"That's what I'm asking. Why did he believe you could do it?"

"Because..." Jemar fell silent. He furrowed his brow, his eyes twitching involuntarily at the corners, even the threat of death couldn't make him this troubled. He had transformed from a Bloodscar Crusader engaged in destruction to a weak and feeble convict facing judgment.

Jorgen tightened his grip on his sword and walked toward Jemar. Elin stepped forward to block him.

"That's enough, Jorgen! Don't tell me you're really going to..."

"I've already warned him. Confess everything, or he won't see tomorrow."

Elin signaled to Flint, urging him to join in stopping Jorgen. "What good does this accomplish? We've come this far... and Nehari's involvement is already clear. The feud between the Bloodscar Crusader and Jemar is none of our business. Have you forgotten our mission?"

Jorgen could sense that if he were to swing that sword, Jemar wouldn't resist. For a long time, Jemar had endured unimaginable torment. Though Jorgen didn't yet understand the source of that torment, he believed that Jemar was utterly drained. The eyes that had once shown resilience even in the face of starvation were now nearly devoid of hope. His massive, scarred body seemed inconsequential. All he wanted was one more day, and he realized he might not even hold onto that meager request. In this moment, Jemar became weak. A person whom Jorgen could manipulate, much like those others controlled by the elderly: like Dalia, like Travis. Like Renner three years ago.

A wave of pain surged through Jorgen's mind. The putrid wind had never felt so nauseating. He remained silent, turning to walk away from the forest.

Elin caught up with him. "What are you doing with this thing?" he said, then took the death knight's sword from him and discarded it.

"What's gotten into you? No one wants to see you like this," he said.

"Next, let Flint take command of the troops," Jorgen said. "Treat the wounded, bury the dead—speed up everything. We must reach the Sodoryl Bridge by the scheduled time tomorrow."