The short man standing between John and Celia had just begun to feel a flicker of hope—maybe, just maybe, he'd survived this ordeal.
But the moment Old Jaque said those words, his face turned pale.
"Old man, if you don't know how to speak properly, then shut up!" the short man snapped, suddenly flaring up with rage. "Keep talking nonsense and I swear I'll rip your mouth off!"
He jabbed a finger at Old Jaque, trembling with indignation. "I'm a man—a full-blooded man! How could I possibly be pregnant?! It's just gas! That's all it is! Gas!"
He refused to believe what Old Jaque had said. To him, it was pure gibberish. A man getting pregnant? Ridiculous!
Yes, he had seen others screaming in agony from that cursed black tadpole, their bellies swelling unnaturally—but he always assumed it was some kind of cruel and twisted magical torture, not actual pregnancy. That would be too absurd!
John gave him a calm look and said, very seriously, "Actually… Old Jaque is right. You are pregnant. And yes—it was me."
The courtyard fell into dead silence.
Old Jaque's eyes widened in horror.
Wait… I was just joking! You mean it's real?!
Was this boy… was this boy actually into that kind of thing?! Was this some kind of horrifying fetish?! This was insane!
The short man also stood there, completely stunned.
What the actual hell?!
John was a devil! A real devil!
He—he was a man, for crying out loud!
How could he be pregnant?!
He didn't want to have a baby!
The panic rose rapidly in his chest, followed by despair and helplessness. His brain was practically smoking.
Celia, who had been standing quite close to John, instinctively took two steps back.
She had always thought John's abilities were… unusual. But this?
This was beyond strange.
This was god-defying.
It was too much. Way too much!
She decided, right then and there, that it would be best to keep her distance from him—just in case. If something happened and she ended up pregnant too… how would she even explain that?
Seeing that everyone was now looking at him like he was some unholy mixture of pervert and walking plague, John shook his head and sighed.
"Look, it's not really pregnancy," he began. "It's just the side effect of one of my skills..."
He gave a brief explanation of how his concept-level ability—The Evil God's Little Tadpole—worked. He clarified that the effect was purely illusory, a tormenting simulation of pregnancy, and not a genuine biological change.
Slowly, the shocked expressions on Old Jaque and Celia's faces began to soften.
As absurd as the ability was, if it wasn't actually turning people into expectant mothers, then they could at least tolerate it.
The short man, meanwhile, gently touched his swollen belly and was immediately overwhelmed by an ominous feeling.
When he first heard that he was "pregnant," he'd panicked—but then, he thought about it again.
If he were really carrying John's child—well, sure, it was disgusting… but maybe that meant he'd earned some value. Maybe John would keep him alive—for the baby.
He could even imagine himself rising in status. "Mother of John's child" had a certain ring to it.
He didn't want to die.
But now, knowing it was fake?
His slim hopes of "rising through the womb" were completely crushed.
That meant… he was disposable again.
Just as he steeled himself to try one last desperate escape, he suddenly discovered that he couldn't move.
His body froze.
It was like he had turned into a statue, completely locked in place.
The Next Morning
Just before dawn, a lone knight galloped desperately toward the city of Winterhold, urging his exhausted warhorse to its limits.
"Faster!"
"This message must make it back!"
"If I fail—if I die out here—I'll be a traitor to the realm!"
He had started the journey with dozens of companions, but now… they were all dead or gravely wounded.
Only he remained.
He understood what was at stake.
If Winterhold didn't receive this warning in time, the entire city would be consumed in blood and fire.
He had to make it back.
Fueled by this conviction, he'd ridden through the night without rest. If not for the magical reinforcement on his horse, it would have collapsed long ago.
And now—finally—Winterhold came into view.
He saw the city walls rising in the distance, and hope flared in his chest.
At that same moment, inside Winterhold...
Lord Kili, ruler of the city, was pacing the top of the city wall, personally inspecting the defenses.
Though the calendar marked this time as the festive New Year season, filled with celebrations and ceremonies, Lord Kili felt no joy.
He was anxious.
Deeply uneasy.
He had heard whispers—rumors that something was stirring along the border. But no official message had reached him yet.
That meant one of two things.
Either everything was still stable…
Or the entire border had already fallen—so thoroughly that no one had been able to report back.
Normally, he would have chosen to believe the former.
But not this time.
Not with this level of silence.
Just as the dread in his heart grew heavier, he saw something on the horizon—a lone knight racing toward the gates.
Even from this distance, Lord Kili could tell by the man's armor and insignia—
He was from the border.
Not long after, the Lord's Manor was filled with a sea of officials. Nearly every important figure in the city had been summoned.
The hall buzzed with murmurs of confusion and concern.
"My Lord," one of the festival coordinators asked, "what's happened? Why summon all of us so urgently?"
The New Year was supposed to be a time of joy and celebration. This sudden and severe atmosphere sent a chill through every official present.
Lord Kili stepped forward, his voice grim:
"The Nascent Duchy has mobilized a hundred thousand soldiers. Under the command of Augustus, they've already breached the border."
"Evaheim—the most important fortress in the region—has fallen."
"And Augustus didn't stop there. He's using blitzkrieg tactics to capture city after city."
At those words, silence fell over the entire hall.
Not a whisper. Not a breath.
Shock spread through the crowd like wildfire.
"Impossible," someone finally gasped. "It's the middle of winter! Snow has sealed the mountains! The cold—how can they even function, let alone march a whole army?!"
"Exactly!" another cried. "Transporting provisions in this season is nearly impossible! The Nascent Duchy always attacks in spring or autumn. Never now!"
In a blink, the hall erupted in disbelief and argument.
It had never happened before—an attack in the dead of winter?
Unthinkable!
But Lord Kili raised his hand, and the room fell silent again as he spoke:
"This information comes from one of Evaheim's personal guards. He barely escaped with his life to deliver the message. I assure you—there is no mistake."
"And think about it," he continued, voice cold and clear. "This winter has been harsher than any in recent memory. The Nascent Duchy survives through nomadism and raids. If they don't attack now, they won't survive at all."
"They have no choice."
Those final words made the blood of every official run cold.
He was right.
If Evaheim had fallen, and other cities had already been taken…
Then Winterhold—positioned so close to the frontier—was the next logical target.
Not just a target—an essential stop on the path to the Imperial Capital.
If Augustus continued this blitz toward the heart of the empire, Winterhold would be next to fall under his iron hoof.
One hundred thousand elite cavalry...
Even imagining it made their legs shake.
Winterhold barely had enough troops to defend a parade, let alone withstand an all-out invasion.
"We can't hold the city," one official whispered.
"If we fight now, we'll be slaughtered. I suggest we retreat strategically. Delay them, regroup at the next stronghold. If we can join up with reinforcements, we might stand a chance."
Others began nodding, reluctant but accepting.
Because even the proudest of them knew—
Against a storm this big, survival came first.