Chapter 68: I am from the Medici clan
After listening to the waitress about the death of the pregnant woman in the village, Kael and the others ate quietly, as if the news had not affected them in the slightest.
The reason they were in that village was to investigate the abnormality of the beasts that had been ravaging several villages.
They continued eating the beef stew in silence. It was hot, perfect for the rainy weather.
"Young master. Now that we know that a person died from a wild beast attack, what shall we do?" Lydia asked after finishing her meal, even though she didn’t particularly like it.
"We’ll talk to the husband of that deceased woman," Kael replied, bringing a spoonful of beef soup to his mouth. He chewed and then took a piece of semi-hard bread.
All sorts of murmurs reached his ears, but they were all irrelevant to what they were doing in the village. It seemed that no one wanted to talk about the deceased pregnant woman. Even so, the atmosphere was quite somber.
After finishing their meal, Kael asked the waitress where the husband of the woman who had been attacked by the wild beast was. After paying for their meal, they left the inn.
Outside, they were greeted by heavy rain that seemed endless, and they headed toward where the dead woman’s husband was.
As they made their way through the flooded streets, mud covered their boots up to their ankles. The stagnant water stank of manure, old blood, and decay. The town, though still intact, was already beginning to smell of death.
They left the inn without saying a word. In the distance, they could see a rotten wooden house surrounded by broken boards. Inside the fence, several starving animals—plucked chickens and a couple of goats with ribs showing—staggered around like ghosts.
Next to the house was a muddy pool, probably used as a fish farm. The water was stagnant, dark as ink, infested with larvae. On the shore, dogs barked furiously, straining against the thick chains around their necks. They were skin and bones, their eyes bloodshot with hunger.
