Chapter 463: A Few Unfortunate Deer

The dark forest beyond the orpahanage perimeter was dead quiet, with only the soft rustling of the night wind moving through the pine trees. Moonlight filtered between the branches overhead, spilling pale patches of light across the damp forest as Philia and Valen made their way deeper into the woods. They had waited until well past midnight, making sure everyone inside the orphanage was fast asleep before slipping out through the perimeter, just as they had on the previous nights.

A few yards ahead, tucked behind a thick tangle of thorny brush, the soft, panicked rustle of dry leaves broke the silence.

Valen held up a hand, stopping in his tracks. "Over here," he murmured, his voice barely a breath. "The traps caught three of them."

They approached the small clearing cautiously. Three wild forest deer were caught in the traps, thick ropes wrapped tightly around their hind legs as they thrashed against the dirt, their eyes wide with terror.

Philia knelt beside the first deer, his gloved fingers reaching out to gently touch the animal’s shivering neck. "I’m sorry," he whispered softly, his voice low and genuinely solemn. "This won’t take long."

Valen stepped up beside him, kneeling in the damp moss. He reached out with two hands, firmly gripping the deer’s snout and jaw, locking its head in place so it couldn’t jerk away. "Ready?"

Philia pulled a small glass vial from the inner pocket of his heavy coat. The liquid inside was thick and nearly black, its surface catching what little moonlight reached them. He uncorked the stopper with his thumb, leaned over the immobilized animal, and tipped the dark blood straight into the deer’s open mouth.

Valen held the jaw shut for a few tight seconds, forcing the creature to swallow.

The moment Valen released his grip, the deer violently convulsed. A sharp, wet choking sound ripped from its throat, and its entire frame shuddered uncontrollably against the dirt. Within seconds, thick, dark crimson blood burst from its mouth, pouring over the grass. Its eyes rolled back, its legs gave one final, desperate twitch, and then it went entirely still.

Philia watched the lifeless body. "Instant," he muttered, reaching down to wipe a drop of stray black blood from the mouth of the glass vial.

"That was the concentrated batch from the heart," Valen noted coldly, pulling out a second vial filled with a slightly lighter, diluted crimson mixture. "Let’s try the second one."

They moved down the line to the second deer. Valen pinned the animal down while Philia carefully poured the contents of the second vial past its teeth.

This time, the reaction was completely different. The deer swallowed, coughed twice, and then lay panting heavily on its side. Its chest heaved, dark veins bulging along its neck, but it didn’t die immediately. It struggled against the ropes, its dark eyes glazed over with a cloudy, reddish film.

"It’s taking longer," Philia observed, watching the second deer closely as five minutes ticked by in painful silence. "The blood is diluted, but the corruption is still spreading."

They moved to the third trap, where a large buck was thrashing violently against the restraints. Philia pulled out a third vial, the lightest batch, thinned down with fresh spring water.

Valen held the buck’s head back, and Philia forced the liquid down its throat.

When Valen cut the rope around the buck’s legs with his hunting knife, the creature scrambled frantically to its feet. It took three wobbly steps forward, its rear legs dragging slightly in the dirt, before it managed to stumble off into the treeline, disappearing into the dark woods.

"It can still walk," Philia murmured, watching the dark brush where the buck had vanished.

"Not for long," Valen said softly, stepping up beside him. "From our previous tests, an animal exposed to that level of dilution will collapse within three to four hours. The poison slowly rots the internal organs while they move, driving them mad before their lungs give out by morning."

Philia looked down at the empty glass vials resting in his palm. "So the blood taken directly from the heart is by far the most powerful. A single drop in a well could poison instantly within minutes, while diluted one causes the slow, aggressive corruption we’ve been seeing in the wild beasts."

"Indeed," Valen agreed, his eyes fixed on the bloody snout of the first dead deer. "We have our confirmation. The blood itself is the primary catalyst."

"Let’s clean this up before dawn," Philia said quietly.

Valen didn’t waste any time. He spent the next twenty minutes tracking the third deer through the woods until he finally found it near a small stream. It was still alive, though barely steady on its feet. Knowing it would eventually succumb to the poison, Valen caught up with it and brought it back to the clearing. He dragged the struggling animal over to the pit and pushed it in alongside the other two deer.

Valen gathered dry pine branches, fallen limbs, and thick bark, piling the wood high over the dead animals. He pulled a small flint and steel from his belt, striking a violent spark against a piece of tinder.

With a soft, hungry whoosh, the dry wood caught fire. Bright orange flames leapt into the night sky, crackling loudly as the heat began to consume the pile. Thick, dark smoke billowed upward into the canopy, carrying the sharp, iron smell of burning blood into the cold air.

Valen stepped back, wiping his mud-stained hands on his trousers, but Philia remained standing right at the edge of the pit.

The roaring orange glow reflected brightly in Philia’s eyes. He stared blankly into the heart of the blaze, watching the wood pop and crack as sparks drifted upward into the midnight sky.

As the heat washed over his face, Philia’s mind drifted far away from the woods. For a moment, the trees around him disappeared, replaced by the small house he had grown up in.

The heat. The fire.

He could still remember how quickly it had spread, crawling across the walls and swallowing everything in its path. The furniture, the curtains, the wooden floor, every familiar corner of the home where he had once felt safe. The air had been thick with smoke, his eyes burning as he stumbled through the chaos, searching for the voices of the people he loved.

But there had been no one left to save.

Nothing had been spared, not even the people inside.

His parents.

Philia’s fingers slowly curled at his sides. His eyes remained fixed on the flames before him, but he was no longer seeing the fire in the clearing. He was seeing that night again, the same orange glow, the same unbearable heat, the same helplessness.