CHAPTER 65: The Weight of What Remains
Darkness greeted Zodac before light ever dared to return.
At first, he could not tell whether his eyes were closed or whether the world itself had simply ceased to exist. There was no sky, no ground, no horizon—only an endless void that pressed against his thoughts like deep water. Sound felt distant, muffled, as though he were submerged beneath layers of something thick and heavy.
Then came the lights.
Small, faint, yellow glimmers appeared in the distance. Dozens… no, hundreds of them, floating aimlessly like fireflies trapped in a cavern. They flickered softly, each pulse sending a dull ache through his skull. He tried to move toward them, but his body refused to respond.
His left side felt… wrong.
Heavy.
Numb.
As though it did not belong to him anymore.
Zodac frowned, or at least he thought he did. Even that simple action felt delayed, distant, like issuing commands to a body that no longer listened.
Am I awake…?
Slowly—painfully—sensation crept back into him. The hard surface beneath his back registered first, then the dull pressure of fabric against his skin. A faint warmth brushed his face, accompanied by the weak scent of herbs and melted wax.
A room.
He was in a room.
Zodac forced his eyes open.
Light stabbed into his vision, and he hissed softly, turning his head to the right. The yellow lights he had seen before were not illusions after all—they were candles. Many of them. Their flames danced weakly, casting long, trembling shadows across wooden walls.
His throat felt dry. His chest felt tight.
He tried to move.
Nothing happened.
Panic flared briefly in his chest before he clenched his teeth and focused. With effort, he shifted his left hand, pressing it into the bed beneath him. The movement sent a sharp, searing pain through his body, radiating from his left arm and tearing a groan from his lips.
"Agghh—!"
Glass clinked nearby. His blurred vision caught sight of several empty and half-used healing potion bottles scattered on a small stool beside the bed.
"Sir Zodac—please, don't move."
The voice was soft. Feminine. Trembling, but controlled.
Zodac's gaze drifted toward the corner of the room, where shadows pooled thickly. A figure sat there, barely illuminated by candlelight.
Vanessa.
She rose instantly when she saw his eyes open, her chair scraping softly against the floor as she hurried closer. Her face was pale, dark circles etched beneath her eyes as if sleep had abandoned her for days.
"You must rest," she said again, her voice cracking despite her effort to steady it. "You shouldn't be awake yet."
Zodac swallowed, his throat burning.
"…How long," he rasped, then paused as another jolt of pain surged through his arm. He clenched his jaw and tried again. "How long have I been out?"
Vanessa hesitated.
Her silence answered him before her words did.
"…Five days."
The number hung heavily in the air.
Zodac exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling. Five days. That explained the weakness, the strange emptiness in his body.
Vanessa suddenly bowed her head deeply, her shoulders trembling.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "We noticed something was wrong on the third day, but by then… by then it had already spread. Our negligence—our carelessness—it cost you so much."
Tears slipped free, darkening the fabric of her sleeves.
"We're so sorry."
Zodac frowned faintly.
"…We?" he asked.
He turned his head again, blinking to clear his vision. "I only see you here."
Vanessa wiped at her eyes hastily, forcing herself to straighten.
"Sir Eli—the cleric—stepped out to gather more remedies. He'll return soon."
Zodac nodded weakly, then raised his right hand to rub his eyes.
That was when he saw it.
His left arm lay motionless at his side, the skin discolored—dark purples and blacks crawling across it like veins of ink. The corruption had spread from his hand up his forearm, across part of his chest, and even kissed the left side of his neck.
His breath caught.
"…What," he murmured, his voice unusually quiet, "is this?"
Before Vanessa could answer, the door burst open.
A rush of wind swept through the room, making the candle flames flicker violently.
"Sir Hero!"
Eli stood in the doorway, his white garments disheveled, hair unkempt, his usually calm face twisted with worry. He hurried inside and stopped at the foot of the bed, staring at Zodac as if afraid he might vanish if he blinked.
Then, without hesitation, he bowed deeply.
"We are deeply sorry," Eli said, his voice heavy with guilt. "For neglecting you. For failing to watch over the very person who saved our town."
Zodac looked away from his arm and toward them, his expression dull, unreadable.
"…You didn't ask me to fight," he said quietly. "That choice was mine."
"But our problem became your burden," Eli replied. "And now—now you suffer because of it."
Vanessa stepped closer, her hands clenched tightly together.
"There's something I don't understand," she said hesitantly. "You were resistant to the poisonous fog. You walked through it when others couldn't breathe for minutes. So how did it do… this to you?"
She trailed off, unable to find words cruel enough to describe what she saw etched into his skin.
Zodac closed his eyes.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then, slowly, he began to speak.
He told them everything.
The undead dragon.
The poison fog thicker than death itself.
The moment his body failed him mid-battle.
There was no pride in his retelling. No heroic bravado. Only the flat, weary tone of a man who had looked death in the face and realized how fragile he truly was.
"I didn't win because I was strong," Zodac finished.
Vanessa covered her mouth, horror filling her eyes.
Eli's face had gone pale.
"You expect us to believe that?" Eli asked quietly, though his voice held no mockery—only fear.
Zodac opened his eyes and looked at him.
"Honestly," he said, "I don't care whether you do or not. I can see it in your eyes already."
Before either of them could respond, agony tore through him.
"Ahhh—!"
Pain exploded from his left arm, racing through his chest like wildfire. Zodac gasped as his strength gave out, his body pitching forward off the bed.
Vanessa screamed his name as she and Eli rushed to catch him, easing him back onto the mattress.
They stayed there, frozen, listening to his labored breathing.
Vanessa's tears fell freely now, splashing onto the sheets.
"I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "Because of us… because of our foolishness… you're suffering from something with no cure. We keep giving you the same medicine that healed everyone else, but it does nothing. And if this gets any worse—I don't think I'll ever forgive myself."
Her shoulders shook violently.
Zodac turned his head toward her, watching her cry.
He felt… nothing.
No anger. No comfort. No warmth.
Only a distant curiosity.
Is this real? he wondered.
He spoke at last, his voice soft but heavy.
"Heroes come and go," he said. "That's their role. To burn brightly, then fade so others can live."
Vanessa looked up at him, horror deepening.
"I never entered that battle expecting to survive," Zodac continued. "If this is where I stop… then so be it."
A bitter chuckle escaped his lips.
"The hero who died to a curse," he muttered. "Pathetic, isn't it?"
At that word—
Eli stiffened.
"…A curse?" he repeated slowly.
Something sparked behind his eyes.
"Perhaps," he said, stepping forward urgently, "this isn't the end."
Vanessa looked at him, hope and fear colliding in her expression.
"There may still be a way," Eli said firmly.
Zodac opened his eyes again, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time since waking, something stirred within him.
Not hope.
But interest.