I can evolve everything

Ella's words carried more weight than any of Ryan's.

Hearing this, Karen fell silent for a moment, and began to have doubts.

The words Baron had spoken in the swamp kept echoing uncontrollably in his mind.

"Can't you even smell the stench around you?"

"The air in Ironwood Town has a stench even worse than this swamp..."

At the time, he dismissed it as the ramblings of a madman, a clumsy attempt to sow discord.

But now, these words have reminded him.

"...Forty-five years ago, we weren't knights, just two conscripts who had just crawled out of a pile of corpses."

Karen stopped talking about the poison and instead began reminiscing about the past.

"Once, we were surrounded by orcs during a battle. Harold was the bravest guy in the whole squad back then. He was always the first to charge and the last to retreat. He told me that what he hated most in his life were those villains who bullied the weak, and that his sword existed to protect the innocent."

The old knight's fists clenched slowly and unconsciously at his sides.

"He took three arrows in the back to save me. He faced three orcs alone to hold the line... He's a hero, Raine. A true hero."

The stable fell silent.

Neither Ryan nor Ella spoke. They could sense the weight of Karen's words.

That's why Karen hesitated so much when Harold might be the mastermind behind it all.

"I...I still don't want to believe it."

Karen closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and when she opened them again, there was no more hesitation.

"But I also believe in you, Ryan. You're not the kind of kid who would joke about something like this. And..." He paused, "that madman Barron might actually have seen something we haven't."

The old knight straightened up and made his final judgment.

"We cannot take action now."

"This is his territory, and we have no evidence. Ryan, your so-called evidence will not stand in court."

"So what do we do?" Ella asked. "Are we just going to watch those people turn into zombies?"

“No.” Karen shook her head. “Let’s hold back for now. Harold thinks we know nothing. This will make him lower his guard.”

"Since he wants to silence those adventurers, he must have his reasons."

Karen looked at Ryan and Ella, her voice very low.

"Let's go back. Pretend nothing happened. From now on, our target is no longer Barron."

"But it was Sir Harold."

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

By the time Raine and her group were ready to return, it was already close to dusk.

Night falls early in Tiemu Town, bringing with it the dry chill characteristic of the north. Soon, the heavy darkness presses down on the rooftops and chimneys of Tiemu Town.

As soon as Raine arrived at the door, he saw Harold standing in front of the copper basin by the door, carefully washing his hands.

The water was cold, but he washed very slowly.

"Sometimes, I feel like my hands always smell like medicine, no matter how I wash them."

Harold didn't turn around. His voice was mixed with the sound of running water, as if it were just an old man's habitual rambling, "Treating the wounds on those adventurers is too much trouble. Pus, blood, rotten flesh... Even if you do this job your whole life, you still can't get used to it."

Raine stood in the shadows below the steps, his right hand involuntarily reaching for the hilt of his sword.

His stomach still twitches from time to time, a primal reaction of the body to danger—the urge to vomit, to expel fear and anger along with it.

In Ryan's view, the old man in front of him was lying without batting an eye.

Those hands that poisoned those adventurers are now pretending to be a dutiful doctor.

In the end, Raine managed to remain rational and refrain from making any major moves. This was a police station, surrounded by more than thirty fully armed guards; taking action would be too dangerous.

"Since it's so much work, why not let the doctors under you handle it?" Karen stepped forward and handed over a dry cloth from the side.

Karen greeted Harold as calmly as ever, without revealing any emotional fluctuation.

Harold took the cloth and vigorously wiped between his fingers.

"I don't trust anyone else with this." He turned around, a gentle smile on his face. "In this Ironwood Town, I trust no one but myself. Especially not now."

What a perfect reason.

Harold casually tossed the hand towel into the copper basin, turning the water completely murky.

"Don't go back to the hotel," Harold said, looking at the three of them and extending an invitation.

"It's getting late, and I've recently imposed a curfew. Come to my manor. To thank you for bringing back survivors, I've had a lamb roasted and two bottles of wine opened."

Raine instinctively wanted to refuse. Go to the home of someone suspected of being the mastermind?

This is practically like sticking your neck into a noose.

"us--"

"Then I'll take my leave."

Karen's voice interrupted Ryan. She patted Ryan on the shoulder, indicating that he didn't need to say anything more.

"I haven't tasted wine in years either," Karen said, looking at Harold as if to say something meaningful. "I hope it hasn't changed."

Harold's smile deepened, and the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes smoothed out, making him look exceptionally sincere.

"The taste is still the same. Let's go, the carriage is already waiting at the back door."

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Harold's mansion is located on the east side of town; it is a typical stone and wood building.

The heavy wooden doors and the burning fireplace inside completely shut out the cold wind from outside.

The restaurant was filled with flickering candlelight, and the silver cutlery shimmered in the candlelight.

As Harold had promised, dinner was plentiful.

The lamb chops, roasted to a golden brown and glistening with oil, exuded a rich aroma; the freshly baked white bread was soft and warm; and there was also that bottle of wine.

For the three who had just returned from the Misty Swamp, this should have been a feast.

But Ryan, sitting at the end of the long table, didn't rush to use his knife and fork.

His gaze swept over the plate of lamb chops in front of him, and he silently stared blankly.

The light in my field of vision was slightly distorted.

Roasted meat (lamb)

Main components: protein, fat, carbohydrates.

It is not poisonous.

Ryan looked at the glass of wine again.

Fermented grape juice

It is not poisonous.

Only after confirming this did Ryan pick up his knife and fork.

He cut off a piece of mutton and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly. In a situation where conflict could break out at any moment, having food in his stomach gave him the strength to fight.

"Do you remember that era, Karen?"

Harold swirled his glass, not in a hurry to drink. "Forty-five years ago, we served in the fortress. Back then, we didn't even have a decent pair of boots."

"I remember," Karen said, chatting with Harold as she cut the meat on her plate. "Back then, you were in charge of holding the shield, and I was in charge of swinging the sword. You said that as long as your shield didn't break, no one could hurt my back."