Re: Tales of the Rune-Tech Sage Chapter 593: Dark Choice I

CH593 Dark Choice I

A man in his middle years with raven-black hair sat atop a gaunt, skeletal horse, his head bowed low against his chest. If not for the shallow, ragged intake of breath, he might have been mistaken for a corpse slumped across the saddle. Suddenly, a thick cloud of dust billowed past, forcing him to draw a reflexive breath.

'Cough—!'

His head snapped up as he choked, his lungs struggling against the grit. The harsh, bitter taste of ash lingered on his tongue. When he opened his eyes, they revealed deep, crimson-tinged pupils that shimmered like polished gems, though a profound and unmistakable melancholy veiled their beauty. He scanned the horizon and the desolate land beneath.

A ruined world stared back at him. The sky possessed the dull hue of rusted iron, the winds carried the heavy stench of rot, and the ground was stripped of every ounce of vitality. There were no flora, no fauna, not even the microscopic stirrings of insects. It was a complete void. Save for the laboring breaths of the man and his small, battered party, the world was consumed by a suffocating silence.

Accompanied by five soldiers on equally starving mounts, the man led the survivors. Like their captain, their armor was battered and fractured; their cloaks were stiffened by dried blood, and their faces were gaunt, reflecting weeks of relentless exhaustion. Observing a sudden shift in their leader, one soldier spoke up tentatively.

"Captain...?"

When the man attempted to answer, his voice emerged dry and cracked. The Captain turned, meeting each man’s gaze in turn. A haze of confusion flickered in his eyes, followed shortly by the light of recognition. The soldiers released a collective sigh of comfort.

"You truly had us worried, Captain. We feared the corruption had finally claimed your mind," one remarked.

At that moment, a flood of memories washed over the Captain. Once, this land had been lush, overflowing with vibrant flora and bustling wildlife. Then, the disaster arrived. Its origin remained a mystery; all they knew was that a plague had swept across the globe, purging all life in its wake. Beasts, plants, even the smallest microorganisms—all were extinguished without exception.

The Empire stood as the final sanctuary. The Grand Mages had constructed a colossal protective barrier, a shield encompassing the realm to hold the plague at the perimeter. Yet, it was merely a temporary reprieve, a desperate gamble to buy time. The Grand Mages had warned that the barrier could not endure indefinitely. To secure a true remedy, they required a prime sample from the plague’s epicenter to analyze and synthesize a cure.

A grand expeditionary force of the Empire’s finest soldiers had been gathered, equipped with the best gear and mounts. Thousands marched toward the source, but the journey was nightmarish. The environment deteriorated, turning landscapes into lethal, shifting death zones. Furthermore, many fell to deranged beasts—creatures driven to madness by the impending collapse who sought to drag others down with them. Confronting these beasts resulted in losses that matched the devastation of the environment itself.

Ultimately, the expedition reached the source and secured the Origin Sample, but the price was grim. From the thousands who departed, only six remained. These survivors now carried the burden of traversing the decaying wasteland to deliver the sample back to the Grand Mages. While the path was relatively clear of active threats, the journey was far from easy.

The Captain brushed his hand against the satchel at his side, which held a sealed crystal container. Within it lay the swirling black mass known as the Origin Sample—the object for which thousands had sacrificed their lives, and which now stood as the only hope for the Empire and the remnants of their civilization.

The group traveled for hours in total silence, their exhaustion and hunger too severe to permit conversation. Hunger plagued them, yet the landscape offered nothing edible. As the atmosphere grew oppressive, a soldier named Brenden broke the quiet.

"Do you smell that?"

"Smell what?" another asked weakly.

"Nothing," Brenden replied.

The group chuckled, a hollow, forced sound of dark humor that served to preserve their fragile sanity. Yet, they all realized the gravity of their situation. The land was dead, the water supplies were poisoned, and starvation was imminent. The youngest of the group, Eli, voiced the question they all dreaded, "How far to the Empire...?"

"At least... eight days," the Captain answered instinctively.

A heavy silence settled over them. Even with their mastery of cultivation, they had barely two days of strength left. As night fell, they formed a ghost-like circle around a dead fire pit, lacking fuel to start a flame or food to cook.

Torvar finally spoke the truth they were all suppressing, "We won't make it back at this pace."

No one contested him. Torvar nudged the skeletal horses, "We have meat... food right there."

"That offers the six of us two days at best," Brenden muttered.

"And we would be forced to finish the trek on foot," the Captain added, his brow furrowed. "In our state... that is an impossibility."

"It is a shame that the growth paste is only for the horses," Eli sighed, staring at his ration bar.

Brenden gave a thin, grim smile, "You are welcome to try eating it. If you die, we will roast your horse in your memory."

"Keep quiet if you have no better options, Brenden," Torvar shot back, casting him a cold glance. "There is no sense in belittling our last potential solutions."

Brenden just shrugged. "I don't need to suggest ideas. That is the Captain’s responsibility. Cap, I know you have something in mind. Don't leave us waiting."

Every soldier turned their gaze toward their leader. The middle-aged man felt the weight of their expectations pressing upon him. He did have a solution, but it would require him to make a dark, irreversible choice.