Sixteen Years Ago
There was a time when the world was overrun with sicknesses—plagues that merged, evolved, and spread anew. In those days, a single cough could be met with the thrust of a blade. Even the smallest towns had security tighter than fortresses built to imprison the unkillable.
During that era, a strange wanderer appeared—one unlike anything the world had ever seen. What he offered would change everything. He roamed the land aimlessly, and many claimed he was merely the spirit of the diseased, born from suffering. Like a ghost, he left no trace, vanishing without a sign—until he met an outlander unlike any other.
"You're the first human I've seen in this town in days. What brings someone like you to the countryside?"
The speaker was a short man, his body masked by the strong scent of burning coal. As he handed over the meal, his eyes studied the stranger carefully.
"Am I that peculiar?" the traveler replied, accepting the plate. "I came after getting a tip. A side job, if you will. It's the best way to explain why I'm here. I'm like you, Mr. Dwarf—struggling to earn coin, picking up whatever jobs I can."
From his gear and weapon, the dwarf could tell something was off. This man didn't wear the heavy armor of a guardian. Instead, he carried only a knife, and his bag was filled with herbs and vials. To a blacksmith like the dwarf, he looked more like a mage than a warrior.
"I don't know what your business is," the dwarf muttered, lowering his voice. "But I advise you to leave. We don't need another victim—not again. Plenty of guardians came through here, and most of them never left. Rumor is some of them made pacts with demons. I've seen what happens after. Just... go."
"Thanks for the warning," the traveler said, rising from his seat. "The food was great—keep it up. I'll be back if I make it."
With that, he disappeared, just as swiftly as he'd come. He took a small package of takeout with him, already prepared in advance.
This is the place, alright, he thought as he stepped out into the cold. The people here are hostile to outsiders. That says enough. They've seen horrors. This town avoided the plague by isolating itself—but there's still something unfinished here. I can't leave yet.
In the woods, beyond the edge of the town, stood a rundown shack. The trees whispered as the wind passed through, and branches creaked and bent. The man didn't reach for his knife. Instead, he spread his arms.
A moment later, a child burst from the bushes and threw herself into his embrace. She was the daughter of the shack's late owner—a sickly child he had once saved while searching for rare herbs. He had protected her ever since.
"Master! You're back!"
"Gwen, how many times have I told you not to call me that?" he chided gently. "I'm just taking care of you until you're better. I taught you a few self-defense moves, sure—but I never made you my apprentice. Let's get inside. It's cold, and your illness doesn't handle the cold well."
Before he left his hometown, he already had the skills of a veteran alchemist. He had cared for younger kids at the orphanage, and when discrimination against non-guardians began to grow, he knew he had no future there. So he left—scouring the land for knowledge, herbs, and ways to strengthen himself.
Encroaching black miasma... A skin disease that spreads slowly, leaving foul stench and pain. Eventually, the body is covered in black splotches. When that happens, death becomes inevitable—and slow. Some doctors even advise suicide to escape the suffering.
I once had it myself. But I found a way to fight it.
"Finished eating? Good. Let's get started."
She sighed. "You know the drill. Strip."
"Right... the cream first," he said, pulling out a clay jar. "Prevents the spread. Then you'll drink the medicine. It tastes terrible—sorry. I can't afford anything to make it go down easier."
The potion was brewed from strange ingredients: the intestine of the Tortreous—a monster known for its resistance to status ailments. Wild herbs that enhanced regeneration. And worst of all, the hardened excrement of a forest ogre, rich with antibodies for skin diseases.
"I'm fine!" she said, though her eyes watered from the smell. "Gwen's a good girl! I can handle this!!"
She choked it down, trembling as her stomach tried to rebel. But she didn't let herself vomit. Her body was healing—she wouldn't ruin that now.
When she was done, he held up a popsicle with a grin. "Blueberry. And your favorite dessert. You did well, so this is your reward."
Her tears turned to laughter as she enjoyed the cold treat under his watchful eyes.
A month passed.
Her treatment was nearly done.
But one day, when he returned to the shack, there was no cheerful greeting. No pounce. No laughter.
Just silence.
Muddy footprints stained the entrance. A foul stench filled the air. One he knew too well.
Demonic Guardian scent.
The rumors were true after all.
He followed the trail, running. The scent was still fresh.
"Let go of me!" Gwen screamed, kicking and squirming. "My master will tear you apart!"
She was dragged by a deformed man—no, a guardian twisted by a monstrous pact. His body was fused with beastly limbs, and horns protruded from his skull.
"You've built resistance to the disease I was meant to spread? Interesting. But you're still useful. I'll kill your healer first—if he survives, all my efforts are in vain."
He had laid tracks of corruption, empowering the beasts under his control.
But before he could reach his stronghold, something struck.
A figure descended from the sky, blinding speed and power crashing down on the corrupted guardian. He slammed into a tree, groaning in pain.
Ernest caught the girl gently, cradling her.
"Gwen! Speak to me! Are you hurt?"
Her eyes fluttered open, dizzy and confused. "The... wanderer?"
The cold made her illness flare, but even in her haze, she recognized the figure from the stories her late father once told.
A pale man, no armor—just a jingasa on his head and a bag of trinkets on his back.
"The Wandering Pharmacist..."
The demonic guardian snarled. "So you're the one behind all this. It doesn't matter. You're too late. I've already pledged myself to my demon."
In the rain-soaked forest, a legend stood revealed.
A man spoken of only in myths.
He asked for nothing but herbs and shelter, yet left miracles in his wake.
He was Ernest Quelt—the Wandering Pharmacist.