Solin, Nancy, and Elton each wore a different expression—but all three were, in their own way, impressed by Gauss's display of power.
Nancy's lips moved faintly as she studied him, thoughts hidden.
"Beautifully done, lad!" Solin boomed. He'd felt a stab of frustration at not finishing the demon-spawn himself, but it washed away fast. He strode up and thumped Gauss on the hip. "The young do have teeth."
He'd had a taste of Gauss's strength at Outpost 11, enough to know he wasn't all show, but the chaos then left no time to watch closely. Seeing him now—Gauss was far better than he'd expected.
"Thanks. But it's because you crippled it first that I could finish clean," Gauss said with a smile, letting Ironscale fade; the edge in his aura ebbed with it. He flexed his right hand subtly.
"Haha—teamwork!" Solin laughed, then glanced at the fast-vanishing filth on the ground and frowned.
"Demon-spawn, as we thought. This village's strangeness is tied to it," Elton said, raising his holy symbol. Pure white light rolled over the ground; the residue seared away. "Let's go back, ask some questions."
They weren't far; the noise here would have carried. They gathered themselves and headed into the village—Solin and Gauss in front, the rest behind. The place was pitch black; Gauss lit a few staves with Light. Clean, white glow pushed the dark back in a small pool around them.
After nightfall, Rollingstone felt even more dead. Low mud-brick walls threw huge shadows; a sour, strange smell hung in the air. Every house was shut up tight, windows sealed.
"Let's try the old man's place," Gauss suggested. He remembered where the first villager they'd met had come from—unfriendly, but at least willing to talk. He had seemed more burdened than hostile.
Knock knock.
At the door, Gauss rapped. No answer—but the soft rustle inside said the message was received. Someone was pretending to sleep.
Knock—knock.
Solin went up and pounded, more bluntly; when that failed he called, "Old man—open up, or we break it."
The door opened quickly after that. The elder stared at the six of them, alive and hale—like he'd seen a ghost. "You're… still alive?"
"Shouldn't we be?" Gauss said lightly. "The big rat-thing—it's dead."
The murky eyes flicked over faces and stuck on Gauss. The old man swallowed. "You… really killed it?"
His thin body trembled, seeming to shrink further.
"As true as iron," Solin said, patting his breastplate. "Our cleric purified it—there's not a speck left."
The elder stepped back, hands shaking. "Come… in. Don't wake the others."
He barred the door behind them. Even with the news, his face didn't ease. Gauss's doubt sharpened. This kind of news should lift a weight—at least a little.
There wasn't much furniture. Damp and herbs mixed in the air. A single oil lamp guttered on the table, shadows twitching. Knowing they'd killed a monster, the elder was a shade warmer now.
"Sit, adventurers. As you see… we've little to offer." He pointed at rough stools and sat on the bed, worrying his hem. His eyes kept darting to the window.
"Old sir—you know what that thing was, don't you?" Gauss asked with an easy smile. His Charisma wasn't for show; at the warmth in his voice, the elder's tension eased. He hesitated, then, after a sigh, said:
"That thing was a curse—the demon's curse on Rollingstone."
He lifted his shirt. Fine gray hair furred his bent torso.
"A demon cursed you?" Nancy blurted. Demons—born of the Abyss—are chaos and malice incarnate. No mercy, no pity, no regard for life. Most are bound to the Abyss; even those that push into the prime are diminished—and the stronger the demon, the worse the leash. Curses of this kind usually mean something high.
Why would a high demon force its way across… to hex a nowhere village? It sounded wrong. They'd assumed disease.
Serandur and Elton stepped forward and cast in turn—trying to lift what marked the man. Nothing. "Save your strength," the elder said simply. "It started a year ago. We asked the church. The priest couldn't fix it—left. It wasn't catching, so they… left us."
"Common wards handle common curses," Serandur said at last. "A demon's curse…" He knew now the tang he'd felt—he'd once found a village of husks; the air had tasted the same. Demon curses aren't hopeless—high rites, relics, or breaking the source can lift them—but none of that is in a poor village's reach.
Silence gathered. "I'm old. It's the children I pity," the elder whispered. "They look like monsters. That's why no one came out when you arrived. We can't risk…" He sank back, breath rasping. They understood: one "well-meaning" adventurer is all it takes to slaughter a village in zeal.
"As for your beast—it only comes at night. Most nights we stay inside; it leaves us alone. But it doesn't die." Gauss raised a brow—his bestiary had ticked a kill. He tried to reassure the man. "We checked. It's dead. You're safe."
The elder shook his head. "I mean—kill it, it returns. A good adventurer came before—killed it. A month later—another." He sagged. "Nothing got better. Worse."
Gauss went quiet. Good intentions, bad outcomes. He glanced at the man's wasted frame. The spawn likely fed on their life. Each kill bought a little safety—and sped their end.
The church had walked away—the curse wasn't catching; curing it would cost too much. Fear of "friendly" massacres left people hiding even in daylight. It was a pit with no bottom.
They asked more—learned nothing vital. No one knew how it had started; they only knew it had been about a year. They knew it was "demonic" only because a priest said so; otherwise they'd have thought it a strange sickness.
They returned to camp and passed an uneventful night.
By morning, with the spawn gone, the stillness had loosened a little. Word must have spread. He even saw "children" at play. The deformities were worse in the young, but their vigor kept them from weakness. They felt human—just unfortunate.
A little girl crept near—arms swollen and scaled, something writhing beneath the skin, an odor about her—but her eyes were bright. Curious, she watched the handsome stranger and the steaming pot. Gauss smiled gently, fished out wrapped honey candies, placed them on a clean stone, and nudged them closer. The child hesitated, then darted in, snatched them, and darted back—good instinct, if incomplete. She unwrapped one and slipped it into her mouth; sweetness narrowed her eyes, a simple joy breaking through—like a mouse with cheese.
"What's your name?" Gauss asked softly as he stirred the pot.
"Lucy…" she mumbled around candy.
"Pretty name," he smiled. "Why not play with them?"
"They say I stink," she said—and edged farther back until she thought he couldn't smell her. She didn't know it made no difference. Gauss didn't mind.
She left when the sweets were gone. Serandur shook his head. "A few years and this place will be gone."
"A few…" Gauss murmured. Likely. A nameless village in the back of nowhere—no one would notice. Without contagion, without scale, it would pass unseen.
"Let's move."
After breakfast, Solin called them up. He swung into the saddle, drank deep, and sang—already past Rollingstone. That was a professional's habit. Adventurers aren't saviors; they meet more than they can fix and, most times, keep walking.
Gauss glanced back one last time at the gray, dying village—then squeezed his chocobo and caught up.
~~~
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