Chapter 67 : Mistbound Silence”

Moritz personally guided Curtis and Bishop Mayra to the study, where he prepared tea with deliberate grace. A well-worn map was unfurled across the table between the plush armchairs meant for honored guests, glowing softly beneath the flickering oil lamp. It was clear: if this had been something forbidden to prying eyes, Moritz would have hidden it.

The map displayed Elta and its surrounding territories in meticulous detail—the city itself, the outlying hamlets, and the mountainous terrain that cradled them. Compared to the crude scrap Curtis  had used to navigate from Nizerte to Abaca, this was a masterwork. Not as precise as the map-tech of his old world, with its turn-by-turn guides and satellite views, but certainly more than sufficient for governance or military use. It likely served both.

“Now this,” Curtis  mused inwardly, “is what a real map should look like.”

In the far-left corner of the map, Abaca was marked. Rightfully so, as it stood at the very western edge of the East. Beyond Abaca lay the jagged spines of the Grand Range—unforgiving peaks that formed a natural border between East and Central lands. The South led into the Southeast, and to the North, a narrow road twisted into the frontier. Eastward, however, the mountains parted just enough to allow cities like Elta to flourish.

“You’re admiring it already, I see,” Moritz remarked, placing a cup of steaming tea before each of them. Taking a sip of his own, he continued.

“I’ll be brief, for Curtis ’s sake. This—here—is the beating heart of Elta’s economy.”

He pointed to a mark on the map, slightly northwest of Elta’s center.

“The Mining Village. It yields vast quantities of high-grade iron ore.”

“Iron?” Curtis  echoed.

“Indeed. One can only imagine the demand for steel in a place like Abaca, especially across the frontier. Every mercenary needs a sword, and every sword needs replacing.”

It was an obvious truth. The frontier devoured steel like fire devoured tinder—blades chipped, armor shattered. It was not a matter of if, but how often.

Curtis  traced the route with his eyes, calculating distances based on scale.

“It’s about a day’s march from Elta to the mining village.”

“A fair estimate.”

“It can’t be easy to maintain, though.”

Moritz nodded grimly. “It isn’t. But it must be done.”

The East was mountainous by nature, and Elta was no exception. A “day’s march” didn’t imply flat roads and sunny weather. The village itself sat nestled in highland trails, requiring at least half a day’s climb—and every step forward meant risking an encounter with the foulspawn.

“And by the look of the terrain,” Curtis  added, “this ridge here—this must be part of the southeastern fork of the mountain range that encircles the frontier.”

“You’re sharp,” Moritz said, impressed. “That’s correct. If something happens here, the ripple reaches Abaca and the entire frontier. Now you understand why the Church took notice.”

“I assumed it was simply a matter within the diocese.”

“That’s true as well,” Mayra interjected. “Elta remains under Abaca’s ecclesiastical jurisdiction.”

Moritz resumed. “The Mining Village is under the direct protection of House Brutaine. We cull the surrounding threats regularly. It was during one such sweep that we discovered the Cradle.”

He pointed again, this time farther northwest.

“Here—roughly a day from the village. We usually don’t range that far, but this was part training exercise, part fate.”

“What’s the terrain like?” Curtis  asked.

“A wide, dry ravine. No flowing water. Beyond that, the fog is thick. Almost unnaturally so.”

“If it were mere mist, you wouldn’t have contacted the Church.”

“I entered it myself. It felt…wrong. We nearly lost our way.”

“Has the landscape itself begun to change?” Mayra asked, her tone sharpening.

“Not visibly,” Moritz replied. “Nothing that stood out.”

“That’s a relief.”

Curtis  followed the conversation easily, having already heard much from Mayra. The Church spoke of “Demonic Cradles” as a corruption with stages.

The first sign was always the Abyss—a black rift in the air, exhaling unending fog. Creatures exposed to it for too long changed in body and soul. It was said the first foulspawn were animals twisted by the fog of ancient abysses. Whether that was truth or dogma, even modern-day mutations often followed exposure to such mists.

A cradle in the initial stage bore only fog. In the middle stage, warped beasts appeared. By the final stage, the land itself began to warp. And if left unchecked? A demon was born. None had seen it emerge, but none dared risk it.

This cradle was still early—hence why Mayra had time to wait for Lilia’s return. It wasn’t just a duty—it was an opportunity to teach.

“The paths to the mining village and the cradle are already clear,” Moritz said. “We’ve maintained the roads. Getting there won’t be the issue.”

“You’ve done well. What forces are we bringing?”

“Twenty-four Silver-ranked warriors. No more than that—we can’t spare more. I’ll lead them myself. My second son will accompany us.”

“That should be sufficient.”

Of the fifty or so Silver-class warriors in House Brutaine’s service, this was over half. The rest would guard the city and mines. Moritz’s assessment wasn’t stingy—it was measured.

In truth, the true spearhead of a demon hunt was the Gold. The rest were support. It was their job to clean up the lesser evils.

And House Brutaine’s only Gold-ranked warrior was its master—Moritz himself.

With him present, and even Kane tagging along, the preparations were more than adequate.

“Are preparations complete?”

“As I said, take tomorrow to rest. We depart at dawn the day after.”

“Excellent. The Church shall not forget the devotion of House Brutaine.”

Mayra’s expression softened into approval.

“And may our cooperation endure,” Moritz replied with a matching smile.

Curtis  almost remarked that they were the same age, but bit his tongue. Counting his past life, that wouldn’t exactly be fair. After all, if he had grown up pampered in a noble house for two decades, he might’ve turned out no better than Kane himself.