Chapter 97 – A Gift from the Priest
The moment the crate was opened, a puff of yellow smoke burst out.
"Cough—ugh! What the hell is this smell?!"
Mickey clamped his mouth shut, waving frantically with both hands as he stumbled back, desperate to get away from the wagon.
His two companions fared no better. The smoke stung their eyes, burning with an unbearable sharpness.
After a few seconds of rolling and crawling, the three of them finally escaped the cloud's reach.
Panic etched across his face, Mickey tore open his satchel.
"Come on… come on…"
He scattered half its contents onto the dirt, rummaging wildly until his fingers closed around a vial.
An antidote.
"M-Mickey, I'm hit too!"
One of his companions lurched toward him, only to be shoved away.
"Glug-glug—"
Mickey downed the antidote in one gulp, then immediately tore open his med kit.
Blood test. Temperature check. Toxin exposure assessment…
He went through every self-aid procedure drilled into him during training.
And in the end—
"…I'm fine?"
Mickey stared at the readouts in disbelief. He ran the tests again. And again.
Each time, the result was the same—no sign of infection.
But how? At that range, anyone exposed to unknown fumes should've been as good as dead. He'd already braced himself for it the instant he opened the box.
All those frantic countermeasures… they'd just been reflex.
By now, his two companions were cautiously opening their eyes. Their vision cleared. They hadn't gone blind after all.
"…What's going on?"
The three exchanged bewildered glances.
Then, steeling themselves, they crept back toward the wagon.
Most of the yellow haze had already dispersed. Inside the crate sat nothing but a simple triggering device.
"Damn it! It was a trap!"
Mickey slammed his fist against the box.
He knew it now: the smoke wasn't poisonous. It was just a pungent gas, hard to wash away, clinging to their skin, their clothes, and every bit of loot they had touched.
And the mechanism was new. Too new. This wasn't some relic left behind years ago by other hunters. Someone had planted it recently.
"…Who?"
Mickey's mind raced—then snapped into clarity.
A scent that won't fade.
That guttural growl outside the tavern that night.
Miss Cooper spotted near the inn… and her family still hasn't shown their faces today.
It all fit together.
"Damn those Coopers." His jaw clenched, teeth grinding.
They'd slipped into the Plague Zone ahead of the others, marking their prey with this reeking gas—so that once the Mecks found resources or clues, the Coopers could track them down with ease.
Mickey relayed his theory to the others.
"Those Cooper bastards… ruthless as ever!"
"They won't get away with this."
And so, the Mecks marched on—carrying the stink of betrayal with them.
This scene, in fact, was repeating itself all across the Plague Zone.
And yet, at that very moment, Zod Cooper and his people were only just arriving at the entry point. They had no idea they'd already made enemies out of half the field—without lifting a finger.
---
Two days earlier.
After the animal trials were complete, Gideon had gone a step further. He sent several Allard clansmen into the Plague Zone as well, to verify that humans with sacred relics could indeed resist the miasma.
When everything was in place, he pulled out two vials of twenty-year sanctified water.
One, he drank. The other, he poured over his robes, soaking the fabric through.
Then, double-checking that every relic on his body was secure, Gideon stepped up to the boundary—
—and stretched out a hand.
At once, the plague mist surged toward him… only to stop dead at the shimmering barrier of holy force, unable to seep past his skin.
"Judging by the current drain, I could hold out for months on my own sacred energy," he calculated silently.
Then froze.
"…Flag raised. Damn it. That was reckless. Never tempt fate here."
He spat twice for luck, mentally canceling the jinx.
After that, he bounced back and forth across the boundary, testing again and again. Each time, the result was the same: the rate of consumption had nothing to do with how much surface area touched the fog.
Behind him, the Allard clansmen watched in stunned silence.
"G-Gideon?"
Sadie lifted a tentative hand.
"…Do you need me to help?"
Gideon froze at Sadie's offer of help, his expression turning calm and unreadable, as though his earlier antics at the border had never happened.
"No need. Let's move."
The Allard clansmen immediately dispersed into their assigned groups. Each carried a copy of the "safety protocol" they had drilled back at the estate. With the sacred relics provided by Gideon, even the youngest recruits stood a chance—if they encountered a monster, their priority was to escape, never to fight alone.
Their destinations were scattered across the outer Plague Zone: supply caches, oases, and sites where rare materials grew. They were also the very places Gideon had rigged with traps.
When the other hunter clans stumbled across these "lucky finds," they would also receive the priest's gifts.
For the next two days, the Allards roamed tirelessly. They set traps wherever they could, ensuring that no faction would walk away unscathed once the struggle for Traits began.
At the same time, they hauled back materials, relics, and monster-hunter gear. Even if they left the Plague Zone now, the haul was enough to call it a victory.
For the first time in decades, the Allard family felt rich—too rich. Their admiration for Gideon only deepened.
Sadie, practically glowing with excitement, threw her arms around him. Once she had feared the "Ritual of Remaking" might meet with resistance. Now, she dared to dream of the moment their family seized a Trait—and rose to dominate the South.
---
The present.
Gideon traced his finger across a map. A red circle marked a location: Riverside Hollow.
"That's where we're headed," he said.
The place was known to harbor a plant called Rotblossom Core, a key ingredient for refining holy oil.
Though hunting Traits demanded time and risk, Sadie herself had insisted they first gather Gideon's materials.
Not long after, the trio reached a narrow stream. By now, they were deep inside the Plague Zone, where the monsters grew more dangerous.
They moved cautiously, controlling every step, every breath, avoiding even the slightest sound that might draw unwanted attention.
Sadie brushed aside a thick clump of grass—and her eyes lit up.
There it was: a jet-black flower blooming beside the water. Their target.
Slipping on gloves, she carefully drew out a pair of shears. In the Plague Zone, many materials were fragile; the wrong exposure could ruin them instantly. Hunters always carried specialized tools for harvesting.
With patient precision, Sadie clipped the Rotblossom Core and slipped it into a cloth pouch treated for preservation.
She turned, ready to announce their success—
—and froze.
Not far away, in the reeds by the stream, stood a figure wreathed in flames.
Sparks licked its bones, and with every movement came the sound of marrow snapping and burning—crackle, pop, hiss.
"A… Sacrificer."
Sadie's face drained of color. This was one of the most dreaded kinds of monsters.
If I don't move, if I don't make a sound, it won't notice me…
Holding her breath, she edged backward, hand trembling despite herself.
But then—
Crack.
Her heel snapped a brittle branch.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Sadie's heart plummeted.
Slowly, trembling, she lifted her gaze.
The Sacrificer had turned.
Its fiery eyes locked on her, unblinking.