Chapter Sixty-Five: Brooke

While Yadis was busily tending to the affairs of his entire domain, far to the north, chaos was breaking out.

"The king has fainted again!" Urgent voices echoed before the palace, rippling through the gathered crowd.

Those waiting nearby turned pale with alarm at the cry. "Call for the High Priest, quickly!"

"The High Priest is already inside!" came a tense reply.

Within the royal palace, two men, splendidly dressed, stood restlessly. Their attire was sumptuous and their bearing noble; behind each stood a large retinue of guards, forming two opposing camps.

After a while, a gaunt old man in ceremonial robes emerged from within. At the sight of him, both men hurried forward and spoke in unison, "High Priest Gechal, how is our father?"

Noticing their mirrored actions, the elder of the two princes gave a faint, disdainful snort, while the younger maintained a calm smile.

"First Prince, Second Prince, His Majesty's condition is grave," High Priest Gechal said, his face drawn. "If there is no improvement, his life may end within a few days..."

At this news, whatever they truly felt, both princes' faces grew somber, tinged with sorrow.

"Is there truly nothing more to be done?" the Second Prince asked the High Priest.

"I am powerless," Gechal replied, shaking his head with a hint of helplessness.

A heavy silence fell over the hall. Whether by illusion or not, since the High Priest spoke those words, the atmosphere between the two princes had grown increasingly strained.

Around them, some onlookers nervously eyed the guards. Several had already gripped the weapons at their sides, and the faint aura of battle energy flickered in the air.

It seemed as though, at a single command, the palace could be transformed into a battlefield.

Witnessing this, some onlookers could only smile bitterly.

In Brook, the rivalry between the two princes was common knowledge. While the king lived, both sides had maintained restraint, but with the king on the verge of death, the question of succession could easily drive them to draw swords and fight openly.

After all, each prince commanded his own supporters; should open conflict break out, the consequences would be catastrophic. In comparison, if one prince could eliminate the other here and now, it would save much trouble.

With this in mind, many glanced toward High Priest Gechal, hoping he would intervene.

As the official who presided over the worship of the Ancestral God in Brook, the High Priest was not only that deity's representative, but also a powerful figure under the god's protection. Were he to speak, neither prince would dare defy him.

Yet, meeting their gazes, Gechal remained motionless, utterly ignoring the rising tension between the princes.

In this fraught atmosphere, a new voice suddenly broke the silence. "Perhaps there is still another way, Your Highnesses."

"Hmm? Sir Kercus, do you have a suggestion?" Gechal asked, looking at the young man who had spoken.

At the High Priest's words, both princes exchanged glances and turned to scrutinize Kercus.

Unfazed, Kercus smiled slightly. "I have heard that there are priests in our city who follow the path of nature."

"They commune with the natural world, mastering its powers, and are not only the finest beast tamers but also the greatest healers."

He paused, meeting the princes' eyes. "Since all other means have failed, why not let these priests try?"

"Very well—let us summon them," the Second Prince said, glancing at his brother.

The First Prince, after a moment's thought and a look at the High Priest and the other nobles, nodded as well.

Thus, with the orders given, an elderly priest was soon brought to the palace.

Though old of face, the priest's frame was sturdy and hale. A gentle aura of natural power seemed to ripple from him, ever attuned to his surroundings. He wore a simple, tattered robe devoid of rank or insignia, his expression calm though his brow was furrowed as he gazed upon the palace.

To his senses, a powerful, blood-stained, evil presence slumbered over the royal residence.

"A heretical god..." He could not help but feel a surge of revulsion.

"Are you Priest Branda?" a voice asked nearby.

A knight in leather armor approached, frowning at the priest's appearance.

Branda nodded. "I am."

"Come with me." The knight, satisfied, turned without another glance.

As they walked, hostile whispers drifted on the air.

"So this is the priest meant to heal His Majesty? Looks like a common beggar to me."

"Filthy and covered in dust—was he dragged straight from the fields?"

Branda's expression did not change. He followed the knight in silence.

"Is this the priest you chose?" the First Prince asked Kercus, frowning at Branda’s ragged cloak.

Kercus answered firmly, "Yes. Priest Branda is, to my knowledge, the best healer in all of Brook."

"Let him try, then," the prince said, still skeptical but unwilling to dismiss even the smallest hope.

"But priest," he added, his voice cruel and cold, "if you cannot heal the king... you will not be leaving here."

Branda met the threat with unchanging calm, silently gazing at the prince. He cast a brief look at Kercus, giving a barely perceptible nod, then followed the others inside.

As Branda entered, the oppressive, evil aura pressed in on him more keenly than ever. He bowed his head, sensing deeply.

When at last he stood by the king’s bedside, surprise flickered across his face.

The old man before him was barely clinging to life, his vitality compressed to its final, fading spark—death was imminent.

Branda bowed his head in silent prayer, then summoned a gentle light—a Greater Healing.

The guards nearby stared in astonishment as the healing glow suffused the king. When its radiance faded, the king’s pallor had vanished, his face regaining a healthy flush, as though restored.

Yet Branda shook his head in secret.

In ordinary cases, a Greater Healing could cure any ailment, even restore limbs or snatch a soul from the brink of death. But the king’s life force was utterly spent. Though flesh could be healed, the vitality consumed by years of suffering could not be returned.

After a moment's hesitation, Branda drew something from his robes.

It was a small, withered leaf—unremarkable at first glance, yet exuding a faint, divine essence that had not entirely faded, a lingering breath of life.

This was a leaf shed by Yadis—not from his true form, but from a sapling grown from the flesh of the demon god. While Yadis slept, both his body and this offspring tree continued to grow and transform, shedding underdeveloped leaves every few years, which the priests collected.

Even these imperfect leaves held a trace of divine power and were exceedingly precious.

Now, at Branda’s urging, the leaf trembled in his hands, releasing a powerful energy that descended upon the king.

At once, the king’s rigid body stirred; his fingers twitched as if on the verge of awakening.