Beneath the scorching sun, across the vast deserts of Busalet, a desolate expanse stretched endlessly in every direction. Within that barren land, several groups slowly made their way forward—not migrating herds of desert creatures, but lines of refugees fleeing for their lives.
Under the blazing heat and amidst windblown sand, countless ragged refugee caravans trudged across the wilderness. Clad in torn robes, they walked with heavy steps, struggling toward the same distant goal. Every person looked exhausted and in pain. Some groups even dragged those too weak to move, lying motionless on wooden planks tied with rope. Though weary to the point of collapse, they continued onward with grim determination, united in purpose.
These refugees came from all corners of Busalet, drawn by a widely spread rumor toward what they believed was their only hope of salvation: the oasis of Bastis. These people, on the brink of survival, clung to the belief that the oasis held their savior.
By now, the church mission’s encampment near the Bastis oasis had expanded many times over. Dense clusters of tents sprawled outward from the grassy banks and even into the surrounding desert. With the recent surge in refugee arrivals, the camp had exceeded all its limits. The original supply of tents had long since run out. Makeshift shelters, cobbled together from local materials, were nearly exhausted too. Newly arriving refugees had no choice but to sleep on straw mats laid directly on the ground.
Across the massive, seemingly endless camp, refugees could be seen lying or writhing in pain. Wails and moans filled the air. Guards in protective gear patrolled to maintain basic order, while Healing Prayer Sisters treated the most critically ill. Though overwhelmed by the numbers, the camp still clung to a fragile sense of structure—for now. But with more and more refugees arriving, it was unclear how much longer order could be sustained.
“Thank you… Sister Vania…”
“Truly, thank you!”
“Bless you for your generosity… Sister Vania…”
At one food distribution point, a group of refugees had gathered to receive relief rations. When they spotted the young girl in a white nun’s habit passing by with her attendants, many turned to her, clasping their hands and giving thanks. One person’s gratitude sparked a wave; even elderly folk fell to their knees in reverence.
Surrounded by their thanks, Vania remained calm. With a gentle smile, she helped the kneeling back to their feet, softly encouraging them.
“Please rise, everyone. There’s no need to thank me. Providing relief is my duty. It was the Lord who guided me here to help all those in hardship. If you truly wish to offer thanks, then give them to our merciful and great Lord…”
Her reply was the kind of gentle, practiced phrasing common to church relief work. Vania continued making her rounds throughout the camp, inspecting various zones. Wherever she went, refugees stood in gratitude, and Vania responded with kindness—distributing supplies with her own hands, tending to the wounded herself.
After a full round of inspection, she came to a small rise on the edge of the camp. There, she looked out at the sea of tents and the people moving among them. With a faint frown, she murmured.
“There are even more people today than yesterday…”
“Yes, Sister Vania,” replied Sister Phil beside her.
“So far, we’ve taken in 674 new refugees today. Including the previous days, the total number we’ve accepted has now surpassed ten thousand. Food, logistics, and medical care are all becoming increasingly difficult…”
Hearing Phil’s report, Vania’s expression grew heavier.
“How much longer can our food supplies last?”
“If the numbers stabilize as they are now… about ten more days at most. But if refugee numbers keep growing at this pace, we might run out in six days—or even five. We brought a large stockpile, but we never planned to rely solely on what we brought…”
Phil’s tone was grim. The diplomatic mission had indeed brought ample rations, but a traveling convoy had its limits. Their original plan had been to purchase food locally once they reached Bastis. But with the city sealed off, they had no way of accessing its stockpiles.
“What about the procurement teams we sent out? Any word from them?”
Vania asked. She had anticipated food issues and had dispatched teams early on to search for additional supplies across Busalet.
“All the teams have reported back,” Phil replied.
“Unfortunately, they weren’t able to buy any food. Because of the Withering Plague, many tribes have lost their labor force and couldn’t harvest. Even those with grain are hoarding and refusing to sell… Worse still, a powerful desert bandit group recently swept through the surrounding villages and looted all their stores.”
Vania’s brows furrowed deeper at that.
“Bandits? How could any desert raiders still move freely in the midst of this plague?”
“Yes… it’s strange,” Phil agreed.
“Our procurement teams found the villages already pillaged when they arrived. Due to the plague, the tribes couldn’t mount any resistance—while the bandits, oddly enough, moved unhindered.
“What’s even more bizarre is, they only stole food. Almost no one was killed. Most tribe members were spared. In fact, many of the refugees here are from those same plundered villages. They came to us after being left with no food at all…”
Phil continued.
“And food isn’t our only concern. The explosive rise in refugee numbers has stretched our personnel too thin. Many of our own are now infected after prolonged contact with the sick. The plague spreads extremely easily—even protective suits aren’t a guaranteed defense. The Healing Sisters have already stopped treating refugees and are now focused solely on saving our own—but even then, our medical capacity is falling behind.”
As she listened, Vania’s face darkened further. She hadn’t expected that, after struggling so hard to find people to help, she might now be crushed by the overwhelming burden of doing so.
“Bandits still able to move freely in a plague zone… They’ve really gone to great lengths to sabotage us…” she muttered, her eyes drifting toward the distant walls of Bastis. It was clear to her now that the Longevity Church was behind this.
“These bandit raids started before we even reached Bastis,” said Gaspard, a swordsman nearby, his tone stern.
“This is clearly the work of those cultists. They’re trying to use plague and plunder to create a refugee crisis and dump the burden on us—while locking down Bastis and hoarding all the grain. Their goal is to drown us under the weight of these people.”
He turned to Vania, speaking solemnly.
“Sister Vania, they want to exhaust us through attrition. We mustn’t fall for it. Let’s strike Bastis directly—take the city! With its grain stores, we could sustain even a hundred thousand refugees for a long time.”
Gaspard made his suggestion to Sister Vania bluntly. He clearly had long since lost patience with the Longevity cultists holed up in the city, and seemed eager to find any excuse to launch an attack. Seeing his enthusiasm, Phil also spoke up.
“Sister Vania, what Brother Gaspard said makes sense. We can’t go on like this. True, launching a direct assault would lead to civilian casualties among those misled by the cultists inside Bastis, and that could breed resentment and interfere with our work. But given how things are now, we don’t have the luxury to worry about that. If we want to save more people, sometimes we have to be willing to give something up…”
Hearing her words, Vania gave a soft sigh and replied.
“If the cultists started raiding and creating refugees even before we arrived, then it’s impossible they would’ve left large stores of grain in Bastis. At most, they’d leave behind a minimal amount for internal distribution…
“The bulk of the grain has surely been moved already. They’re likely holding the city just to bait us into attacking. If we do, we’ll only alienate the civilians and fail to find food for those outside the walls. That would push the entire situation out of control…”
Her tone was serious. Phil and Gaspard both looked increasingly grim as they listened.
“So that was their scheme all along… If there really is no food left in the city, then what do we do?” Phil asked.
“Tch… So we still can’t attack? But Sister Vania, dragging things out like this isn’t a solution either! If we can’t provide relief here, then let’s just defeat the cultists and move on—leave Busalet behind and help people elsewhere!” Gaspard added.
Vania remained silent for a long moment after hearing them out. Finally, she said softly.
“It’s not time to talk about giving up yet. Let’s hold on for another day or two…”
With that, she turned and began walking into the distance. After a brief pause, Phil and Gaspard followed her.
...
Elsewhere in the camp, Dorothy—having just observed Vania’s situation—sat cross-legged on her rug, thoughtfully analyzing the crisis at hand.
“So, it’s a food shortage… Looks like those Longevity bastards are trying to drive the Radiance Church out without ever lifting a blade. They know the Church depends on ordinary civilians, so they’re targeting us from that angle. In other words, they’re trying to destroy the Church’s ability to operate in Busalet entirely.”
She had originally planned to ignore the cultists and focus on finding Heopolis. But seeing how things had developed, she realized she couldn’t afford to stay out of it. If Vania and the others were forced to withdraw before Heopolis was found, Dorothy wouldn’t even have anyone left to call on if she needed help.
So, for now, she set aside the matter of Heopolis and turned her full attention to Vania’s predicament. But it wasn’t an easy one to solve.
“The root of Busalet’s problem is the Withering Plague. As long as it persists, nothing else will settle. But since we still don’t have a way to cure it, we’ll have to deal with the food issue first.”
“But solving the food problem isn’t simple either… I can’t conjure food out of nothing. There are nearly twenty thousand refugees in this camp now. Where am I supposed to find enough food for them? Go hunting for the grain that the Longevity Church relocated from Bastis? It’s already been moved. Could I really find it in just three days?”
As Dorothy considered all this seriously, she suddenly remembered the experiments she’d conducted with pseudo-historical worlds just a few days ago—and an idea sparked in her mind.
“Maybe… just maybe, that method might work…”
Speaking softly, she stood and walked over to a low table, picked up a stack of manuscript paper, spread them out, and began to write.
While she wrote, her spiritual threads remained active. She controlled a corpse marionette that had been gathering intel within Bastis, directing it to sneak into a small livestock pen. There, it stole a lamb and quietly smuggled it out of the city.
After writing for a while, Dorothy picked up the manuscript pages and exited the tent. She walked beyond the camp, heading into a wooded area near the oasis, where the marionette awaited her—holding the bleating lamb.
Dorothy had the marionette press the lamb against the manuscript. Then she added the final stroke to the pages—and in that moment, she, the marionette, and the lamb vanished from the spot.
In a swirl of vertigo, Dorothy arrived in a new world. As her vision cleared, she saw that the once-dense woods had become open grassland. From the hill she stood on, she could see countless low houses and curling trails of cooking smoke.
The city walls of Bastis were gone. In their place stood villages atop the hills. A winding stream flowed from the distance. The former desert beyond the oasis had vanished—replaced by sprawling prairie, dotted with herds of cattle and sheep.
This was a pseudo-historical world Dorothy had created—a continuation of the Farhan Dynasty. In constructing its history, she had raised Busalet’s annual rainfall to the highest viable limit, changing its climate from desert to grassland, allowing a steppe culture to flourish.
Once inside the Farhan pseudo-world, Dorothy didn’t linger. She split the manuscript in her hands, taking out the most recent page and storing the rest in her magic box. Then, using a magnetically-controlled pen, she suspended the page in the air and crossed out the year: 1361.
Once the date vanished, the world spun again. When it stabilized, she found herself once more in the grassy fields—this time in the year 1360, the previous entry in her pseudo-history.
In 1360 of the Farhan Kingdom, she gave her marionette the identity of a merchant and had him bring the lamb—now with an assigned background—to a wealthy herder’s home. She paid the herder to raise it for a while.
Once the lamb was dropped off, the marionette returned. Dorothy retrieved the pseudo-history manuscript and added a new entry—restoring the year 1361.
Another swirl of time and space later, Dorothy and her marionette were back in the Farhan Kingdom’s grasslands. The landscape had barely changed in a year. She sent the marionette once again to the same herder, and successfully retrieved a much larger, grown sheep—the very same lamb from “a year ago.”
With the sheep now in hand, she had the marionette bring it back. Both she and the marionette, after touching the manuscript again, watched as she crossed out the year 1361 once more—returning them to the real world, back to the wooded grove where it all started.
Upon returning, Dorothy let out a soft breath of relief—when she heard a sound beside her.
“Baa~”
She turned to see a nearly full-grown sheep calmly munching grass at her feet.
"What is picked up belongs to the world. What is worn belongs to the world. What is swallowed also belongs to the world. But what is digested and transformed—that belongs to the self. So it's true… the pseudo-history world distinguishes between what ‘belongs to the world’ and what ‘belongs to the self.’ Digested food, in a sense, is absorbed by one’s ‘Chalice’—and that creates a shift in boundaries…”
Gazing at the sheep, Dorothy murmured to herself.