Chapter 16: The Boiling Fever

“Ah, the Goddess seems to have departed.”

Mitchell spoke, turning his head toward the prayer room. He had been sitting in the garden in front of the room, sharing tea and conversation with Felix about recent events.

When they opened the doors to the prayer room—doors twice the size of any other in the Temple—and looked inside, the violet mist had indeed vanished, just as Mitchell suspected. Felix and Mitchell stepped inside and ascended the stairs toward the altar where Ian lay.

Holy water flowed along the waterfall beside the stairs, as if the Goddess Herself had just descended.

“The holy water has replenished significantly,” Mitchell noted with joy, thinking this would allow them to help many more people.

When they reached the top of the stairs, they found Ian lying on his side.

“Ian.”

There was no response. Despite the fact that he should have sensed their presence, the lack of movement from his back felt wrong. A sudden jolt of anxiety struck them—a familiar feeling after spending the last month by Ian’s side.

Sure enough, when they approached, Ian was unconscious with his eyes closed. His face was entirely stained with tears, as if something devastating had occurred.

They tried to wake him, but he only let out shallow, labored breaths and groaned in pain. They had no choice but to lift him carefully and leave the prayer room. His thin body, which usually felt cold to the touch, was now boiling with a searing fever.

They waited for a long time for Ian to wake, but he remained unresponsive. Felix’s schedule was too tight to remain at the Temple indefinitely, and it didn’t seem likely that Ian would regain consciousness there. Mitchell cautiously suggested that it would be better to return to the Imperial Palace quickly to seek treatment from the physicians.

It was late evening by the time they reached the Palace with Ian, who was now drenched in cold sweat from the fever. Zeimer, who had been pacing anxiously out front, ran toward them the moment the carriage entered the gates.

“Dammit, why are you so late?”

“Explanations later. Ian comes first,” Felix replied.

“What’s wrong with him now?”

The moment Zeimer saw Ian’s neck mottled with a fever rash, he turned pale and grit his teeth.

Ian’s eyes were half-open, showing the whites as if he were having a fit; his breath was hot and ragged, and his bangs were plastered to his forehead with sweat. His condition was never “good,” but anyone could see that this was incomparably worse than usual.

Zeimer stared down at Ian for a moment.

Again. Once again, he looks like he’s about to disappear.

Zeimer practically snatched Ian from Felix’s arms and leaped toward Ian’s room in a single bound. Using magic to fling open the terrace doors, he entered and shouted at the waiting servant to fetch a doctor.

“You, get a doctor immediately! And you, bring hot water!”

Ian was wearing different clothes than when he had left for the Temple. Having dressed Ian himself, Zeimer knew immediately. Something had definitely happened.

Infusing the air with mana to negate even the slightest vibration, Zeimer laid Ian on the bed. Even though he set him down with extreme care, Ian collapsed onto the mattress like a doll with its strings cut.

“Why… why is he like this…?”

“…”

“Why are you doing this again…?”

Even on the most horrific battlefields, Ian was a man who never complained of pain or even winced. No matter how deep the wound, he never showed it, stubbornly rising to push forward toward the objective.

During a period of relative stalemate, the third defensive line had been breached, plunging the war back into chaos. With only the final line of defense barely holding, six territories had fallen, and the morale of the soldiers—who had lost their families and homes—plummeted.

When everyone was in despair, unable to even think of rising again in the face of absolute crisis, it was the young Hero who stood them back up. The sight of him heading out alone, clutching the Goddess’s holy sword Piedm to save those everyone thought beyond saving, was truly worthy of the title “Hero of the Noble Soul.”

But now, that same Ian had coughed up so much blood he’d needed a change of clothes—even his undershirt—and still hadn’t woken up. Zeimer’s mind went blank.

Ignoring whether his hands got scalded or not, Zeimer began soaking towels in hot water to wipe down Ian’s body. It was a method that helped when a patient suffered seizures or tremors.

Over the past month, Ian had slept plenty, but he had never lost consciousness like this. Zeimer, who usually didn’t possess a grain of religious faith, felt what little respect he had for the divine drilling through the floor and into the depths of the earth.

Felix appeared with Ilya almost at the same time the doctor arrived.

“Don’t overreact, Zeimer,” Felix said.

“Shut up, Felix. It’s not just that damn Goddess; you’re responsible too. You know that?”

“Mitchell said Ian’s body might be overloaded due to the Goddess’s intervention. Don’t jump to conclusions. There’s a high chance this is just part of the healing process.”

“Ha! That’s just a guess,” Zeimer spat out.

“Calm down, Zeimer. Getting worked up won’t fix anything.”

“You don’t know, Felix.”

“All we can do is watch. Do not speak profanely of the Goddess.”

Zeimer, who had been wiping Ian’s body with trembling hands, finally looked up at Felix.

“Hey. You have so much to lose that someone like Ian might not matter much to you, but that’s not the case for me.”

“What?”

“I have nothing to lose. To hell with the world. Do you think I went through all that… that hell, just to see him like this? No. Absolutely not!”

Zeimer’s eyes bulged, suddenly bloodshot with broken capillaries.

“If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have locked Ian away in this Palace. I wouldn’t have sent him to that ‘Goddess’ who struts around like she’s something special.”

“Zeimer, watch your tongue.”

“Felix. Ilya. You don’t know. You’ll never know.”

Zeimer hurled the cloth he was holding onto the floor and stomped toward them threateningly. It was Ilya who stepped in front of Zeimer as he approached with a murderous aura, as if to grab Felix by the collar. Ilya spread his arms to block the path and warned in a low voice.

“Stop it, both of you.”

“Move.”

“This is Ian’s room. He is lying right there.”

Zeimer usually had a very high boiling point. It wasn’t that he lacked a temper, but rather that he was indifferent to others. For the cold-natured Zeimer to react this impulsively and aggressively could only mean one thing: it involved Ian.

“We shouldn’t have brought Ian back to the Imperial family in the first place.”

Zeimer stood tall, glaring at Ilya and Felix, before vanishing in a teleportation flash, unable to contain his rage, leaving behind a violent surge of mana.

A heavy silence settled in the room. Once Zeimer was gone, Ilya massaged his forehead and let out a long sigh.

“Don’t take it to heart. It’s not Your Majesty’s fault.”

“…I know. I know that.”

The doctor, who had been hovering by the door, finally approached Ian. For someone like Ian who couldn’t directly absorb divine power, an ordinary doctor was often more helpful than a priest.

After checking his pulse and his eyelids, the doctor spoke.

“He has simply lost consciousness due to a high fever. Please continue to wipe him with wet towels until he wakes, and administer a fever reducer as soon as he regains consciousness.”

Felix, whose schedule was already skewed by the long outing, could not stay, but Ilya remained by Ian’s side after finishing his urgent business.

They had only spent a year with Ian, but his meaning to them surpassed that. He was like a light appearing at the end of an endless darkness. It wasn’t just because Ian was a Hero; Ian was simply a person one couldn’t help but love.

Ilya looked down at Ian with a complicated expression. What is it that hurts you so much? What happened when you met the Goddess?

As a member of the Imperial family with deep faith, Felix would disagree, but Ilya privately thought Zeimer was right. The Goddess was not on Ian’s side. He wouldn’t deny that Ian was the closest being to the Goddess, but the Goddess…

“Ilya.”

“Ah, Claire. You’re here?”

Ilya smiled tiredly. Seeing his old friend Claire allowed his tense nerves to relax slightly.

“I heard the gist of it from His Majesty.”

“How is Ian?”

“Not good. He won’t open his eyes. He needs to regain consciousness for us to give him the medicine.”

“Where’s Zeimer?”

“Who knows? I expect he’ll come back later tonight.”

Claire frowned. Even without putting his hand near Ian’s face, he could feel the burning breath. It felt as though it might be Ian’s last.

“I’ll take over the watch. I’ll talk to Zeimer, so don’t worry.”

“No, I want to stay.”

“Ilya, you look like you’re about to collapse. Go and get some rest.”

Claire spoke while looking at Ilya’s pale face with concern. There was even an ink stain on Ilya’s left cheek, as if he had rushed over. The hollow shadows under his eyes betrayed the extreme tension he had been under.

Claire made sure Ilya left the room before returning to Ian’s side. The pale complexion amidst the red fever rash was ominous. Even though Ian was burning up, his hands were cold; Claire warmed them with his own.

The instincts he had honed over years on the battlefield were screaming a warning.

This… this is not good.