155: Postwar

Chapter 153: After the War

When Vanka awoke, she felt the warm sunlight gently caress her face.

She lay still for a moment, listening to her own breathing.

Then, pain washed over her like a tide.

She shifted slightly on the small bed, feeling a throbbing ache in her arms.

After an entire night of fighting, her legs had been in unbearable pain, and now they felt as heavy as lead.

She sat up on the edge of the bed, her mouth dry and her eyes itching intensely.

It took her some effort to recall where she was and how she had arrived—she had slept very deeply.

She hadn't dreamt, which made her let out a long sigh of relief.

She remembered how, long ago, orcs had raided her former village, killing all her relatives.

Afterward, she had followed a group of refugees, fleeing west, always trying to snatch a moment's rest.

But the visions in those dreams were unsettlingly vivid.

Her mother's figure always appeared in the visions, sometimes as she was in life, sometimes as a mutilated corpse.

Her father had also appeared; he had a simple, honest face, walked with heavy steps, and his movements were a bit clumsy.

She would always weep for her father when she thought of all his hopes for life before the catastrophe, and how those hopes were shattered.

Even the village's strict and old-fashioned priest had appeared in her dreams.

But it wasn't him as a corpse; it was the old, eccentric man he used to be.

The contrast between him and Arthur was almost painful.

Before Arthur entered her life, the old village priest was the only Mother Earth priest she had ever seen.

Whenever the old priest's figure appeared in her dreams, she felt as if she had returned to her past life, her heart filled with powerlessness and fear.

Despite the horrors everywhere in the wilderness during her escape, she still felt a sense of relief upon waking from these nightmares.

This was also one of the reasons she chose to fight.

She didn't want to watch this place, watch the Pioneer Group, watch her second home be destroyed again, as it had been last time.

Vanka blinked hard, then rubbed her eyes.

Her skin felt tight and dirty.

The small bed emitted an unpleasant odor, and she worried that part of it was from her, and part from previous occupants.

Since arriving in Mist Town, she had had little time for anything but work and fighting, and she felt as dirty as a wild dog.

She needed a drink, some food, and a bath.

She had to untangle her hair, mend the holes in her clothes, and pick out the lice.

Otherwise, she couldn't face Arthur.

As his personal maid, she was in no condition to stand by him in her current state.

These ordinary needs of life seemed to become important again, which was undoubtedly a sign that things were improving.

She placed her feet on the edge of the small bed and dangled them back and forth on the floor.

The room was small but tidy.

A window without glass let in faint sunlight, illuminating the off-white walls and the peeling plaster.

At night, she was the sole occupant of this small house.

Mist Town's population had been reduced to half of what it was before the attack, leaving many empty houses for anyone who wished to stay.

Vanka was curious about who had lived in this house before she stumbled in, exhausted, after the last battle had subsided.

There were no personal belongings in the room: no clothes, religious items, or cooking utensils, and no sheets on the small bed.

The rough wooden bed frame was the only thing left.

She stuffed several old cloaks in to make a mattress, and after her life in exile, this simple mattress felt like it was made of down and silk to her.

She was never particular about lodging or food.

She began to recall what had happened before she fell asleep.

The battle with the remaining undead had continued until past noon the previous day.

Unlike before, the warriors did not retreat into the shadows before dawn; they fought to the very end.

Before the last of the undead fell, their casualties were already heavy.

The highest casualties were among the fanatics, who had been inspired by Arthur.

Less than a third of the hundred men survived.

The few survivors, however, were not deterred in the slightest; with an unsettling enthusiasm, they threw themselves into the long and arduous task of dragging bodies to the pyres.

The people of Mist Town, already exhausted from the battle on the walls, quickly decided to leave this work to the madmen.

Vanka limped back to town with them, utterly exhausted, feeling nothing but a vague sense that it was all over.

People listlessly cleared the debris from the walls and streets but soon disappeared, rushing back to their cottages or taverns.

The higher-ups of Mist Town did little to stop them, as Vanka's last sight of them showed them in much the same state as everyone else.

However, she was determined to hold on until Arthur returned.

She waited for him for about an hour, leaning against the wall of the dwelling she had chosen, expecting him to stride through the door at any moment.

But usually, he would stay outside, tirelessly searching for the dying with the healers.

Additionally, he needed to perform the final rites for the dead. When her eyes were about to close, she finally stumbled into the cottage.

She collapsed onto the pile of old cloaks, barely noticing the old smell of death on them as her face buried into the folds.

As sleep swept over her like an avalanche, she fell into its embrace.

When she woke again, she didn't know how much time had passed.

Her throat was still dry, and the itch in her eyes persisted.

Recalling this, Vanka stiffly stood up, walked to the door, and pushed it open.

The light outside was bright and dazzling.

A cold wind howled down the street, mixed with a fine drizzle.

Rubbish was everywhere.

In the distance, next to a dilapidated building she knew was a tavern, two people lay motionless in a ditch.

Crows perched on the opposite roof, looking round and fat.

She stepped over the threshold into the street, almost tripping over a bag of bones at her feet.

The bag shifted, and a tattered head emerged from one end.

If she wasn't mistaken, this preacher named Schlecht looked even worse than before.

He had a large scar on his forehead.

His fingers were as slender as twigs, trembling as they extended from his wide sleeves.

Upon seeing her, he grinned.

The action twisted his sunken cheeks.

“Sister!” he exclaimed, “You're awake! Praise Mother Earth!”

They walked together from the cottage towards the town center.

The sun was almost at its zenith, but low clouds cast everything in a gray gloom.

Thick smoke from the massive pyres still drifted lazily into the sky, filling the air with the smell of burnt flesh.

Some people lay in the street, unconscious from exhaustion or drunkenness.

Those who could still stand had dull eyes.

Everything seemed slow and subdued.

The few citizens Vanka knew in town were also in a dazed state.

The girl had long forgotten the fear she felt when she first arrived here.

The people of Mist Town were much like those she had known elsewhere.

Their clothes were more tattered, and their customs a bit different, but when the undead came, their screams were all the same.

Now, they seemed to still be shrouded in shadows, stumbling as if they couldn't believe the long nightmare was over.

Arthur had given them a victory they no longer believed in, and the shock had not yet subsided.