Laurasia categorised all such afflictions under a singular, overarching term: the demon’s curse. While it was true that certain maledictions originated from ‘Demonic Fel’—the quintessential essence of demonkind—the young man suspected that many were not curses at all, but rather lethal epidemics wrought by microscopic pathogens.

  Despite the existence of theoretical concepts, Laurasia had yet to believe in the nature of pathogens. They conflated all curses and contagions, an error that prevented the complete eradication of these lethal sources.

  Often, towns and villages fell not to the Demon Legion, but to epidemics that transformed thriving settlements into desolate ghost towns. Once a city collapsed, it was inevitably reclaimed as a nest for demons and undead.

  The Undead is a type of lesser demon, a lifeless corpse reanimated by curse spell. Yet, these cadavers, teeming with virulent diseases, carried more than just terror; every village they breached suffered the wide-scale spread of lethal plagues. This was the true peril of the undead, a threat realized by almost no human.

  The undead served as countless min”ons ’Ithin the demon armies and the demon realms. Their strength was roughly equivalent to a single human or perhaps slightly superior, yet they remained utterly devoid of intellect. Their perceived weakness caused the various kingdoms to overlook the silent threat they harbored.

  Consequently, human armies often bypassed undead swarms, deeming these demons too weak to warrant attention. Furthermore, the carcasses of the undead possessed almost no value. Thus, while undead missions were easily accomplished, few ever bothered to undertake them.

  Seraph, however, perceived the grave danger of the epidemics these demons could rapidly propagate. He noted that although this undead mission offered a low reward, it yielded a high volume of mission points. Since mission points were the primary condition for one to ascend to the rank of Magis,

  The high score offered was invaluable. Should the young man complete but two or three such missions—or utterly annihilate an undead nest—he might accumulate enough points to qualify for the Magis promotion examination in a very short time.

  The young man hesitated no longer. He tore the mission paper down and quickly spun around toward the counter. Upon reaching the front of the hall, the mission officer had still not arrived. It was already late in the morning when Seraph had come to the hall, and he had spent considerable time selecting his mission. Now it was nearly noon, yet the entire mission hall remained silent and deserted save for him.

  [Cring~!]

  Seraph reached out a hand to press the bell on the counter. The sound echoed throughout the room. The device was a resonance artefact, virtually a long-range signaling talisman. The bell alerted the mission officers that someone required service.

  Nonetheless, more than ten minutes passed, and still no one from the mission department arrived at the counter. Seraph was not pleased by this development. However, he needed to suppress all dissatisfaction, as he was merely a humble acomage. Mission officers were always required to be a Magis or a Magister. The young man had no right to be aggressive toward officers of a superior rank.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Just as the young man was reaching to press the bell once more to hurry them along, the staff door behind the mission counter burst open forcefully!

  A disheveled man emerged, clad in a cloak that resembled sleepwear, the insignia on the garment indicating he was a mission department officer. His weary face and barely open eyes suggested he had awakened only minutes prior.

  Seraph glanced at the intense sunlight that sent heat blazing across the land. It was nearly noon, yet the man before him had only just risen. While some magis had abysmal waking habits, this particular mission officer was equally wretched.

  Despite his displeasure, the young man offered no rebuke and displayed not even a hint of frustration. Picking a quarrel with a person such as this was akin to suicide, as in the future, he might be barred from undertaking any other missions.

  “I’m here for the undead mission,” Seraph stated, his voice flat.

  “Seraph! I should’ve known it was you, bothering me at this hour. Don’t you realize mornings are for sleeping? Learn some damn etiquette!” Sadir barked, his rebuke sharp and immediate.

  “Sorry... I’ll try to be more mindful,” Seraph replied, the apology hollow, fleeting.

  His words lacked true reverence; he performed only the barest minimum of courtesy required to maintain social decorum. Within the Sanctus, where fewer than a hundred members resided, familiarity had bred a particular brand of contempt. Sadir’s lack of respect was a relic of the past—a time when Seraph had allowed others to trample upon him.

  The office of a mission assistant was neither lowly nor exalted, yet the young man swore that once he ascended to a higher echelon, any who dared speak to him with such insolence would find his retribution agonizing.

  “Hmph... forget it. Which mission did you say you wanted?” Sadir asked, his voice thick with irritation.

  “The purge at Desden Cave, in the northern region of Arkflame,” Seraph stated.

  He handed the scroll to Sadir. As the officer scanned the parchment, his brow furrowed in clear disapproval.

  “The Desden Cave purge? It’s not exactly a death sentence, but it takes more than a little courage,” Sadir said, his scowl deepening. “It’s an old mine nestled deep in the canyon—shrouded in mystery, and not a soul has dared to map its depths yet. Even if the undead there are weak, they carry lethal curses. I wouldn’t recommend it for someone like you. Weak as you are, our numbers in the Sanctus are already dwindling. Even if you’re just a worthless pawn, I’ve no desire to lose a piece unnecessarily.”

  Though Sadir’s words were laced with disdain, the underlying meaning was clear: he had no wish to see Seraph meet a pointless end.

  “I appreciate the concern. But I’ve made my choice; I’m taking the mission,” Seraph remarked with a dry, self-deprecating wit. “Besides, I’m confident I can escape even if things go south. You know as well as anyone how fast I’ve had to run all these years.”

  “Hahaha!” Sadir’s laughter thundered through the Mission Hall, devoid of even a shred of respect. “I nearly forgot—you’ve always been quite ‘distinguished’ with your ventus spells. Fine. Since you meet the requirements, I won’t stand in your way.”

  With a grunt, he retrieved the official Sanctus Scroll for the Desden purge from the counter drawer.

  “Take this,” Sadir said, slapping the parchment firmly onto the wood.

  “This scroll contains the mageia map and the essential details,” he explained, unfurling it to point out each section. “Desden Cave is near the city of Balyon. Your task is to sweep every undead entity within the mining canyon. The cave itself is the heart of the site, but don’t be surprised if they’re prowling the exterior as well. Watch your step. We can’t wipe out every demon nest in existence, but you’re to hunt and cleanse every last one of them in Desden. Nothing must be left lurking in that canyon. If you seek out the Lord of Balyon, the requester, you might get more intel. But from what we know, it’s straightforward: annihilate the hundred or so undead dwelling there. Once you’re done, report to the Lord of Balyon or come straight back here.”

  “Thank you,” Seraph said.

  He gripped the scroll and turned to leave without hesitation.

  “And don’t you go dying!” Sadir called out after him. “I’ve no desire to waste my morning writing reports about your demise.”

  ? . ? . ? . ? . ?