A Tragic Choice

In the early morning, Jorgen entered the backyard of the mansion where Nehari was conducting his routine morning exercise. As part of his mission report, Jorgen recounted the events that had transpired.

Nehari leaned his warhammer against his right side and looked down at the soil in the flowerbed.

"Demitria is pregnant with his child...?" he inquired.

"Yes. That's the reason he had to defeat Arlaki."

"How tragic. In times like these, individuals burdened with special missions find it so difficult to attain ordinary love... I shall pray for them."

"Enough with the facade, Nehari. I'll be leaving this place soon, and before that happens, we might as well have an open and honest conversation."

Nehari turned to face him. "Your demeanor is rather brusque, but I understand it's likely due to work-related stress. What do you wish to discuss? I'm all ears."

"Don't pretend you're unaware of these matters, and don't act as if Jemar stumbled upon you as a mere chance encounter within the Crusade. You used your own brother—no need to deny it, it's pointless. I've already checked your family records in the original City Hall database, and Jemar has also informed me about both of you. He's been caught between the Bloodscar Crusader and you, facing a dilemma—knowing well about his relationship with Demitria, you still forced Jemar to plot against her, trying to prove his guilt towards you. I suspect those two snipers were bound to kill Jemar no matter what, even after successfully eliminating Demitria."

"That's an unpleasant speculation. I can only say 'no, I don't have such intentions'. I will honor my promise and provide Jemar with a suitable, normal life."

"Even so, the price Jemar has to pay is still: to personally kill his own child and the child's mother. I was just thinking—perhaps over twenty years ago, that priest made the wrong choice. He should have taken you away and left Jemar behind. While it might have resulted in an additional ruthless Bloodscar Crusader commander, it would also have meant one less conscienceless bishop. The trade-off would have been worth it."

"Be truly wise, Jorgen. You must understand the bigger picture. Yes, Jemar is my brother, and Demitria is the woman he loves. But... they are still dangerous members of the Bloodscar Crusader. I've made such a decision, and it pains me as well..."

"Exactly the same."

"What?"

"You and Ethenrion are exactly the same. He also feels 'pain' for what he's done."

"Me, the same as a Bloodscar Crusader member? This is the most absurd thing I've heard in over a decade. I shouldn't be arguing with a member of MI7, and you've helped me in this matter to some extent, but saying this goes too far, Jorgen. You probably won't apologize for that statement, but... it's not up to you."

Nehari suddenly swung his warhammer, aiming at Jorgen. Jorgen dodged to the side, but the speed of the warhammer was much faster than he had anticipated, and it struck his left shoulder. He knelt down on one knee, his mind dazed for a moment, trying to stand up immediately but unable to do so.

"A self-righteous MI7 member, ha! What has the world come to? Sometimes, I truly feel surrounded by too many fools. Sharing the foul air of Plaguewood with these fools... it's disgusting. Don't worry, I won't kill you. But saying I'm exactly the same as Ethenrion, that statement is worth at least three or four broken bones."

After evading the second attack, the impact of the first attack still lingered on Jorgen. His left shoulder and the recently injured left hand seemed almost non-existent. Nehari was the one who had shattered Arlaki, and if directly hit, it wouldn't be as simple as three or four broken bones. Should he draw his dagger to defend himself? Either way, stabbing a bishop would be an unforgivable act, not to mention Jorgen didn't believe the dagger could stand against the warhammer crafted by the Cathedral of Light's finest weapon smiths.

"Conscience?" Nehari swung his warhammer in a seemingly menacing gesture, and Jorgen rolled backward to avoid it. "An MI7 agent shamelessly talking to me about conscience! Jorgen, do you have any idea how many faithful shed tears at my speeches, swearing to devote their lives to the Holy Light? Do you know how many terminally ill patients have died with my hand in theirs, their faces filled with peace and contentment? Do you know how much effort I've put into eradicating Arlaki, how many sacrifices I've made? And now you talk about conscience... a lapdog of the Shawl family, living in shadows, your entire life a contribution to what? Only the Holy Light can judge me. I escaped from Andorhal, narrowly avoiding becoming an unclaimed corpse, and through my efforts, I've attained my current status; I am a miracle! But you are... despicable, filthy..."

He didn't continue the sentence, gripping the warhammer tightly, and struck down from above. It seemed he had forgotten the statement "I won't kill you," as his target was Jorgen's head. In extreme rage, it became a fierce yet reckless strike, allowing Jorgen to seize the opportunity, not evading but charging forward. He caught Nehari's wrist, and the hammer's handle landed on his right shoulder, but he paid no heed to the pain, fiercely slamming his forehead into the bridge of Nehari's nose. The warhammer slipped from Nehari's grasp, and he staggered back, clutching the lower half of his face, blood oozing between his fingers.

Subsequently, Jorgen pursued for several more strikes, and Nehari retaliated with fists and kicks. The scene transformed into a brawl between two ordinary men, devoid of finesse, their primary purpose being to vent their anger through physical conflict rather than defeat each other. In no time, they were both covered in mud. Eventually, Nehari intercepted one of Jorgen's punches, then kicked him in the abdomen, creating some distance between them.

"Enough! Damn it...!" Nehari tried to wipe away the blood and dirt from his face. "I have a meeting to preside over shortly... and I need to show a Duke from Stormwind the progress of the reconstruction. This ends here! You and Elin get back to your MI7 nest and stay out of my sight!"

Jorgen adjusted his breath. "One last question, Nehari, though you're entitled not to answer. Did you set the fire in the quarantine house?"

"I've been waiting for you to ask this foolish question. No, the fire has nothing to do with me. But to be honest with you, I felt incredibly relieved when I saw the quarantine house reduced to ashes that night. The Church would keep spewing empty phrases like 'save every life if possible,' and I had to comply, praying loudly every night for these sources of infection. Unfortunately, prayers and medicine are child's play before a true and powerful plague. I've shed tears for incurable plague victims as well, but that was a decade ago. Some things cannot be overcome; they just have to be left to their fate, yet the Church would make me bear all the responsibility. The day after the fire, I threw the quarantine house key into the garbage heap."

In this moment, the Nehari before Jorgen had completely shed the sacred aura of a spokesperson for the Holy Light. He reverted to being an ordinary man burdened by weighty titles and responsibilities, much like how Demetria had become an ordinary woman. He felt a sense of release for being able to voice these words, yet the liberation also brought unease.

"Wait, Jorgen..." Nehari realized something. "Why are you here? You claim it's to assist with the case involving Jemar, but why have you been so focused on me, and why investigate my family history at the Old Town Hall?"

"Because you're a suspect in the arson case."

"No, that doesn't make sense. You came prepared, Jorgen. Who are you reporting these details to, Shawl? Shawl gains nothing from me... and whatever you and Elin are doing here doesn't benefit MI7 either. At first, I thought you came here to extract information about the Bloodscar Crusader from Jemar, but why involve yourselves in my decisions?"

Confusion and feigned composure flickered in his eyes. After a short pause for thought, he spoke again:

"—Your and Elin's surveillance targets are me. Very well, so that's the case... it seems the rumors of their reconciliation are true. You've waded into deep waters, Jorgen. I'll be ten times more vigilant against operatives like you—now vanish. Immediately."

"Rest assured, I won't appear before you for a short while. My assessment of you is complete: emotional instability, abuse of authority; at least these two points will be emphasized in my report."

"You...!" Nehari tightened his grip on the warhammer handle once again, but footsteps of a servant could be heard from behind, forcing him to once more wipe the blood and dirt from his face. "I, too, once led the insignificant life of an ignored soldier. Back then, when I had a grudge with someone and couldn't resolve it temporarily, I would say to them, 'We'll see,' just like any ordinary soldier would. Remember this phrase from me, 'We'll see,' not just for your ears but also convey it to those higher-ups. The times are changing; you and I are of similar age, yet you've chosen the wrong side... you'll regret it, Jorgen."

He turned around and entered the mansion, carrying out some grooming before chairing a meeting regarding troop allocation, unusually silent throughout the entire process. Subsequently, he received the Duke from Stormwind, and as they made their way to the Old Town Hall, he excused himself due to sudden indisposition, returning alone to the mansion's library, locking the doors behind him.

Nehari flipped through the carefully preserved tomes rescued from the ruins of Andorhal, his actions rough and anxious, almost tearing a page in the process. He couldn't focus on the words, hastily stuffing each book back into the gaps of the shelves, wrinkling covers without a care. Whenever the pressures of his work in Andorhal weighed heavily on him, he would retreat to this study, seeking solace in quiet reading, a reminder not to unwittingly shed his aura in front of others. Regret settled in as he remembered his promise to contribute these volumes to the public, yet today, he found no peace.

"Take my brother away. I don't have much time left anyway."

These words spoken over two decades ago by the pus-swollen lips of Jemar had fallen and lodged in Nehari's mind like shards of broken glass, only surfacing today. The glass fragments reflected light, illuminating things he deemed unimportant, buried deep within memory. He plunged his hands into his carefully groomed hair, scratching at the sides of his skull as if trying to bore through bone, to extract that phrase from the depths of his brain. He feared he might perish from the poison of the warm snake, a snake that would emerge once the phrase was torn free and flung out of the window in a frenzy.

He couldn't do it. A second shard of glass, a second scalding snake, began gnawing at him. Over two decades later, in a subterranean cell reeking of blood, he had said to Jemar, "For me, for the Charlostu family, will you sever this cursed love, cleanse yourself of sin?" And Jemar had said he would. He had betrayed that answer, but at least in that moment, he had said he would. I'm guilty, and I'll cleanse this sin. So, kill her for me. Kill her. Kill her. Kill her and her child. Then bask in glory. The family's glory. My glory. The Holy Light's glory. 

Jorgen said I'm just like the Bloodscar Crusader. No, that's not right. I'm a Bishop. The one who wields the warhammer, the youngest Bishop. There must be something different from mortals that has led me to this point today. I'm not like Jemar. He's guilty, and I gave him a chance for redemption—a chance to die. Ah, may the Holy Light protect!

Nehari felt as though tiny insects were gnawing at the blood vessels in his head. His hands gripped an entire row of book spines, and with a forceful swing, a dozen books cascaded down like an avalanche, spreading open on the floor like soldiers disemboweled and left to die. Then came the second row, the third row of books. Finally, an entire bookshelf crashed down. He picked up the tea cup that was ever-present on his desk and shattered it against the windowpane. He overturned the entire desk. Guards heard the commotion, urgently knocking on his door, but Nehari didn't respond.

He knelt down, not in a posture of prayer, but in that of a defeated man: shoulders slumped, neck retracted, palms pressed against his knees, trembling uncontrollably. The shivering wasn't due to fear; a sudden chill that seemed to materialize out of nowhere gripped him. He shuffled on his knees, positioning himself in the sunlight streaming through the shattered window glass. Still, he trembled intensely. Over two decades ago, the night Nehari spent alone in the dark forest after his brother left with the priest was never as bone-piercingly cold as this.

Before departing, Jorgen and Elin arrived at the edge of the adventurer's camp. Soldiers were still trading food, fake potions, home-brewed liquor, gambling paraphernalia, and various trinkets with the adventurers, now more boldly than ever since there was no longer anyone coming to inspect the place every morning.

They found the tauren from last time. He stood alone, scratching his beard with his right hand, lost in thought. Elin approached and patted his shoulder.

"Hey. Remember me?"

"Oh, it's you. You've brought another friend."

"A client, a client. This is a royal botanist from Stormwind, and she's here to discuss a substantial purchase of herbs with Windi. Has she returned?"

"Oh, right! That's what's happening. She's back; I'll take you to find her."

The tauren led them, weaving through the maze of adventurer's tents and makeshift houses. Somehow, his steps seemed a bit hurried.

"By the way, what about that beautiful knife of yours?" Elin inquired.

"Didn't bring it with me."

They found Windi in front of a slightly larger wooden hut. She was carrying a bucket of water, poised to enter the building, but upon spotting them, she set the bucket down on the ground.

As they approached, the tauren suddenly quickened his pace and reached Windi before them. He said to her, "Windi, good morning. Have you heard that a branch of the Darkmoon Faire is coming here for a night performance?"

"I know," Windi replied. "The ticket prices are being inflated by scalpers."

"Yeah, they're quite expensive. But I..."

Windi interrupted him. "So, Sowema, are these two human gentlemen with you?"

"Of course, I brought them along," Sowema raised his voice.

"They seem to have urgent matters to discuss with me. If you have something to say, come back later."

"Oh... They do have urgent matters. This one is a royal botanist or something. Right, I won't hang around, I'm leaving. You two take your time. Goodbye, Windi."

As Sowema turned and walked back to Elin's side, she whispered to him, "Yet another misstep. That big blade was the most emblematic of your male... tauren essence, and you exchanged it for tickets to a flamboyant circus troupe? Show some sense and redeem it quickly."

"Meddlesome," Sowema scratched his back and departed.

"Mr. Jorgen, Mr. Elin," Windi said. "What brings you to me?"

"This is something of significance," Elin said. "We need to talk to Amy."

Windi let out a slow breath, not expressing disappointment but rather a sense of resignation.

"I can't hide it from you... Actually, when I was out collecting herbs a few days ago, part of it was to avoid this moment. Although it should be Amy's decision first, but..." She picked up the water bucket. "Come in. She's inside."

Various Mulgore-style decorations hung around the room. Four simple cots were arranged on either side, with only one bed occupied by a sleeping orc, his right leg wrapped in bandages. A calico cat lay on the windowsill above the orc's head. They walked into the room, and Windi pulled back a curtain, revealing Amy sitting at a small table, engrossed in writing something. The small potted plant that disappeared from the quarantine ruins was placed on the table. The sunlight illuminated her and the plant.

Windi called out, "Amy," and she turned her head, noticing the two field agents. She appeared unsure how to react, her left hand gripping the edge of the table as if about to stand up, yet she remained seated.

"Don't be nervous, Amy. You're looking well," Elin said. "We're just here to see you. Of course, we'll also have a few questions."

"How... How did you know I was here?"

"Not that difficult. If it wasn't for other matters delaying us, we might have come a few days earlier," Elin said. "Your potted plant wasn't found in the ruins of the fire, not even a fragment of ceramic. Perhaps someone took it, but who would be interested in that thing? It wouldn't be Windi because she has plenty of plants in her care. So, that leaves you. I remember the first time I came to your room, wanting to touch that plant, and you wouldn't allow it. Of course, you wouldn't have tolerated it disappearing in the fire. Treasuring something that's seen as mere weeds by outsiders naturally led us to assume you and Windi were acquainted. Alright, you escaped the fire with the potted plant. But who tampered with your lock, making it look like someone deliberately burned you alive inside, and then cut the wooden bars on the window to let Coersta escape? Initially, we thought it required a man's strength to bend the iron bars on the lock, but that only applies to humans. And Coersta's window is over two meters high, requiring a stool to reach. So, which man rescued Coersta? It's hard to imagine since most people in this world don't even know she exists. However, bending iron bars, breaking a window over two meters high, would be no challenge for Windi. In fact, now that I think about it, the night I was pursuing Windi, you were actually going to see Amy, right? The so-called soil collection was just an excuse. Did I let something slip?"

Amy glanced at Windi, then at Elin. "But we didn't set the fire."

"I didn't say it was you who started the fire. Suspecting you would be weak in terms of motive. Can you help us understand what happened with the fire? At the very least, we want to know what you experienced that night."

Amy seemed hesitant. After a moment following Windi's "tell them everything," she began to speak.

"I woke up in the middle of the night, and the fire was already raging, although it hadn't spread to my room yet. If Windi hadn't been knocking on the window from outside, I probably would have burned to death. I let her in, initially thinking about how to fight the fire. But... I..."

"It's okay, Amy. We already know that those who were severely afflicted by the plague were beyond hope. That was confirmed by Nehari. So, we won't blame you for your choice," Elin said.

"As a nurse who believes in the Light, I should have stayed with them until their last moment. However, their last moments weren't death. Those quarantine rooms might not have been able to contain a... Scourge. I've been afraid since the first day I managed that room, and the fear only grew, often waking me up at night. During the day, I was more than willing to care for them, but at night, I became frightened..."

"We all fear the Scourge," Elin said. "Acknowledging that is quite commendable. Don't blame yourself too much. In fact, cremation was indeed the best possible outcome for them."

"Elin, I also bear responsibility. I wanted my friends not only to be safe in that moment but also to truly live safe lives afterward. That's why I suggested the escape plan to her. After all, once you've cared for plague victims, it's hard to escape that kind of life, as no one else wants to take on their care," Windi said.

"At that time, the fire had already reached the doorway of Coersta's room. I wanted to rescue her, but I lacked the courage. So, I asked Windi to break the window, hoping she could climb out herself. Elin, how is Coersta now?"

"She's doing well, didn't lose an inch of skin in the fire. Would you like to see her?"

"I can't face her; I left her in the fire after all. How is she living now? An orphan..."

"I and Jorgen plan to take her back to Stormwind and see if we can find an adoptive family for her. We won't let this child stay in the plague-ridden area."

"That's good."

Elin didn't say it aloud, but if it weren't for Coersta's immune condition, she might not have had this chance. MI7 would conduct specialized research and investigation into her immunity and past experiences.

"But, Amy," Elin said, "do you really have no idea how the fire started?"

"I don't. I only know it definitely started from one of the quarantine rooms. When I saw it, it had almost spread throughout the entire corridor. But... the patients couldn't have started the fire. There was nothing in their rooms. Although one person kept muttering that it's better to be burned than to become a Scourge, sometimes that made other patients uneasy."

"Who?" Elin asked. "Who said that?"

"Jonathan."

Jonathan. The Jonathan whom Flint beheaded. Elin recalled the thin flint Flint had found, almost invisible under his thumb. Starting a fire required not only flint but also something to ignite.

Paper was the perfect ignition material.

The day before the fire, I brought Jonathan a letter from his wife. Although Elin needed a note signed by Jonathan to create the letter, at that time, he brought his own pen and paper, let Jonathan sign his name, and passed it out from the food slot.

Jorgen looked at Elin and noticed the change in his expression. He remembered the words Elin had said to Flint when he punched him: "Let me go get his wife's letter."

Elin understood; the flint could be hidden anywhere. However, at the very least, he had brought the letter, the ignition material, to Jonathan.

Initially, bringing food to the infected might have been partly because of Amy. But during the process of fetching the letter and passing it to Jonathan, Elin felt he was purely trying to ensure that Jonathan could read his family's letter.

Elin knew it couldn't be considered his fault. Yet, he still repeated the words he had just said to Amy, "Fire cremation is the best outcome they could have," in his mind. He wondered: Jonathan walked out of the fire, fell, and tried to grab Flint's leg. What did that mean? Did he regret giving up his life?

"Oh, by the way," Amy said, "Does Flint know I'm still alive?"

"Not yet. Would you like to tell him?" Jorgen said.

Amy fell silent for a moment. "I've been thinking about what's fair to tell him. In truth, without him, these patients wouldn't have lasted this long."

"What do you mean?"

"The Alliance's medicine has been in short supply for a long time. Flint was very worried about me, so he used his own money to buy medicine from the adventurers' camp for me. He hoped these patients could be cured and that I could get out. I've told him time and time again that even with all the medicine in the world, it might not make a difference, but he didn't believe me. He thought it was just an excuse for me to get away from him. Mr. Jorgen, do you remember the first time we met? Flint gave me a package. Do you recall? That was the last batch of medicine I received from him."

"In this matter, Flint was not wrong. Moreover, he has been grieving because of your disappearance. I think... you can consider telling him. I believe he won't reveal it to others."

"But... I need some time to mentally prepare."

"That's okay, take your time to think about it. He won't be leaving Andorhal anytime soon."

From the moment they discussed Jonathan's situation until they left, Elin didn't say anything except "goodbye." After they had walked a dozen steps away from the house, Jorgen asked him, "Are you alright?"

Elin wiped his face with his hands, as if washing his face. "I'm as good as can be."

"Those who can survive are still alive. Those who can't have been cremated. No loss... I'm only referring to the fire incident."

"Of course, of course. Ahem!" Elin spat out phlegm. "Tsk, pitch black. Let's just leave this cursed place quickly."

Outside the edge of the adventurer's camp, Flint was sitting on a large rock, his hands resting on his forehead. When he saw Jorgen and Elin coming out, he immediately stood up.

"How... is it?" he asked.

"The speculation was correct. She's alive, with Windi," Jorgen said.

Flint took a deep breath.

"But don't rush to see Amy now. She hasn't completely calmed down yet. Give her some time."

"I just need to know that she's alive now." He looked at Jorgen and Elin one after another. The baseless anger that usually filled his eyes disappeared at this moment. "I... can't thank you enough."

That afternoon, Jorgen and Elin left Western Plaguelands in a carriage with Coersta. The hazy sky and decaying foliage gradually faded from view. Jorgen remembered that before leaving Windi's house, she had taken them to see a small cultivated area behind the house, where two rows of less attractive green grasses were growing.

"These are carefully selected from the collected grass varieties," Windi said.

"How long do you think it will take for them to really affect the soil of the Plaguelands?" Jorgen asked.

"At least a hundred years. Hopefully, Mother Earth will favor these lives. Of course, I'll try to improve them to shorten this process."

"If another full-scale conflict happens in the Western Plaguelands now, the adventurer's camp won't be able to stay out of it. You need to figure out how to protect them in such a situation."

"They are growing on soil that has experienced wars. But... if possible, I still hope that the Western Plaguelands won't have wars again." She smiled. "Not very likely, huh?"

Indeed, it wasn't likely. As long as there was war, things would be destroyed, people would fall—like Jemar. Demitria. Renner. But there were always things that could grow, like Windi's precious grasses, and there were people who could stand up—Qiao Zhen looked at Coersta, beside Elin, who was amused by his jokes that Jorgen found quite boring.

The Scarlet Clerics took Jemar.

We took her.

I hope Elin and I made the right choice.