GameDev Reincarnated into His Own Creation

Vol 2 - Chapter 27: Remote Occurrence

Something in his tone made Landre's stomach clench. She exchanged a quick glance with Imelda before gathering her robes and hurrying forward. The three of them rushed into the hall, the door swinging shut behind them with an ominous thud.

Inside, Sarvin led them toward the hearth where the fire crackled with deceptive cheerfulness. As they approached, Landre noticed a bench had been pulled close to the warmth. Upon it lay a figure—a young person, or what seemed to be one at first glance.

Landre's breath caught in her throat. The person's skin was wrong—deeply wrinkled and sagging like an elder of many decades, yet their frame and features suggested youth. Their chest rose and fell in short, labored breaths. Besides the unnatural aging, there was nothing to indicate this was an elderly person.

Landre approached carefully, calling upon Shizka's teachings to maintain her composure.

The figure's eyes fluttered open as Landre knelt beside the bench. Recognition flickered in those young eyes, trapped in a withered face.

"You came," they whispered, voice raspy and dry.

Landre leaned closer, her training taking over as she pushed aside her horror. "What happened?" she asked gently.

The person's lips trembled with effort. "The illness... last night... it took everyone... gone..."

A trembling hand reached out, grasping weakly at Landre's robe. Desperation shone in their eyes.

"Please... don't let me fall like them..."

Landre's mind raced as she processed the man's fragmented words. Illness? Something that aged people overnight and made others vanish?

"What do you mean?" Imelda pressed, stepping forward with her quill poised above parchment. "What illness? Where did everyone go?"

Landre raised her hand, signaling for Imelda to wait. The man's breathing had grown more labored, his withered chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. Whatever had happened here, this survivor needed immediate attention.

"Sister Imelda, please give me space," Landre said quietly but firmly.

Landre knelt beside the bench, stretching her arm toward the man. She closed her eyes briefly. The words came to her lips naturally, flowing from years of devotion and practice.

"Luxis minorevju Sentio," she intoned, her voice gaining strength with each syllable.

Light formed around her hand—not the blinding flash of combat magic, but a gentle, pulsing glow that spread outward like ripples in water. The warm illumination wrapped around the man's body, seeping into his withered skin. Landre felt the familiar drain on her energy as the blessing took effect.

The man's breathing steadied, his pained expression relaxing slightly. The magic hadn't reversed his unnatural aging, but his condition appeared to stabilize. His eyes, clearer now, fixed on Landre with gratitude.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice slightly stronger than before.

Landre nodded, maintaining the gentle flow of healing light for a moment longer before allowing it to fade. "Can you tell us what happened?" she asked softly.

The man nodded weakly, still lying on the bench. His gaze moved between Landre, Sarvin, and Imelda before settling back on Landre.

"You must be the Saint," he said, recognition dawning in his eyes. "Came here for the illness." He paused, gathering strength. "It started slow. A lingering cough, a chill that wouldn't leave. Then... the weakness. People lose their strength, their spirit."