He stared at how the city loomed before him.
The doctor stood at the outskirts of Vacuo, his dark robes fluttering slightly as the wind carried the last remnants of the sandstorm away. His hands were neatly clasped before him, and his mask remained tilted ever so slightly as he observed the settlement with careful scrutiny.
This world was strange. Different.
It was nothing like the cities of Earth, where grand structures had been planned with civic precision, streets and buildings woven together from of human ambition. Much of everything here seemed built in a hurry, as though constantly shifting and adapting, yet he acknowledged that within the disorder was a strange kind of resilience, chaotic and improvised. He could see sections of the city that bore fresh construction—repairs, no doubt, from the harsh and unforgiving nature of this land. Even without understanding its history, he could tell that this place lived under constant threat of destruction.
Still, the people endured.
It fascinated him of the human resiliency once again.
His eyes traveled across the settlement, and that was when he saw it. A massive structure dominated the skyline, towering over the rest of the city. Unlike the surrounding architecture, it was sturdy, refined, a symbol of order amid the unpredictability. He tilted his head slightly.
"A grand fortress?" He murmured. Its design spoke of discipline and control. This was no mere home or place of commerce. This was an institution of learning, maybe a gathering of warriors.
A deep hum of contemplation escaped him.
An academy of ilks?
A place of knowledge. A place of combat. It seemed that this world had its own defenders, much like the knights and scholars of old. But were they healers? Did they seek to cure the ailments of the world, or merely to fight against them? He would have to find out in time. But for now, he had more immediate concerns.
As he walked further into the city, he became acutely aware of the eyes upon him.
The people of Vacuo were a rough, hardened sort, survivors, with weary eyes and suspicious gazes. He noted how they carried themselves: cautious, guarded, ready to act if necessary. They were not ones to trust outsiders easily. And he, in his long, flowing black robes and plague doctor's mask, was as much an outsider as one could be.
Mutterings filled the air as he passed.
"Who the hell wears something like that in this heat?"
"Creep's gotta be from Mistral or Vale. Damn foreigners."
"Look at that mask… he some kinda freak?"
The doctor paid no mind to their whispers, nor to the wary glances shot his way. He was accustomed to such reactions. Humanity always feared what it did not understand. That was the tragedy of ignorance.
And unfortunately, there was a feeling of something else.
The Pestilence.
It was here. He could not yet see it, but he could feel its presence, lurking, festering beneath the surface. He resisted the urge to reach for his satchel. He would need to investigate further in a cautious manner. These people did not know of the affliction that plagued them, and he had no desire to alarm them.
He silently apologized for indirectly causing their unease.
A group of Vacuans blocked his path, arms crossed, with an unimpressed look. The leader, a broad-shouldered man with tanned skin and a deep scar along his jaw, eyed him with thinly veiled suspicion.
"You lost, stranger?" The man asked.
He regarded him for a moment before responding, laced with an unmistakable medieval French accent.
"I assure you, monsieur, I am quite aware of my surroundings."
The man's brow furrowed. He exchanged glances with his companions. "That so? Then why's someone like you wandering into Vacuo looking like that? You one of those stuck-up noble Vale types?"
A pause. Then, he let out a soft chuckle.
"I am no nobleman, nor am I of any political affiliation," he said smoothly. "I am merely a physician."
The word hung in the air. Physician.
Some of the tension in the group shifted in a non-favorable direction. One of the others, a wiry woman with sharp eyes, scoffed. "Oh, great. A doc from one of the Kingdoms. Here to tell us how to live, are you?"
He shook his head. "Non, madame. I seek only to study the ailments of this world."
The people before him remained unconvinced. They did not trust him. That much was clear. He knew that he would have to prove himself, first, and foremost by performing experiments on this world. The sooner, the better. Perhaps the best and foremost way would be to get them used to seeing a foreigner wearing such a peculiar costume.
The leader exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Look, pal, I don't know what you're playing at, but people here don't take kindly to outsiders, especially ones walking around in… whatever the hell that is." He gestured vaguely at his robes and mask.
"I find my attire quite practical," he remarked with a light amusement in his tone.
"Yeah? Well, it's weird."
Another chuckle. "Many have told me as much."
The leader sighed, rubbing his temples. "Just… don't cause any trouble, alright? Vacuo's got enough problems without some masked weirdo stirring things up."
He inclined his head politely. "You have my word, monsieur."
The group hesitated a moment longer before stepping aside, allowing him passage. The doctor strode forward without another word, though he could still feel their eyes on him as he went.
Yes. This world was quite different indeed.
Half an hour had passed. His presence met with suspicion and unease at every turn.
He did not blame them. After all, if one's arrival was announced as such by a masked stranger dressed as a doctor who knew about the disease of the Pestilence, it would certainly raise questions among anyone unfortunate to meet with such a person.
Yet the residents were also inquisitive about him. As the sun began to descend in the sky, many came outside their dwellings, taking notice of this strange foreigner, whose mask was that of a beak. Some of them watched him curiously for a few moments before dispersing back indoors, their attention diverted elsewhere.
From this world, he had expected something more impressive, at least. Maybe even the largest of them all. Yet here were the same people living in squalor, in fear, in pain.
Just walking the sandy road, he felt terrible. How dare these people endure in pain, when he could offer them comfort, support, relief?
He briefly considered moving back to whence he came and left the situation to the local authorities. If there was a cure, surely the medical community could take care of it. After all, this planet, like Earth in many ways, must be full of medicines, poisons, and other procedures, including vaccines and antibiotics. Surely there must be something more they could use against this dreadful disease, some advanced remedy he has not thought of they could develop that would help those who had been afflicted. He was a doctor, after all.
His musings were interrupted when he noticed something ahead. A small crowd had gathered near the side of a dusty road with raising voices. When he drew closer, the reason became evident: a man lay against the side of a crumbling stone building with pale skin and covered in sweat. His chest rose and fell, each breath a struggle. Blood was splattered across his torn garments.
A pained groan reached his ears.
A sick man. A dying man. Claimed by a disease.
The doctor stared at the victim intently before his posture straightened. Without hesitation, he moved forward.
The gathered citizens turned as they noticed his approach, eyes widening at the sight of the masked figure striding toward them.
"What the—?" one muttered.
"Hey, back off!" another warned, stepping between the injured man.
He lifted a gloved hand in a pacifying gesture. "Please, there is no need for alarm. Do not fret, I am a doctor."
A murmur spread through the small crowd. One man, possibly a friend or relative of the injured, narrowed his eyes. "You a doctor? You don't look like one."
He did not react to the hostility. "I have studied medicine extensively. This man requires immediate care. If left untreated, he will surely perish."
His words gave them pause. The sickly man groaned, his glassy eyes shifting toward the doctor. He did not protest, did not resist. He simply looked up at the stranger with the mask of a bird and gasped out a single word:
"Help."
He knelt beside the man. "Do not worry. I shall rid you of your affliction."
His hand extended, gloved fingers pressing gently against the man's forehead.
The moment contact was made, the man fell utterly still.
The transition was seamless, so much so that no one noticed. One second, he was gasping weakly for air. The next, he was silent and unmoving. His body had ceased function entirely, the life in his eyes snuffed out in an instant.
But the people didn't realize this. To them, nothing seemed amiss.
The doctor showed no distress at the sudden "passing." he straightened his posture and reached into the folds of his robe. A moment later, with a flourish, he produced a black medical bag seemingly from within his own body. It was well-worn but pristine, a relic of an era long past.
The crowd tensed as he unlatched the bag, revealing strange surgical instruments and vials of unknown chemicals.
"What… what are you doing?" Someone asked hesitantly.
He didn't look up. He answered simply, "I am administering treatment."
He delicately selected a syringe filled with a thick, dark liquid and held it up to the bright light of Vacuo's streets.
"Yes… this will suffice."
Without another word, he began his work.
His hands moved with practiced efficiency, cutting away damaged tissue, and applying bizarre-colored fluids to the corpse's flesh. With steady hands, he carefully unfastened the man's garments, exposing the wound. He withdrew a scalpel and made precise incisions with visible experience.
There were shouts of alarm, of horror, of shock, and many other reactions, but he paid none of them heed. Instead, he focused all his attention on his work.
Blood seeped through the thin fabric of the man's garment.
At one point, he inserted a needle filled with an opaque, dark solution directly into the heart. Some people lean in with curiosity. They had never seen tools quite like these before.
All the while, he murmured to himself, occasionally tilting his head like he was considering an artistic composition rather than a medical procedure.
Those watching started to shift uncomfortably.
It was unnatural.
Not the act of healing itself, but the way he did it. There was something profoundly wrong about the entire scene. His movements were too rehearsed. There was no hesitation, no doubt. And despite working on what should have been a still-living patient, the man did not move, did not flinch, and did not cry out in pain.
And then, the final step. The doctor retrieved a long needle attached to an archaic-looking injector. He inserted it into the man's chest and pressed down on the plunger. The thick and murky liquid within dispersed into the body.
Minutes passed.
Then—
The body twitched.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as the man's limbs spasmed, his chest jerking as though he had been shocked back to life. The man's eyes snapped open.
Then he moved.
The once-injured man sat up, his head snapping toward the onlookers with a jerky motion.
Murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd. Whispers of disbelief. Gasps of awe.
"He's alive?" Someone muttered.
For a moment, the crowd was silent. Then, a woman shrieked.
"He's alive! He's alive!"
Cheers erupted, hands clapping, voices raised in celebration. A moment ago, the man had been at death's door, now, he was breathing once more. Color had returned to his skin. The dead had been revived! A miracle!
"He did it! He saved him!"
"By the Brothers, he's some kind of genius!"
He did not react to these cries and continued to stare unblinking at the patient before him. The doctor rose slowly, wiping his gloved hands against his robe. "Another successful cure," he murmured.
The man screamed.
An animalistic and wretched, choking howl that sent ice through the veins of all who heard it.
He lunged. He grabbed the nearest unsuspecting bystander and tore into their throat with his teeth. His fingers clawed wildly at flesh with his eyes glassy, devoid of recognition. Blood spattered across the sand.
The cheering ceased and screams rang out.
Panic erupted as people scrambled away in sheer horror. The resurrected figure flailed wildly, attacking all in his path. He was alive, yes, but in the worst possible way.
More fell to his violence. A woman shrieked as the undead thing tackled her to the ground, clawing at her skin. Another man tried to flee, only to be dragged down.
Others struggled desperately in an attempt to avoid the violent, grasping hands of the creature, but he soon subdued them, biting deep into their necks. They went silent as his teeth pierced bone.
They died, screaming, unable to defend themselves.
They were mere children, just barely old enough to reach adulthood. No wonder they were easily fearful and timid.
It continued to tear into them until they ceased their suffering, until their blood flowed freely, spurting onto the hot sunbeams. The sound of crunching bones and rupturing organs filled the street, echoing off the surrounding walls, and mingling with cries and shouts.
When finally done with its latest victim, the beast stood up. He stared blankly about him; it seemed as though he was oblivious to everything around him, oblivious to where he was. In the next, he continued.
Two men fought together. Their efforts to defend themselves against the man with a knife proved futile, as did any attempt to intervene in the ensuing battle. The crowd scattered further apart.
It was chaos.
All the while, the doctor tilted his head ever so slightly, expression unreadable beneath his mask.
His hands were folded behind his back as he watched the carnage unfold.
"Hmm…" he mused softly.
There are imperfections on his side. A miscalculation in an otherwise promising experiment. He would have to refine his process.
It was stronger than the last, but still unstable. His hand rose to his chin in thought. Perhaps a different reagent? Or an altered injection point?
Well, nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
"The reanimation is functional. However, the aggression is undesirable. Perhaps a modification to the neurological structure would yield better results. If nothing else, he could improve his motor functions to match the new model of the brain."
A desperate and terrified man turned on the masked man. "What did you do?!" he shouted.
"You—you monster! You turned him into a demon!"
The masked face turned toward the man. "Demon? No, good sir. I have merely cleansed him of the Pestilence."
The man's face twisted in anger. "You—"
He was cut off as another person screamed, the undead surging forward once more.
The streets of Vacuo had descended into pure chaos.
The Plague Doctor sighed.
"More work must be done."
You can smell all the cool spices blending with the dry desert air, and you can hear traders and locals chatting away in the background.
The marketplace is buzzing, with stalls all lined up and vendors shouting out to catch shoppers' attention, each one trying to grab you with claims of the best deals.
In the crowd, a group of Huntsmen and Huntresses stroll down the busy street. Unlike the more uptight Huntsmen from other places, the ones from Vacuo are pretty chill; they fit right in with the desert vibe rather than sticking to some strict rules. They're tough and know how to survive, shaped by the land they call home.
"Alright, what's first?" A broad-shouldered man with dark skin and short, graying hair asked, adjusting the scarf around his neck. He wore a sleeveless combat vest and a pair of weathered cargo pants, his belt lined with ammunition pouches. His name was Garret Voss, an experienced Huntsman and a respected figure in the city.
"I say we hit the food stalls first," a younger Huntress chimed in, stretching her arms with a yawn. She had a lean build and wild, sun-bleached blonde hair tied back into a messy ponytail. Her tan skin bore the marks of a life spent under the sun.
Meskal, a Huntress known as much for her sharp reflexes as for her insatiable appetite, clapped her hands together. "I swear, if I don't get something to eat soon, I'll start biting people."
A chuckle came from their third companion, a younger man with dark green eyes. Dain Rilke, a Huntsman from a family of caravan guards, smirked as he glanced at her. "Considering the number of brawls you've started, I wouldn't put that past you."
"Hey," she shot back. "That was one time."
"Three times," Garret corrected, leading the way toward a nearby stall stacked high with skewers of grilled meat. "And last time, it was over a melon."
Meskal scoffed. "That merchant was overcharging."
The three of them approached the food stand, the scent of sizzling meat and fresh bread wafting through the air. The vendor, grinned as they stepped up.
"Well, well, if it isn't Vacuo's finest," he greeted, expertly flipping skewers over an open flame. "What can I get you?"
Meskal leaned forward, eyes locked onto the meat. "All of it."
The vendor chuckled. "You got the lien for that, Huntress?"
She patted her pockets with exaggerated theatrics before shooting a hopeful glance at Garret.
The older Huntsman sighed. "You're lucky we had a good contract last month."
"See?" Meskal beamed. "I knew you liked me."
Dain shook his head. "You say that like he had a choice."
Laughter was heard over the market noise as a pair of children chased each other between stalls nearby. Musicians played in one corner of the square, providing a steady pulse to the atmosphere.
This was Vacuo, a city of contrasts, where hardship and joy existed side by side.
"I think today might be a quiet one."
Dain raised a brow. "You just jinxed us."
Meskal waved him off. "Oh, come on. What's the worst that could happen?"
A moment later, a scream split the air.
All three of them froze.
The marketplace came to a sudden halt as others noticed it too. All eyes turned to the direction of the source.
Another scream, louder, and more panicked.
And then another.
Garret's expression hardened as he turned toward the direction of the disturbance. "That came from the outer district."
"That's not a normal fight." Dain noticed and had already grabbed hold of the hilt of his blade. More screams followed.
Meskal squinted toward the street beyond. "I hate it when I'm right."
—gunfire.
The market immediately erupted into a mess as people scrambled for safety. People ran in every direction. Everything had turned to sheer panic in mere moments.
Garret took charge. "Move! We need to see what's happening!"
Without hesitation, the three Huntsmen pushed through the fleeing crowd with weapons drawn. Whatever was happening in Vacuo's outer district, it was spreading quickly.
Their boots kicked up dust as they followed the source of the chaos. The closer they got, the clearer the sounds of the screams became, accompanied by the crack of gunfire.
When they turned the corner into a wider alleyway that led to an open plaza, they skidded to a stop.
The scene before them was grisly.
A man stood in the middle of a bloodied street. His clothes were soaked in crimson, his arms and chest splattered with fresh gore. Around him, bodies lay strewn across the ground, missing chunks of flesh.
The man was hunched over one of them, face buried in the corpse's stomach. Wet, horrible squelching sounds filled the air.
Nothing more than a Monster in the Streets.
Dain's breath caught in his throat. "Is he… eating that guy?"
Meskal's face twisted in disgust. "What...the hell?!"
Garret took a slow step forward, his dominant hand resting on the hilt of his weapon. "Stay sharp. It's key since he looks kind of out of it, or deranged."
Then it lunged forward, grabbing ahold of a fallen victim. With superhuman strength, it ripped the corpse apart, revealing bone, organs, and blood. It tossed the mutilated remains aside and looked down at the ground. There was no visible sanity behind its gaze to make them uneasy, and a sickening, guttural moan rang out.
"FUCKING—!"
"H–HEY!"
The man, if he could even be called that anymore, paused mid-bite. His head twitched as he turned toward them. His pupils were dilated, his eyes wide, empty of anything resembling human consciousness. Blood dripped from his lips as he let out a low growl.
The sight of that dead stare sent an instinctual shiver down Meskal's spine.
"Sir, buddy," Garret called out. His eyes were wide. "Put your hands up and step away from the body. We don't want to hurt you."
The creature remained still for a moment... It smiled.
A grotesque, too-wide grin stretched across its face, exposing bloodstained teeth.
It snorted, and spat a thick wad of red, splattering the street with viscous fluid.
Meskal nudged Garret.
The creature took a step forward, body twitching like a broken puppet. Garret took a measured breath, deciding the hard way. "Take him down!"
Dain was the first to move, vanishing in a blur as his Semblance, Blink Step, activated. A second later, he reappeared behind the creature, drawing his curved blade and aiming for a precise strike on the tendons of its legs.
But his aim proved to be off, as he missed his target. Instead of slashing into flesh, he managed to scrape against exposed muscle, ripping through layers of skin and leaving long furrows in its wake.
The monster howled. Although stunned by the easy gruesome slice, Dain was quick on the draw once again. He drove his sword through the creature's shoulder, pinning it against the wall, which only served to aggravate the monster further.
It moved at an impulsive speed to slam into his abdomen. In one swift motion, it grabbed Dain's sword in its jaws and slammed him against a wall. Its grip tightened around his wrist and yanked the blade free from the hand harshly, nails scraping skin, causing Dain to cry out in pain.
With his other hand, he caught own his sword and swung aimlessly at his aggressor.
But before his weapon could make contact, the creature spun fast, catching Dain mid-movement and lashing out with its bare hands.
It lunged toward him, who dodged backward. Its movements were quick and erratic; it didn't seem to possess any sort of coordination.
Dain barely managed to raise his sword in time to block the attack, but the force behind it sent him skidding backward, boots grinding against the bloodstained ground.
"What the?!" Dain hissed. "That was not the strength of a civilian!"
The Huntress was already moving, followed up with her own attack. She lunged forward, her tonfa-like weapons glowing as she activated her Semblance, Shockwave Pulse. The moment she made contact, a concussive blast erupted from her strike, designed to knock the man off balance.
As her Semblance's name indicated, pulse exploded from the impact. But when it held its ground, head snapped toward Meskal, its empty, bloodshot eyes locking onto her like a predator spotting prey.
Her pulse quickened. That should have sent him flying. Even Huntsmen with trained bodies and Aura-enhanced endurance would have staggered.
Before she could even begin to process what was happening, it charged at her with a reckless abandon. There was absolutely nothing strategic or calculated about the way it moved; its approach was purely instinctual, primal, much like that of a wild animal on the hunt. She instinctively threw herself aside, narrowly avoiding the arc of its hands, which swiped through the air toward her throat. The sheer force of its swing created a sharp whistle.
Garret didn't hesitate. He rushed in from the side, bringing his fists together and activating his Earthen Grip. The ground beneath them rumbled as stone and sand coiled around his arms, capable of reinforcing his strikes. He delivered a powerful punch to the creature's ribs, an impact that the sound of shattered bones reached everyone's ears.
It turned and locked eyes with him.
Garret's stomach turned.
The creature roared and lunged forward, mouth open wide—
—and bit down on Garret's forearm.
Hard.
"AH—!" Garret gritted his teeth as he yanked his arm away, his Aura absorbing the worst of the damage meant to tear flesh from bone.
Aura flickered when the deep and throbbing pain shot through him like a shockwave. The jaw strength was unreal. If it weren't for his Aura, it would've torn straight through his flesh.
He drove his fist into its face, breaking its grip and knocking it back as it staggered, showing no sign of pain.
Meskal and Dain staggered back.
Dain shouted. "Did that bastard just bite you?!"
Garret flexed his fingers as he winced. "Yeah. And it hurt."
Meskal's expression twisted with revulsion. "Okay, screw being gentle. Let's just knock him out!"
Dain nodded. "Agreed."
Meskal went high, vaulting over the creature and slamming a punch into the back of its head. Dain came in from the side, his Semblance flaring again as he used Blink Step to flash behind it and swung his curved blade in a hamstringing strike to disable rather than kill.
TEAR
The blade cut deep into its leg, slicing through flesh and muscle. The creature buckled and it kept moving forward, unfazed, dragging its injured leg behind it as though it didn't feel pain.
Its movements were jerky, yet somehow it seemed so effortless to move in spite of it.
It reached out for Dain without missing a beat. It wrapped its wet hands around his leg with frightening speed, tugging it upward in an attempt to pull him off balance.
Dain stumbled backward and tried to shake off its grasp. "Damn it, get off me!" he roared. "Let go!"
Growling, the monster pulled harder. Its teeth bared, and he raised the blade over its head. Aura flickered on his leg when the grabbing strength rapidly increased. He's sure if it continues, his leg would—
He froze as he stared, transfixed, at the creature as it dragged his limb in front of itself, its eyes wild and crazed.
And then it opened its mouth...
"No!!"
The vision of the thing ripping out his leg, severing tendons and ligaments with ease, entered his mind.
His eyes widened in horror as he felt the blood drain from his face. All his training, all his experience... it couldn't have been more futile.
His Semblance immediately activated. Dust kicked as he teleported beside his teammates.
A horrifying realization slowly registered over them.
No longer was this an opponent in the conventional sense.
Enemies like a bandit, or a Grimm, or a Huntsman, no matter how dangerous, had patterns, intent behind their movements.
This thing had none.
No hesitation. No self-preservation. No sign of intelligence.
Garret followed up with a reinforced punch, stone-coated fists striking like a sledgehammer.
The combined impact was enough.
It crashed to the ground in a heap, twitching and convulsing violently.
But even now, it still wasn't dead.
Its fingers clawed at the blood-soaked sand, body writhing as it tried to rise again. It let out a snarl, and before it could recover, Garret grabbed it by the neck and slammed it against the nearest wall.
Meskal and Dain wasted no time, pinning its limbs while Garret applied all of his strength to keep it immobilized.
The creature struggled violently, snapping its teeth at them. It lashed out with claws and tried kicking wildly against them. Dain grits his teeth, struggling to hold onto its torso. Sweat poured from his brow.
They lost track of time in those brief few minutes. Garret kept a tight hold around its neck while Dain and Meskal tried desperately to keep its arms still.
Garret simply kept it pinned there, squeezing tighter and tighter with every straining inch.
Finally, it went silent. There was no response from it.
All three Huntsmen stood there, panting, as they processed what just happened.
The restrained man—no, the thing... continued to twitch violently against the wall like a puppet with frayed strings.
Garret, the most experienced of the three, was the first to break the silence. His breath was labored. "What... the hell... was that?"
Meskal turned away, doubling over as her stomach rebelled against the horror she had just witnessed. She barely staggers to the side before vomiting onto the bloodstained sand. Their other member wasn't faring much better, his normally sharp expression pale with shock.
Dain muttered something, running a shaky hand through his hair. His voice was uneven, mind trying to make sense of what they had just fought. "I mean, people get crazy sometimes, but that guy fought like he wasn't even..."
He continued mumbling at the sidelines.
Garret nodded grimly, flexing his bitten arm. He'd never seen someone take a hit like that and keep going. He didn't even flinch.
Meskal wiped her mouth. "And he—he bit you. Who fights like that?"
Their conversation was cut short by an unfamiliar voice.
"Ah. There you are, my wayward patient."
All three Huntsmen snapped to attention, immediately drawing their guards as they turned toward the voice's source.
A figure emerged from the swirling dust and shadowed alleyway, moving slowly. The moment they laid eyes on him, a cold sensation gripped their chests.
The man was tall, dressed in a flowing black robe that billowed faintly with each movement. A strange, birdlike mask obscured his face, its long, curved beak giving him the visage of a carrion bird. He was wearing environmentally unsuited white gloves.
Even from a distance, there was something deeply wrong about his presence. Their instincts said that much.
They all tensed.
"Who the hell—?" Meskal began.
"That man," the masked figure gestured toward the restrained corpse, "was in dire need of my treatment. It is most fortunate that I was here to tend to him before the Pestilence could fully consume him. Truly my mistake, I was too presumptuous to assume him cured. Although, I believe I did not need to and let my antidote do the work of cleansing the remnants behind."
He muttered the last part quietly.
The three Huntsmen exchanged confused glances.
"Pestilence?" Dain echoed, his expression darkening. "What the hell are you talking about?"
The masked man let out an almost melancholic sigh. "It is a most tragic affliction. I have dedicated my existence to eradicating its corruption wherever it takes root. This man, like so many others, was suffering. I cured him."
A cold shiver ran down Garret's spine.
Alarm bells suddenly ring in his mind.
Meskal's face twisted in a mixture of confusion and suspicion. "You—cured him? We just watched him tear through half a dozen people like a rabid animal! He tried to kill us!"
The stranger tilted his head slightly, Garret had a feeling they were examined like misinformed children. "Ah. Yes. My methods are not always understood by those untrained in the medical arts. You see, revival is a complex procedure, requiring many refinements. There are still imperfections in my process that I must continue to improve upon."
"...revival?"
The word sank in their mind like a heavy rock.
He inclined his head. "Yes. I returned him to the land of the living. He was dead, you see. The Pestilence had taken him. But I, as a doctor, performed the necessary procedure to restore him."
The Huntsmen's blood ran cold.
The implications of what he was saying, what he was claiming, were so utterly impossible that their minds refused to process it.
He spoke of raising the dead with such confidence, such absolute conviction, that it was almost like if the act itself were as simple as stitching a wound.
Dain's head was probably still spinning from everything, he forced out a dry laugh. "You expect us to believe that? That you brought someone back from the dead?"
He didn't hesitate to answer that. He simply nodded. "Of course. It is my duty, after all."
There was no second thought, no doubt in his voice.
However, despite their disbelief, they could not ignore the evidence before them. The man they had just fought should not have been alive; should not have moved, should not have fought like that. But he did.
And now, this man was taking credit for it.
"I—no. This doesn't make sense. Maybe he's some kind of Dust-wielding rogue? Or—maybe his Semblance lets him do this?!" Dain turned to his friends, eyes wide.
Meskal argued. "Raising the dead? No Semblance should be able to do that. That's not it works."
Yes. True. There was not even a record of something like that in the entire history the first Semblance came to be.
"Maybe he's using some weird kind of science, or a new type of Dust?" Dain countered. Garret could see him still struggling to rationalize the insanity unfolding before them.
He remained silent, staring hard at the stranger.
He didn't like this.
There was something uncanny about the way this man spoke. The very presence sent a wave of unease crawling through his skin.
The self-proclaimed doctor took a slow step forward. "I sense your skepticism, but I assure you, my work is for the betterment of all. The Pestilence lurks in places unseen. It is my solemn duty to cleanse it, to ensure humanity's survival."
His gloved hand rose slightly, gesturing in benevolence.
"You need not fear me, Hunters. I am merely a physician tending to the ill. Surely you can understand that much?"
That was what unsettled Garret the most.
It wasn't the grotesque scene, the reanimated corpse, or even the massacre that had unfolded before them. It was the fact that this man genuinely believed he had done something good.
Garret had met his share of killers. Bandits, mercenaries, extremists, people who killed out of anger, desperation, or greed.
This man wasn't deluded in the way a madman was. He wasn't some bloodthirsty monster reveling in chaos. There was no sadistic pleasure in his voice, no sign of hesitation or deceit.
He truly, honestly, thought he was helping.
And that was disturbing. Garret ran through every possible explanation in his mind.
Rehashing the words of his comrades again; was this a Dust experiment gone wrong? A new type of Semblance they had never seen before? Maybe some freakish mutation?
But no—none of that made sense. Dust couldn't do this. Semblances were unique to the individual, sure, but they were still governed by some basic rules. And as far as he knew, no Semblance in recorded history had ever done anything like this.
Then there was the way the man spoke.
Garret had noticed the formal, almost antiquated way he phrased things, words like "fortunate," "procedure," "the Pestilence." The man had a strong accent, too, some kind of old, medieval-sounding dialect that didn't belong to any modern kingdom.
And then there was his attire.
Even in a place like Vacuo, where improvised clothing was the norm, this man's robes stood out with the heavy black fabric, the long sleeves, the leather gloves, it was like something straight out of a history book. And that long, curved beak, the emotionless glass eyes made him look like some kind of specter from another age.
Garret exhaled sharply. No matter how he looked at it, this man—this thing—didn't belong.
So the question was: what was his goal?
He had brought that corpse back to life, but to what end? He had called it a cure, but the result was a rampaging monster. And the way he spoke, the way he acted, it was as if he truly didn't see the difference.
That was what made Garret's stomach turn.
This wasn't some twisted experiment.
This was a belief.
A doctrine.
A conviction so deeply rooted in this man's mind that no amount of reasoning would ever shake it.
Garret swallowed hard.
If this man thought the "Pestilence" was some kind of sickness… and if he thought his methods were a cure…
Then that meant he would never stop.
Garret's fingers curled into a fist.
How many more people does he intend to "cure"?
His jaw tightened, and finally, after everything he had processed, he asked the one question that burned in his mind:
"Then tell me, Doctor—" his voice was calm, but sharp as steel.
"What exactly do you consider a disease?"
A long silence followed.
The Doctor hardly hesitated before answering. His posture remained poised, the question was of little consequence to him.
"Ah, a most excellent inquiry, monsieur. You see, disease is not merely the affliction of the flesh, but the corruption of the very essence of life. It is an ailment of the mind, the body, and the soul. The Pestilence… ah, it is a most insidious blight, one that lingers unseen until it is too late."
Garret furrowed his brow. That was a pretty broad definition. "Most people would say disease is something you can identify; a virus, bacteria, genetic disorder, Dust poisoning, something tangible."
The doctor shook his head. "Non, monsieur. You are thinking in mere physical terms. Tell me, if a man suffers from madness, from despair, from cruelty, are those not diseases of the mind? Do they not spread, infecting others as surely as any plague? The Pestilence does not solely take the form of fevers and sores, it is something far greater, and far more deadly."
Garret narrowed his eyes. "You're talking like it's some kind of universal disease."
"Because it is," The Doctor affirmed, folding his hands behind his back. "It is a malady more insidious than any fever or plague, for it does not merely claim lives, it rots civilization from within."
Garret scoffed. "That's a lot of fancy words, Doc, but you still haven't given a straight answer. What exactly do you consider diseased?"
The Doctor tilted his head again. "I find that the answer often eludes those who suffer from it the most."
That sent a chill up Garret's spine again. "And you, what, think you can cure it?"
"Indeed. It is my duty, my purpose, to rid the world of the Pestilence. I have spent years perfecting my craft, studying the affliction, and developing the necessary procedures to free humanity from its grip. In doing so, I saved them."
"And what exactly are those 'procedures'?" Garret challenged.
The Doctor nodded toward the restrained, twitching husk of his latest "cured" subject. "I have refined my techniques to great success."
Garret felt his stomach churn. "That's not a cure. That's a corpse that won't stay down."
"On the contrary," the Doctor countered smoothly. "He is no longer burdened by the weaknesses of his former self. The Pestilence no longer holds dominion over him."
"He's a mindless husk," Garret snapped. "You turned a sick man into a monster!"
The Doctor sighed like Garret was a stubborn patient refusing treatment. "A regrettable imperfection in my methods, I admit. But progress demands sacrifice. Science is never stagnant as it evolves, as must we all."
Dain finally cut in, voice disgusted. "That's not science. You're playing god!"
"I am fulfilling my duty, if you truly understood the depths of the scourge we face, you would not question my methods." he corrected. "Where others fear to act, I persist. Disease must be eradicated. It is not a question of morality but necessity. Do you condemn a surgeon who amputates a rotting limb to save the patient? Do you blame the physician who administers poison to eradicate a parasite?"
"You're not talking about limbs or parasites! You're talking about people!"
He inclined his head. "What are people, if not hosts for afflictions? Their forms are temporary, their ailments ever-changing. If one must be remade, purified, to ensure they do not succumb to the Pestilence, then it is a most merciful fate."
Meskal frowned. "Alright, Doc. You keep talking about this Pestilence like it's some kind of all-encompassing evil, but we've never heard of it. If it's such a big deal, why isn't every doctor in Remnant talking about it?"
"It is a great affliction upon all living things. A slow, creeping malady that festers within the body, corrupts the mind, and ultimately rots the soul. Left unchecked, it spreads, unseen, insidious, until it consumes its host entirely."
"You're speaking in riddles. We asked for a definition, not a sermon!"
He exhaled through his mask. "The tragedy of ignorance. It is often those who are already afflicted that fail to see the signs."
Garret gritted his teeth. "You keep saying that. So tell me, how do you determine who's 'infected'?"
The response was calm, but chilling. "It is not always immediately visible. Some display physical symptoms, weakness, deformity, and degeneration. Others suffer in ways less apparent, corruption of the mind, of the spirit. The Pestilence is a creeping thing, subtle yet all-consuming. But rest assured, I am adept at recognizing its mark."
Dain shifted uncomfortably. "And what happens when you do?"
The Doctor inclined his head. "I offer them salvation."
Garret clenched his jaw. "By killing them?"
"By curing them."
For a moment, speechlessness settled between them.
There it is again; they can't decide which was more terrifying, the conviction in the Doctor's voice or the implication that he believed every word.
Then Meskal, still visibly disturbed, tried to steer the conversation toward logic. "Even if we ignore how insane that sounds, you're still violating every known medical code in existence. Even experimental treatments have laws. You don't just get to—"
"The laws of man are irrelevant in the face of necessity." The Doctor interrupted. "Inaction is the greater crime."
Garret glared. "So you're saying the ends justify the means?"
The Doctor straightened slightly. "I am saying that if a cure is within reach, we must not hesitate."
Meskal folded her arms. "And you're the only one who gets to decide who's infected?"
The Doctor gave a nod. "Yes."
Dain exhaled sharply. "Yeah. That's a problem."
Garret's mind was reeling. Forget anything about misguided doctor. This was a fanatic, an unshakable force of will that truly believed his work was righteous.
And that made him more dangerous than any Grimm. Garret tightened his stance, lowering his weapon slightly, but ready.
Garret exchanged looks with his comrades. The conversation reached its conclusion. They had heard enough.
"Alright, Doctor," he said. "I don't know what kind of twisted medicine you think you're practicing, but you're coming with us."
He tilts his head. "Arrest? How peculiar. You misunderstand. I am not some common criminal. I am a physician. My work is necessary."
Dain unsheathed his curved sword lined with Dust channels. "Your 'work' got people killed, and that means you answer to us."
The doctor sighed. "A regrettable misunderstanding, but I will not be detained. My mission is far from over."
Garret didn't wait for further argument. "Take him."
In an instant, the three Huntsmen moved, weapons ready.
Dain lunged forward, sword flashing, and the doctor sidestepped, a hand shot out toward Meskal, who dodged the swipe.
Though he lacked a warrior's stance, his movements were precise. Garret swung his greatsword, just as his opponent ducked at the last second, flowing beneath the strike like a shadow. Despite his calm demeanor, he was matching Huntsman-level reflexes, something none of them had anticipated.
"Fascinating," he murmured, his voice as composed as ever. "Such agility..."
Dain pivoted, aiming to land a solid strike, but he twisted, his gloved hand grazing the Huntsman's exposed forearm.
A sharp, unnatural cold surged through Dain's arm, freezing his muscles in place. He gasped, stumbling back, eyes widening as he felt something foreign pressing against his very being.
But then, just as suddenly as it came, the sensation stopped. His Aura flared, instinctively rejecting whatever had touched him.
The Doctor froze in place.
He stared at Dain, utterly still.
"Ah… how intriguing."
Garret immediately took advantage of the moment, slashing at his side. The doctor twisted away at the last second, narrowly avoiding the blade. He swiftly reached into his black satchel, fingers closing around something small.
"I believe I require further study," he murmured to himself. "Your kind of this world is unlike any I have encountered… Truly remarkable."
Then, in a single smooth motion, he pulled out a small vial and smashed it against the ground.
A thick black smoke exploded outward, swallowing the street in an instant. The Huntsmen coughed as their eyes sting, vision obscured.
By the time the air cleared, the Doctor was gone.
Garret growled in frustration. "Damn it. We lost him."
They can't even catch up to him. The city's maze-like structure meant that he could have taken any number of paths, slipping into the alleys, vanishing into the sand-swept night.
"We need to find him before he kills anyone else." Dain said. He shook his arm to shake off a discomfort.
Garret forced himself to think. Charging off blindly wasn't going to work.
"No. We don't have enough information. We need to handle this properly."
Garret turned to Meskal. "First, we report this to the authorities. The higher-ups at Shade need to know there's some kind of… Dust-wielding rogue—or whatever the hell he is—running around raising the dead, as unimaginable as that sounds."
Shade Academy wasn't just Vacuo's training ground for Huntsmen; it was also the Kingdom's military headquarters. If anyone could organize a large-scale response, it would be them.
Meskal nodded. "I'll send the report immediately." She reached for her Scroll, tapping into the city's limited but functional network.
Garret looked around at the bloodied streets. Bodies lay scattered, some half-mutilated, others barely recognizable. If the general populace saw this, chaos would break loose.
"Dain, get some guards. We need to lock this place down before word spreads. The last thing we need is a full-blown riot."
Vacuo's people were tough, but they had no tolerance for Huntsmen failing to protect them. If they realized the city's protectors had let a mass murderer slip through their fingers, there'd be hell to pay.
Dain swore under his breath but nodded. "On it." He rushed off toward the nearest guard post.
Garret turned back to Meskal. "We also need backup. That man wasn't just some crazed Dust-user, he reacted to us like a seasoned Huntsman."
They needed more firepower. And more brains. Maybe someone at Shade had seen something like this before.
"Tell them we need specialists," Garret instructed. "This isn't a simple criminal case. We're dealing with something else entirely."
Meskal relayed the message. When Dain returned with a handful of guards to secure the area, Garret took one last look at the blood-streaked streets.
The Plague Doctor's words echoed in his mind.
"Disease must be eradicated. It is not a question of morality but necessity. Do you condemn a surgeon who amputates a rotting limb to save the patient? Do you blame the physician who administers poison to eradicate a parasite?"
Garret's hands clenched into fists. That man… whatever he was… he wasn't done yet.
...and the hell's the Pestilence?