For some reason, Lofna hadn’t received a letter from Teacher Charles in over two months.

That was an unusually long gap.

His last letter had arrived at the end of January. He’d written about being on official duty in a principality when he encountered a wicked viscount trading with heretic mages. He’d nearly been injured by them and was now swamped with work.

Lofna knew well that Teacher Charles was exceptionally capable—truly a master of all trades. Even in a place like the City of Glory, he’d be in constant demand.

She guessed he was simply too buried in duties to reply.

She told herself not to worry. He’d wrap things up soon. Another letter would arrive any day.

But it didn’t.

A flicker of worry crept in. Had something gone wrong for Charles?

In truth, the trouble wasn’t his—it was her homeland’s.

……

Just as her anxiety peaked, Holy Knights Perry and Talia returned to Ipoli.

Normally, these two knights had long worn out their welcome.

They’d been roaming the Great Darksend Region for over a year now.

Relentlessly, they’d dashed between states, demanding everyone halt fur trades and restrict travel.

No one understood why. When pressed, they’d only shrug: "Orders from the HolySee. His Holiness the Pope commanded it. Obedience brings no harm."

But furs and trade were necessities. This arbitrary blockade frustrated not just common folk—even local lords grew resentful.

Everyone had grown tired of them.

This time was different. This time, they gave a reason.

"*Plague!* The rat plague is coming!" they finally revealed. "We’ve just arrived from the west. The Principality of Bartzan is overrun. It’s spreading through mink pelts sold by merchants!"

At first, townsfolk were skeptical. Until a smuggler collapsed at an Ipoli inn while peddling illicit goods. The disaster was confirmed.

His fever spiked within a day. By the next, his lymph nodes swelled. His liver ballooned like a drumskin. On the third day, his limbs blackened. He coughed up dark blood clots.

Every remedy the doctor tried failed.

The unlucky merchant’s condition worsened.

"Only the HolySee’s blessed physicians can cure this with divine arts," the doctor admitted.

But the Great Darksend Region was poor and remote. No life-saving clerics served here.

On the evening of the fifth day, the merchant briefly rallied—his fever broke. After whispering a few resigned last words, he died in the deep hours of night.

The innkeeper’s family who’d housed him, and the doctor who’d treated him, soon showed identical symptoms.

The plague spread with terrifying speed.

The innkeeper’s neighbors. Townsfolk. Ipoli’s royal court. Lords. Freeholders. Tenants…

Beds filled everywhere. Over half didn’t survive seven days.

Even the long-lived old king of Ipoli succumbed. His heirs had no strength left to squabble over the throne.

All faced a stark battle for survival.

As the Holy Knights warned: "More will die. Bartzan—the plague’s origin—has already lost ten thousand souls. This is only the beginning."

Heavenly Father would wield the scythe called plague, reaping mortal lives like wheat, gathering them into the Netherrealm.

"Why didn’t you warn us sooner it was plague?" someone challenged the knights. "Just say halting fur trade blocks its spread!"

"We didn’t *know* it was plague!" one retorted. "We followed His Holiness’s orders to prepare preventative measures. She had grim premonitions—that’s why she sent us. You ignored us. How is that our fault?"

He had a point.

They’d been warning towns for over a year. Even if they’d shouted "plague," it might have sparked panic or been dismissed by skeptical lords.

Blaming them was pointless now. The cursed sickness had already taken root.

Ipoli’s people could only brace to endure.

Plague wasn’t new. History held echoes of such horrors:

Glorious capitals reduced to ghost towns. Invincible armies rotting in mass graves. Mighty nations halved by death tolls.

Each outbreak drove people to weep for Father God’s mercy, begging Him to withdraw His merciless judgment. But Father God never listened lightly. Only after claiming enough souls would the plague fade, forgotten.

Yet the HolySee preached every calamity was fate’s trial—a divine warning.

Thus, the infected should repent, self-reflect, and seek Heavenly Father’s forgiveness to heal.

Easy for the HolySee to say.

In this world of magic and miracles, plague wasn’t an impartial reaper.

Those gifted with potent magic. Those blessed by gods. Those healed by blessed physicians—plague meant nothing to them.

Truly powerless commoners—without magic, wealth, or status—had only two choices: flee to remote countryside, or kowtow in churches, begging the HolySee for healing while emptying their coin purses.

Each plague swelled the HolySee’s influence.

But Ipoli lay far from the HolySee’s seat. Its priests were mere graduates of local Divine Academies.

No blessed physicians dwelled here. No holy relics could banish disease.

The sick could only endure with useless potions, or weep prayers day and night in chapels.

The local priest paced in despair.

His church overflowed with patients and families. Most of his clergy had fallen ill.

Helpless, he prayed to a silent Heavenly Father.

"If only Mr. Shel and Miss Hilna were here…" he sighed. "They’d have learned plague-curing spells. They could save us."

But they were gone. Unreachable.

Plague had gripped the continent. Death stalked every road.

The Netherrealm churned with mortal suffering. Its denizens, frenzied by the flood of souls, ignored mage-summons and refused to carry letters.

Every city. Every village. Became an island in the storm.

Lofna feared like any ordinary soul.

She couldn’t rely on Teacher Charles now. Instead, she had to protect her mother.

Charles had once said: *Cleanliness wards sickness. Banish rats and insects. Boil food and water. Avoid outsiders. Disinfect with charcoal fires.*

She wanted to move her mother to Charles’s tidy cottage. There, she’d burn charcoal mixed with herbs outside to repel pests. Her mother would drink boiled water, not river water. They’d isolate completely…

But her mother refused to leave home.

"Lofna, the cows need milking. The maid’s sick—I can’t abandon the farm…" Her mother’s voice tightened. "Look around. Few can work this spring. What will we eat come autumn? We must labor now. Store grain. Or we’ll starve this winter."

"Teacher Charles will return by winter!" Lofna pleaded. "He promised—he’ll visit within two years! He’ll help us! His house has enough stores… Mother, contact with others *will* kill you now!"

Still, her mother refused.

She had work.

And honestly? She doubted Charles could return at all.

Many in Ipoli felt the same. Survival demanded labor.

So the plague spread unchecked.

By summer, corpses multiplied.

Funerals ceased—coffin-makers had died too. Even nobles received hasty burials: a shallow grave, a rushed prayer.

Soon, even digging graves became impossible. Not enough hands remained. Mass pits were dug in forest outskirts. Bodies burned. A thin layer of soil covered the ashes. A single marker stood.

Amidst her grief, Lofna reopened the oversized storybook Charles had made for her: *The Magical Adventures of Witch Lofna*.

In it, Witch Lofna once visited a plague-stricken city. She taught its people how to halt the sickness. In the end, she defeated an old warlock, seized his miraculous herbs, and saved everyone.

But the real Lofna held no such power. No magic herb cured plague. The story was just a story—offering only false comfort.