Jinn BLADE
Chapter 96 | Feather

Chapter 96: Chapter 96 | Feather

*crunch... *crunch... *crunch...

The sound of soldiers marching through snow echoed softly across the cold white fields, muffled by the heavy blizzard swirling above them.

Their boots crunched steadily beneath them as they moved through drifts that reached up to their knees.

Some of them took to shoveling, clearing paths and digging out sections of the camp so the rising snow wouldn’t bury their supplies or smother the tents.

Others stood in clusters, speaking in low voices to pass the time, their breath turning to fog in the icy air.

There weren’t many of them—no more than a small platoon.

Certainly not enough to be called an army.

But what they lacked in numbers, they made up for in strength.

Every soldier in the camp wore the mark of a seasoned warrior.

These were no common infantrymen from the Zerafhon Empire’s endless ranks.

These were elite, high-ranking soldiers, veterans of brutal wars, chosen not for obedience but for skill and experience.

A few of them paused and turned their heads when they noticed movement ahead—subtle, shadowy figures approaching through the thick curtain of snow.

"Who goes there?!" shouted one of the guards, stepping forward and raising his weapon.

The energy rifle in his hands let out a soft whir as it charged, a dull glow spreading along its barrel.

"Calm down," came a familiar voice from within the snowstorm.

A moment later, three figures emerged from the blizzard, walking side by side.

"We’ve finished the quota," said Zendrell, his voice sharp and unwavering.

"Prepare to move camp."

The soldier holding the rifle immediately straightened. He dropped the weapon to his side and gave a crisp salute.

"At once, Captain!"

Zendrell didn’t stop walking.

His boots sank deep into the snow as he made his way past the other soldiers and toward the largest tent at the center of the camp.

Jirael and Vendrael followed close behind, each of them bearing the marks of battle—scorched cloaks, torn sleeves, and streaks of dried blood on their arms and armor.

Inside the tent, the air was slightly warmer, though still far from comfortable.

Lanterns glowed dimly from the corners, their light flickering against the canvas walls.

An aged man sat at a low table in the center, several scrolls and thick bound books spread before him.

His eyes were narrowed in thought as he sifted through ancient parchment and hand-drawn maps.

"Welcome back, Captain Zendrell," said the man, glancing up as they entered.

His voice was calm but carried the weight of someone used to giving orders.

"Have you cleared the path?"

"Aye," Zendrell replied, pulling off his gloves and brushing snow from his shoulders.

"Twenty dead dragons. We shouldn’t be interrupted during the ritual."

The old man nodded slowly.

His name was Berkolex—a scholar of Zeraf, and one of the few people in the Empire trusted with the knowledge of ancient rites and forbidden lore.

"Mhm. Good work," Berkolex said as he closed a heavy book.

"You and your squad should rest for now. We’ll move once the blizzard settles."

"Finally," Vendrael groaned, stretching his arms overhead.

"I’m starving. I’ll go grab something to eat. See you all later."

Zendrell scoffed under his breath, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

"Wait up. I could use a bite myself."

The two of them stepped back out into the snow, letting the tent flap fall shut behind them.

Jirael remained behind, standing in silence near the edge of the tent. Her gaze drifted to the old scholar, who had already turned back to his notes.

After a moment, her voice broke the quiet.

"How is he?" she asked, her tone soft but tight with concern.

Berkolex looked up.

The flickering light of the lanterns danced across his lined face, casting deep shadows under his tired eyes. He sighed and reached beneath the table, pulling out a rolled parchment.

Slowly, he spread it across the surface.

"It seems Garian..." he began, pausing as he studied the text written in thick black ink, "has acquired a terrible sickness."

Jirael’s breath caught in her throat.

"W-What? But you said it wasn’t that serious."

"I hadn’t finished examining him then," Berkolex replied.

"Now I have. And I am confident of what it is. Your partner has been infected with what we feared most."

He looked up at her, his expression grim.

"A seed has been planted within him. The seed of darkness."

Jirael stared at him, stunned.

Her hand instinctively went to her pocket, where the amulet she had hidden pulsed faintly against her palm.

"Are you sure?" she asked, trying to steady her voice.

"Garian had no contact with anything... corrupt. Why would he?"

Berkolex’s gaze narrowed.

"Then it was forced upon him. The seed doesn’t appear on its own. It must be passed on—through a cursed item, a dark creature, or a forbidden rite."

He turned back to the parchment and traced a finger across a line of faded script.

"When the seed takes root, the signs follow quickly. Eyes, nose, mouth, ears—they bleed black. The victim suffers intense pain. And then... they turn."

"Turn into what?" Jirael asked, her voice almost a whisper.

"A beast," Berkolex said coldly.

"One driven by madness, using its own eidra to sustain itself. It becomes something no longer human—something dangerous."

He rose to his feet, folding his hands behind his back.

"We must kill him before that happens. If we wait too long, he’ll become something even your strongest warriors can’t contain."

"NO!" Jirael cried, stepping back.

Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.

"Not yet. Please... just wait. Let me speak to him. Let me see him one last time. We finish the ritual first—after that, do what you must. But not now."

Berkolex studied her carefully.

Her voice shook, her hands trembled, but her eyes were full of fierce resolve.

He had known her and Garian since they were students, bright minds filled with promise.

He had watched them grow, had seen their bond strengthen over the years. She wasn’t just pleading for time—she was fighting for someone she truly loved.

"...Very well," he said quietly.

He walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder, offering a moment of comfort.

"Garian was a brilliant student. It is a tragedy, what’s become of him. The empire will remember him—and when he falls, we will avenge him."

With those words, he turned and stepped out of the tent, the flap closing behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Jirael’s legs gave out.

*Thud!

She dropped to her knees, her shoulders shaking as she wept silently.

The tears fell freely now, each one a mark of the helplessness she had tried so hard to hide.

The man she loved—the one who had stood beside her through every battle, every hardship—was slipping away, cursed by something far beyond their reach.

There was no cure.

No healing.

Garian could no longer be saved.

But... there was another way.

Her hand tightened around the amulet hidden in her pocket. The warmth of it spread through her fingers, unnatural and dark.

She felt it pulsing again, like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to her.

Jirael slowly rose to her feet.

Her tears had dried, but her eyes still burned—not with sadness now, but determination.

"Don’t worry, my love..." she whispered, staring out through the tent’s opening.

"I will save you... from your fate."

She pulled her cloak tighter and stepped out into the cold.

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