The Village of the Damned

The road to the capital stretched before us like a dusty promise of future headaches.

Three days had passed since we left Lowstone, and this world was already finding new ways to disappoint me with impressive consistency. Each step on the uneven cobblestones was a gamble between twisting my ankle on a loose stone or slipping into a muddy rut.

Honestly, I was starting to miss Lena’s morning teasing about my dreams. Almost.
And Matthias… If I ever see that sanctimonious fraud again, I’ll have to thank him. His little stunt probably saved me from a doomed medieval marriage. Can you imagine? Me, running an inn? I drink alcohol — I don’t serve it!

Pururun bounced happily in my satchel as usual, her gelatinous body wobbling rhythmically with my steps. I had to admit, the familiar weight of her presence had become… comforting. Not that I’d ever admit that out loud, of course.

"You know what, Pururun?" I muttered, scanning the bleak countryside around us. "This world is exactly like Inquisitorial Medieval Europe back home."

She vibrated indignantly, probably to defend this miserable world — even though she had no idea what I was talking about. Or maybe she was just annoyed that my constant commentary was disturbing her nap. Hard to tell with her.

The sun beat down mercilessly, and the dust raised by the occasional passing carts turned the air into a yellowish haze. The peasants we crossed paths with avoided eye contact, suspicious. And I couldn’t blame them. A guy dressed like an undertaker traveling with a blob of gelatin as a familiar… yeah, we probably looked like trouble.

***

Around midday, we caught up with a group of merchants heading in the same direction. Their convoy was modest: three mule-drawn carts, a couple of guards wielding rusty spears, and a pervasive smell of sweat mixed with the spices they carried.

"Hey there, friend!" the leader called out. He was a stocky man with a graying beard and a friendly, weathered face. "Headed to the capital?"

"That’s right," I replied, approaching their group. "And you folks? Where are you coming from?"

"From the north, near the border villages. We’re taking a detour though — avoiding Willowcross Hamlet."

I frowned. The name didn’t ring a bell, but the worried look on the merchant’s face said plenty.

"Some kind of problem?"

He lowered his voice instinctively. "Divine wrath, friend. The whole village’s been struck. People are dropping like flies. They say it’s punishment for their sins."

Divine wrath my ass.

Inside the satchel, Pururun tightened slightly, sensing my growing tension.

"Did you see any symptoms?" I asked, trying to sound neutral.

"Not me, no," he replied, shaking his head. "But my cousin trades there. Says people empty themselves out — terrible diarrhea, vomiting, then… death."

Cholera. Or something very close. The symptoms were textbook first-year med school material. Of course, here, people would rather blame divine punishment than look at their goddamn water supply.

"And the Temple? Are they doing anything?"

The merchant let out a bitter laugh. "A priest came, apparently. But he stays at a safe distance. Says only the true faithful can be saved… provided they make a generous donation, of course."

"Of course," I growled. "Wouldn’t expect anything else."

***

We traveled together for a few hours. The merchants were chatty, and I picked up some useful info about the kingdom:

It’s divided into fiefs ruled by local lords,

but the real power lies with the King,

and the Temple wields huge influence — few royal decrees are signed without their blessing.

The religion is polytheistic, but the Temple represents the main deity (our dear “Lady Being X”), while minor churches handle specific blessings — healing fractures, curing poison, lifting curses, stomach ailments, and so on. A bureaucratic nightmare, but humanity’s talent for turning everything into red tape clearly transcends worlds.

And, of course, priests held a monopoly on healing through their so-called divine gifts. A monopoly they exploited shamelessly to get rich.

***

The closer we got to the cursed hamlet, the tenser the atmosphere became. Even the mules seemed nervous. By mid-afternoon, smoke rose on the horizon.

"Willowcross," the merchant leader murmured. "We’re taking the long way around."

But I stared at that distant smoke with a mix of medical curiosity and simmering anger. Somewhere out there, people were dying of an illness that was likely preventable with basic hygiene and a bit of common sense. And meanwhile, some robe-wearing fraud was blaming “divine wrath.”

"I’m leaving you here," I suddenly declared.

The merchant stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.
"You’re not seriously — "

"Oh, I am."

"But the disease — "

"Don’t worry about me," I cut him off. "I’ve got my own methods."

And it wasn’t entirely a bluff. Since arriving in this world, I’d noticed my body was oddly resistant to disease. I hadn’t figured out exactly why yet, but it was handy. Too bad it didn’t work on innkeeper’s daughters — it would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.

We parted ways at the next crossroads. The convoy turned east, and Pururun and I headed north toward the village. As we moved on, I saw the merchant make the sign of the gods behind my back.

***

The landscape shifted as we approached. Fields gave way to abandoned land. The few farms we passed were shuttered and overgrown.

"You smell that, Pururun?" I muttered.

She grew denser in my satchel, bracing herself. The air carried a strange, heavy scent — a mix of smoke, rot, and fear. Years in the ER had given me a sixth sense for crisis situations. This one was screaming trouble.

As the sun began to set, we reached a hill overlooking Willowcross. Fifty or so thatched-roof houses surrounded a central square dominated by a stone cross. Smoke rose from a few chimneys, but the village was eerily quiet.

A makeshift barricade blocked the main road.

I approached out of sheer curiosity. A weary guard in leather armor stopped me with his halberd.

"Halt! State your business!"

"I’m a healer," I said, pulling out my forged papers. "I heard there are sick people here."

The guard squinted at the documents like they were written in hieroglyphics, then disappeared into a lavishly decorated tent set up beside the barricade.

He reappeared moments later with exactly the kind of person I expected: a priest. Tall, thin, fanatical eyes, and spotless white robes that didn’t fit the grim setting at all.

"A healer?" he said, eyeing me up and down. "You’re not from around here."

"Correct. I’m… itinerant."

"Show me your papers."

He inspected them for an uncomfortably long time before reading aloud: "Foreign healer on observation mission. Interesting. And what exactly do you plan to do?"

"My job. Heal the sick."

The priest laughed scornfully.
"Heal? You don’t understand. This village is under divine punishment! They are sinners, struck down for their greed and lust and pride!"

"Oh really? What sins, exactly?"

"They refuse to pay their tithe. They wallow in debauchery. They live in impiety!"

Of course. Starving peasants being accused of greed because they can’t pay religious taxes. Classic.

"So you’re just letting them die?" I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

"Not at all!" he replied indignantly. "I offered them redemption! For a reasonable donation, I can intercede with the gods for forgiveness!"

"And if they can’t afford it?"

He shrugged. "Then their faith clearly isn’t strong enough. The gods help those who are generous toward their servants."

In my bag, Pururun vibrated angrily. I, on the other hand, wanted to punch his smug face.

"I see," I said. "And what’s your plan if the epidemic doesn’t stop?"

"Epidemic?" he scoffed. "This isn’t an epidemic, my good man. It’s a divine curse! And if these mule-headed fools persist in their impiety… we’ll have to purify the region with fire."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. If the deaths continue for another week, we’ll burn the village. It’s the only way to keep the curse from spreading."

These bastards were actually planning to torch an entire village rather than admit their sanitation was crap.

"And you’re just letting me in?" I asked.

He gave me a cruel smile. "Why not? If you want to damn yourself with them, that’s your choice. When you fail, it’ll only prove once again the superiority of our sacred gifts."

"How very kind of you."

"Oh, but there’s one condition," he added, suddenly serious. "You won’t be allowed to leave. Temple orders. We can’t risk the curse spreading."

I nodded, pretending to be resigned. In truth, it worked in my favor. At least this fanatic wouldn’t get in my way while I worked.

The guard lifted the barricade, and I stepped into the cursed perimeter of Willowcross. Behind me, I heard the priest mutter something about fools rushing toward damnation.

"Idiot," I muttered under my breath, adjusting my satchel. "You haven’t seen anything yet."