{Chapter: 64: Whispers of Victory, Echoes of Disgrace And Harry's Life On Island!}
As the golden hues of morning light crept over the rooftops of the capital, the city stirred from its uneasy slumber. Cobblestone streets, slick with dew, reflected the pale sun like dull silver. Merchants rolled up the shutters of their shops, while children emerged from alleyways, rubbing sleep from their eyes. However, the usual bustle was subdued—something had changed.
Sheets of parchment fluttered on lamp posts, market stalls, and even nailed into the old oaks near the central square. They were crudely printed, but the seals of the royal family and the Church of Radiant Light shimmered on the headers.
A growing crowd gathered in silence, reading line by line with furrowed brows and widening eyes.
> Royal Announcement:
"Last night, following an anonymous tip of demonic activity, Crown Prince James Woz, in collaboration with Great Bishop Safi and the Church Militant, led an emergency purge across the capital.
The enemy was found and confronted at the Colosseum. A high-level demonic entity—Carla, the very same creature that once brought calamity upon this realm centuries ago—was slain in battle alongside 124 cultists in a desperate last stand.
Throughout the city, further investigations led to the exposure and destruction of numerous underground organizations, including:
• No. 411 Orla Street: 17 members of a child trafficking ring neutralized. • No. 112, Third Avenue: 21 cultists of the forbidden Milun Society eliminated. • [Dozens of addresses follow...]...
A total of 946 criminals have been executed for crimes against the kingdom and the gods. Their heads have been publicly displayed 100 meters north of the city gate as a warning.
Citizens with information on additional suspects may report anonymously at 12 Huihuang Road. Generous rewards will be given. Long live the Crown Prince. Long live Arlenor."
There was a collective hush.
The word "demon" struck an odd note among the commoners. It was a term from storybooks, from ancient chants whispered in candlelit shrines, not something real. Certainly not something that could appear in the middle of their mundane, work-filled lives.
For the elderly, it brought uneasy memories—some claimed their grandparents once spoke of "the Year of Screams," when the skies had turned black. But for the young, it felt distant and theatrical, like a bad dream someone else had long ago.
It wasn't the news of Carla's death that left the city shaken—it was the realization that entire dens of human evil had been living beside them in silence.
"I pass Orla Street every day…" a mother murmured, clutching her child closer. "That place always smelled like sour wine and burning oil. I thought it was just an old brewery…"
"You're telling me that cult lived right under my apartment?" a tailor cried, looking horrified. "I just sold those bastards a set of red robes last week!"
Despite the rising fear, a strange sense of security followed.
After all, someone had finally done something.
And that someone was James Woz.
To most, he had been the quiet prince. Distant. Brooding. Rumors had swirled—some claimed he had killed his own father. Others said he was merely a puppet of the church. But now, as the streets ran clean with the corpses of criminals, the people saw him for what he was.
A necessary King.
A leader.
And for many, that was enough.
---
Meanwhile, Far from the Glory…
Heavy rain poured down in uneven sheets over a remote island of jagged rocks and thick, overgrown trees. The dark clouds overhead refused to move, and the wind howled like a living thing.
Here, in this miserable corner of the world, what remained of the Principality of Ar's defeated army had cobbled together a crude settlement.
Mud huts leaned against each other like drunks at a tavern. Bonfires sputtered under the rain, shielded by overlapping leaves and bits of scorched cloth. The soldiers, once proud and disciplined, now squatted under makeshift shelters, clothes in tatters, cooking gray porridge in rusty pots.
In the center of the largest wooden hut sat Harry Grelthorne, a noble by blood, general by title, and now—by all appearances—a damp, furious, and deeply humiliated man.
The roof above him leaked. The corners of the room smelled like mold and wet dog. His chair—a broken crate—creaked under his weight. Across from him, a soldier was attempting to dry his socks over a burning log, only to scream as they caught fire.
Harry clenched his fists.
It wasn't just the cold. It wasn't just the hunger. It wasn't even the shame of defeat.
It was the fact that his elite soldiers were fighting over leaves to wipe their asses.
Not soft, fragrant, kingdom-made paper.
Leaves.
And not all leaves were created equal.
"I told you all not to use that spiny plant!" one soldier screamed, hopping up and down, one hand behind his rear. "It burns! It burns!"
A brawl broke out immediately between two squads over a particularly prized fern bush, the victor raising a fistful of foliage like it was a trophy.
Harry shut his eyes. This can't be happening.
"Thousand years of glory," he muttered, shaking. "A thousand years of honor and tradition, gone… because some fool noble thought the fuzzy green ones were soft."
His lip twitched.
"Damn you, James Woz," he growled. "You smug little bastard…"
It had all happened so fast. One moment, he had been storming the capital with pride, believing victory to be inevitable. The next, James had flipped the board—summoning divine support, having his own soldiers kill each other, outmaneuvering their forces.
Now the army of Ar was stranded, disarmed, and reduced to bickering over toilet hygiene like a bunch of apes.
Worse, there were rumors that the island might be home to wild creatures. At night, shadows moved in the jungle. Eyes blinked in the dark.
Harry sat back, feeling the icy drip of water down his collar.
At first, Harry believed that being exiled to a deserted island was a manageable inconvenience. He was a nobleman of the Principality of Ar, once a general, and the proud commander of one of the most elite legions the nation had ever raised. With thousands of soldiers under his command and a firm structure still intact, he thought they could tame the island and reclaim a semblance of order. They had survived harsh winters, fought against vicious beasts, and crushed enemies twice their number. Surely, a wild island with a few poisonous insects and the occasional predator wouldn't pose a real threat.
He had been wrong.
So wrong!
The initial days were tolerable. Soldiers worked in unison, erecting wooden shacks, digging latrines, and forming watch posts. They cut down trees to build bonfires and prepared traps for food. The noble officers tried to preserve a sense of hierarchy, but with no wine, no women, and barely any warm food, discipline began to fray. As time passed, the complaints grew louder, and morale slipped with every mosquito bite and every tasteless meal. Even the rain, which once was a relief from the burning sun, had become a steady torment that soaked their beds and made mold grow between their toes.
Harry had suffered indignities he never thought possible. He had used leaves to wipe himself. Leaves! And not all of them are safe either. After one soldier suffered an agonizing rash that turned into an ulcer from using a fuzzy plant, the troops became vicious over smooth, clean leaves. Brawls broke out over the softest foliage, and fights in the latrines became so common they had to post guards just to maintain order.
Still, even with the hardships, Harry held hope. He believed the royal family would come for them eventually. Maybe they'd be ransomed, maybe a diplomatic shift would lead to their return, or maybe James Woz would slip on a puddle and break his neck. Something had to give. Until then, survival was the name of the game.
Just as Harry fell into thought, mentally cataloging their dwindling food stores and wondering how many more days they could pretend this was a temporary setback, a sudden knock shattered his concentration.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The frantic rhythm of the knock made the poorly assembled wooden door rattle against its hinges. Harry's brow furrowed. It sounded as if someone was trying to break in. But he didn't flare up in rage. Not this time. Only those with urgent matters dared disturb him like this. And on this cursed island, urgent never meant good.
He spoke quickly, his voice low and tense. "What is it?"
The soldier outside shouted through the downpour, breathless and barely audible over the roaring rain. "Sir! There's a situation. It looks like an epidemic has broken out among the troops. Many are reporting dizziness, bloating, fevers, and weakness in the limbs. Some can barely walk!"
The words hit Harry like a punch to the gut.
"What?! An epidemic?!"
He stood up so fast his chair toppled behind him. Flinging the door open, he was met with the drenched form of a young officer, his cloak heavy with rain, eyes filled with desperation.
"Are you certain?"
The officer nodded quickly. "Hundreds are showing the same symptoms. And they're spread out across different units. Many don't even know each other, so it can't be isolated food poisoning. The apothecary suspects it's contagious."
Harry's expression darkened, shifting from confusion to alarm, and then to calculation.
His soldiers were trained to withstand disease. The weakest among them could still endure what would kill a normal man. They were veterans. Hardened. Powerful. And yet, something was feeling them in droves. That meant one thing:
This was no common illness. This was something born of rot, humidity, and desperation. Possibly a parasite. Possibly a new strain of tropical disease native to this godforsaken island. Either way, it was spreading.