I feel sick—deathly sick—after such a long agony, after countless losses and sorrows. In the end, I understood the true cost of the future. I feel cold—my body finally gave in to the prolonged strain of the suit… The sentence, the atrocious sentence of death, had nestled within me. Then, the inquisitors' murmurs blurred into a drowsy, indistinct hum that brought… "revelation," perhaps because I'd confused past with present in my mind, or maybe because the millstone of time kept turning even as I crumbled into my pitiful demise.
But it lasted only a moment. Suddenly, I stopped hearing. And yet, I could see…
—Larel! Are you listening to me?! Larel… LAREL!!!
—Vi… Vidal? Is that… you?
I had forgotten the look on Vidal's face—his glasses, that ever-serious expression. And González, with his macabre smile. Duarte, always calculating, forever placing his future above all. The memories returned slowly, as if I were waking from a long slumber… or as if…
—Stop wandering in dreams while you're awake. We've got work to do. Why are you crying?
—I… I don't know, I answered, a warm tear dropping to the ground.
—I know this situation's not easy. But we're here to help. Chin up—this nightmare will end soon.
—Nightmare…?
That's when I remembered the beginning of the end—the entrance to the hell that was the country of Santa Catha. The year was 1347. The nation had fallen to a terrible calamity known as "The Rot"—a disease unknown to man until then.
King Desmond III summoned the most brilliant minds in medicine and engineering from across the continent of Daemos. All in a desperate effort to halt the nightmare that had driven the outside world into terror and madness, and plunged Catha's citizens into a living inferno.
Captain Torres and twenty guards would be our shield. Four scouts would serve as our compass within the cursed land.
The journey took two suns and a moon, ending at the foot of the Great Wall, where the guards had set up a makeshift camp weeks prior. Upon arrival, we began unloading the equipment designed by the engineers and scientists—heavy crates carrying the salvation of an entire country. Doctors from the Mayo Clinic examined the life-saving medication, while the guards readied their weapons, wary of growing unrest among the locals and revolutionaries. Disease Control engineers helped assemble medical units—the most advanced tech ever imagined. We, the doctors of the International Medical Organization, armed with knowledge and unwavering resolve, prepared to cut through the thick fog of misinformation birthed by the illness beyond the wall.
We camped outside the colossal barrier, our final night of rest before plunging into what awaited us. I had never stood so close to such towering architecture—nearly fifty meters high. The wall felt alive, letting out a groan that echoed with agony, as if every stone whispered its own fatal end. The wind carried mournful echoes, filling the air with shadowed dread. Occasionally, gunfire and thuds shattered the silence—booms so violent, not even clashing steel nor our hushed conversations could drown them out.
It looked like a tomb of the damned, a sarcophagus for the insane, or a sprawling asylum straight from the pages of Lovecraft. As I wandered the perimeter, Chief Elixander Almánzar and his transport crew—a band of five seasoned drivers—unloaded the caravan. Captain Eliazar Torres's guards set up the tents, while others fine-tuned the medical equipment.
When all was ready and twilight bled across the horizon, Captain Torres gathered us. It was time to go over the crucial details of our mission.
—To sum up, Torres began, beyond the Great Wall lies a solitary city at the foot of María's Wall. Our path cuts through fields and open plains once home to farmers and hunters. One transporter and two guards will accompany three doctors. At the front: two scouts, two guards, and myself. LÓPEZ!
—Yes, sir! replied Robinson López.
—We want three guards on each flank, two in the rear with me. Avoid all contact with local settlements. Our rendezvous is the city of Pontos. Shoot anything that approaches within forty to fifty feet of the convoy—no exceptions.
—Beyond the wall, we'll be in Catha's jurisdiction. A garrison unit is expecting us, so we must reach them as quickly as possible, said the captain, tracing the most direct route on the map. But if things turn south, we'll take the northeastern path to nearby villages, avoiding river routes that could block the caravan. It's riskier—revolutionary activity's been reported—but a full squad has been dispatched by Marquis Amgust Timmoty Vanhouten. They'll meet us at María's Wall.
—Above all, López commanded, protect the transporters and doctors at any cost. You are their shield. If sacrifice is required, lay down your lives with honor—for the king!
—For the king! the soldiers roared, stomping in perfect sync, then pressing their right hands over their hearts. With pride, they formed the royal sign—thumb and index finger touching, the other three fingers raised.
—And remember, Torres said gravely, once we enter Catha, there's no turning back. We leave only after the mission is done. Otherwise… may God have mercy on our souls. He dismissed us with a solemn wave.
After the briefing, I headed for the doctors' tent to rest. But the soldiers and drivers insisted we join their festivities. We resisted, at first—but one by one, we gave in. Soon, we sat around a crackling bonfire, at the foot of the Count's Gate.
Most of the instruments were makeshift, borrowed from the transporters. The drink of choice was Almánzar's cheap mead, which we paired with hard, stale bread—more brick than food, if you asked me.
In those fleeting moments of laughter and shared warmth—on the eve of entering hell—I felt a strange comfort. A sense of fraternity I'd never known. Though I had no past, I found family among these men.
—Hey, Doc! Gonna scrub those glasses clean off your face at this rate, joked a drunk guard.
—He's been cleaning them twenty years and still hasn't gotten rid of the germs, González chimed in.
—Sorry if your sarcasm doesn't land, Vidal fired back. Just like this… mead? Tasteless. Like your sense of humor, González.
The group exploded into laughter. Their jokes, crude and constant, were the glue of growing trust. Shadows cast by the fire danced to their laughter.
Far off, Torres stayed silent, tapping out messages to Orion on the telegraph, reporting every move. López never left his side—unshaken by the party, unmoved by the flame.
—López speaks of Catha's people like they're nothing but scum, Taveras said with a sneer. He should remember—they're human too. They're afraid.
—Not all scum, slurred Alberto Polanco, but what lives behind that wall has lost its humanity. The crisis awakened their primal instinct—survival at any cost. Even the sanest become beasts.
—Why are we using caravans when there's a train? Duarte asked, slurring.
—You've had enough, Duarte, Vidal warned.
—They say the train was hijacked by looters trying to escape, offered Alexander Regino, one of the scouts.
—A huge train like that? What—did they lose it? Did no one check the tracks? I mean—it's not like a train can just drive off wherever it wants, joked González.
—Why'd you all agree to come to this hell? Duarte asked, avoiding the train topic.
—You really love asking questions, don't you? Starved for attention? González teased.
—Some came for duty. Others, for glory. Some of us… came to find out if our families are alive, said Juan Vásquez quietly.
—And you? Why did you come? Polanco asked.
—Knowledge seduces the brilliant, González replied. To be immortalized in the annals of medicine, to know we helped preserve mankind—it's intoxicating. We're finite beings, but our legacy… can be infinite.