Shadowed Gaze: The Highserk War Saga - Chapter 73

Walm spent yet another day from morning till evening in a corner of the tavern, relentlessly drowning himself in drink. He filled his stomach with alcohol until he was on the verge of inebriation, only eating enough to keep himself from dying.

This had been his routine for a year now. Slowly, both his body and spirit were rotting away. While drinking, he could cloud the harsh realities of life, his self-loathing, and the ghastly memories of his homeland. The only solace Walm clung to was not in any indifferent deity, but in the alcohol and tobacco that fogged his consciousness.

Bottles of liquor lined the table. At some point, as he was emptying yet another bottle of distilled spirits, his vision suddenly blurred. He frowned at the discomfort and pressed his eyelids, but instead of subsiding, the sensation morphed into pain.

“U-ugh… aah!”

Eventually, he was seized by a burning pain in his eyes.

“Aah, my eyes, they hurt!”

His grip on the edge of the table creaked under the strain, and he gasped for breath. The agony was unbearable, like having his eyeballs stirred with red-hot iron nails, and it awakened memories of past suffering. He had experienced similar pain before, amidst the cursed memories of Dandurg Castle. The tragedy of the “Great Rampage” that he had tried to avoid remembering flashed through his mind.

“Hey, are you okay?”

Since it was morning, there were no other customers around, and the tavern owner, Gangut, hurried out from the kitchen to check on him.

“I’m fine,” Walm replied, trying not to be a bother, but Gangut wasn’t convinced.

“You’re clearly not okay. Are your eyes hurting?”

Gangut peered into Walm’s eyes and gasped. Reflected in the glass, his pupils, slit vertically like those on a battlefield, were moving erratically as if alive.

“You should go to the church’s healing center right away and see a healing mage.”

Gangut, the tavern owner, suggested this soothingly. Having known him for a year, Walm could tell he was genuinely concerned.

“Ah, okay. Where is it?”

Walm’s world had been small over the past year, confined to his tiny rented room, the general store where he bought essentials, and the tavern for his drinking. He had no idea where the healing center was.

“It’s on the main street. Head towards the center of the city, and you’ll see it. It’s a building with prominent blue stained glass.”

“Thanks,” Walm said, staggering out with his vision swirling. The old floorboards creaked slightly under his feet.

“Are you sure you can make it alone?”

“I’m not a child. I can go to a hospi– a healing center by myself.”

Walm forced a weak joke and a thin smile, which only made Gangut’s face contort with worry. Did he look that close to death?

When he pushed the door open, the glaringly bright sun was a harsh welcome. It had been so long since he walked on the main street in broad daylight that he couldn’t remember the last time.

His eyes, rejecting the bright sun as if he had become a vampire, moved forward with steps akin to the undead. Passersby avoided him, a kind gesture towards someone who looked sick. Walm sneered at himself.

“Haha, it’s far,” he muttered.

A distance of less than a kilometer felt like the Great Wall of China. While trying to calm his erratic breathing, he occasionally leaned on houses and fences for support.

Just as tavern owner Gangut had said, the healing center was easily recognizable from afar. The building, primarily white, was adorned with plenty of blue stained glass to let in sunlight.

Walm would never have approached such a place if not for the intermittent agony in his eyes. In the compound, there were memorials and statues for the dead of the wars. Passing through the ornate gate, he pushed open the door to the building.

The dome-shaped stained glass adorning the ceiling could elicit admiration purely for its architectural beauty. However, for Walm at that moment, it was nothing but a source of irritating light, akin to a bothersome lighting fixture. A young woman sat across the counter, presumably at the reception. She was certainly more pleasing to the eye than a gruff middle-aged man would have been.

“What can I do for you?” the woman at the front asked Walm.

“My eyes hurt,” Walm replied, dragging his feet and directing his gaze towards the woman.

“Ah…” The receptionist gasped, clearly taken aback.

“Yes, it’s about the eyes. I’ll just check with the doctor,” she said, and one of the two attendants scurried off to the back. Walm settled deeply into a nearby chair, leaning back, the pain in his eyes neither diminishing nor abating.

“Ugh… uhh,” Walm groaned in discomfort. He reached towards his hip flask, then stopped himself abruptly. Relying on alcohol even in such times was not a solution. Alcohol wasn’t a panacea.

“The doctor will see you now,” said the receptionist, her gaze on Walm’s back as he entered the room he was led to. Inside, the room was cluttered with old books, bottled specimens, herbs, and liquids of indeterminate use. Amidst it all, the healing mage sat, seemingly enthroned.

“Take a seat there. Your eyes seem to be burning with pain,” the mage instructed.

“Yes, they hurt as if melting,” Walm responded, sinking into the indicated chair.

“Let’s see,” said the healer, leaning forward to examine Walm’s eyes. The skin around his eyes, marked by age with sagging and wrinkles, was conspicuous. The healer, trembling slightly, strained to speak, “Could these be… cursed eyes? What have you done to yourself?”

There was no need to hide it anymore. Walm answered truthfully, “During the war, I lost both eyes and had the eyes of the Great Ogre Lord transplanted into me.”

“The eyes of the Great Ogre Lord? Such an absurd tale,” the healer muttered in disbelief, falling silent in deep thought.

“It’s unbelievable that you’re even alive. Did they adapt? No, this congestion and the outflow of magic and blood don’t seem like a complete adaptation. You should’ve died within a day due to rejection. To forcibly adapt them…”

The healer sank into a sea of thoughts and did not resurface. Impatient for a conclusion, Walm pressed for an answer.

“So, can you cure it?”

“Me? It’s impossible,” the healer stated plainly, dashing Walm’s hope of a lengthy discussion. A second opinion might be needed, but it was not like there were many healing mages readily available. Walm looked at the healer with a trace of disbelief.

“Please, calm down. It’s beyond me. What about the healer who did the transplant?”

The girl who had healed Walm had perished in Dandurg. She was no longer of this world, having crossed over to the other side, to the realm of the dead.

“She died in the war.”

Few words were needed. The healer, understanding, sighed softly and appeared disheartened.

“The war, huh? I would’ve liked to meet a healer capable of performing such a transplant, but they’re no longer in this world,” the healer murmured, making a small gesture of prayer.

“If they were here, perhaps they could have managed the symptoms, even achieved adaptation…”

“So, there’s nothing that can be done?”

“Don’t rush to a conclusion. I have been called skilled for a reason,” the healer retorted, seeming to bristle at Walm’s resigned, self-deprecating tone.

“Now, how much money do you have?”

In this world, one couldn’t survive without money. When leaving Dandurg Castle and the Highserk, Walm had collected supplies and valuables from those who no longer needed them. He pulled a bag filled with coins from his magic bag and spread it out on the table.

“Huh, that’s more than I expected,” the healer said, counting the gold and magic silver coins before unlocking a heavily secured cabinet. Inside were all sorts of suspicious items, from liquids as murky as a poison swamp to ointments shimmering in seven colors.

“Where is it… Ah, here it is,” the healer muttered, pulling out a bottle filled with red liquid.

“What is that?” Walm asked.

“Eye drops. They may not neutralize Hydra’s poison, but they’ll neutralize most poisons and even heal minor injuries. This is a legitimate product, marked with the Great Forest Alliance’s seal.”

“How much?”

“This much.”

Coins were extracted one after another from a purse that seemed like it could’ve financed a 20-year binge on cheap liquor.

“You must be joking.”

“I’m not taking advantage of you. I’m actually giving you a discount, in honor of the late healing magice and a semi-compatible possessor of the evil eyes. Elsewhere, even a bag full of coins wouldn’t be enough to buy this.”

“…I’ll trust you. Please, do something about the pain.”

The healing mage divided the liquid into a small bottle and administered the drops into Walm’s eyes. The scorching pain that tormented Walm so much was receding unbelievably.

“To be honest, I was skeptical.”

Perhaps as a secondary effect, even his clouded thoughts seemed to clear.

“This medicine is made by Elves. It works well. The problem is that it’s not a fundamental cure.”

“So, it’s not that convenient in this world.”

“One application per week should last about a year, but if symptoms worsen, it will be shorter. Heavy use of magic power is a strain on the eyes. Please limit its use.”

“How much should I limit it?”

“…Asking that means you have something up your sleeve. I don’t know if you’re a mercenary or an adventurer, but using upper-tier magic or skills could worsen it. There might be times when you can’t avoid it due to your profession but be prepared when you use them.”

“Yeah, I’ll be prepared.”

Walm, now a defeated soldier living a life of debauchery, had no need for wide-ranging attacks like Demon Fire. If used in the city, who knows how many civilians would turn to ash.

“Is there a way to heal them completely?”

“In the Three Great Nations of the Great Forest Alliance, there might be more effective medicines, but those are extremely rare. You won’t find them in this city. There are other ways, but—”

“Is there a problem?”

“The Three Sacred Treasures of Healing, renowned as miraculous crystals. They can heal amputations and all diseases, but even royalty and high nobility can’t obtain them. The Deep Crimson Bloom from the deepest layers of the Labyrinth City, the Elven Elixir refined from the sap of the World Tree, and the Water of Life, whose maker and origin are unknown. All of these are supreme items, almost impossible to obtain. It’s pointless to even ask.”

“I see.”

So, they were the stuff of myths. Realistically, maintaining the status quo was the best he could do, having spent most of his money on a year’s supply of the eye drops. If he couldn’t obtain a similar medicine, he would lose his sight again.

“Also, as a healing mage, I must say this: I like alcohol too, but you’re overdoing it. Your body odor is purely alcoholic. Moderate it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve lost the luxury to indulge in despair drinking. Thanks for the examination.”

Walm left the room with a small smile. The receptionist watched Walm from a distance. When Walm gave a slight nod, she returned a strained smile.

“Please take care.”

Ironically, being diagnosed with an incurable disease had made him more aware of his surroundings. The light, tinged blue through the stained glass, streamed into the room.

His muddled consciousness, as if shrouded in fog, was blown away by the medicine. Since losing his homeland, he had lived an excessively degenerate life. There was no doubt this was his last chance. He needed to seriously consider how to live from now on.

It was indeed ironic. What moved Walm, who had drowned in alcohol and tobacco, was not comforting things like love, friendship, or homeland, but the unbearable suffering caused by the cursed eyes. As always, he was disgusted with his own shallowness. Outside, the sun shone brilliantly, and people bustled through the streets.

“It’s bright…”

Due to his original personality and military life, he had no problem faithfully completing assigned tasks or work, even if they were unreasonable. But when told to live freely and spontaneously, Walm felt constrained. He had to abandon his decadent lifestyle and move forward, however reluctantly.

Looking around the premises, he saw an old memorial monument. Beside it was a bronze statue of a soldier and a monster locked in combat, honoring those who died in the Archipelago Countries’ attempts to carve out the Demonic Territory.

It seemed neglected for some time, with moss growing all over. Walm took out a flask and shook it to check its contents. He opened the cap, releasing a strong scent of alcohol into the void, stimulating his nostrils.

“To the unnamed predecessors, this is my offering.”

He poured the contents onto the silent statue as a sign of his determination—a farewell of sorts. He wouldn’t need alcohol for a while. After emptying the flask, Walm quietly started walking.

Translator – Lyxxna