The academy's explorers quickly rode away on insects. Hippocrates let out a sigh and looked toward the city.
The torrential rain showed no sign of stopping. The pollution in the air grew increasingly severe, and when he stepped onto the street, all he saw were residents struggling in agony.
Hippocrates bent down and gently placed a hand on the person's head.
Soon, the person fell into a deep sleep. Only their closed eyelids twitched faintly, as though they were dreaming.
The only thing Hippocrates could do was let these people end their lives in one final, beautiful dream.
"Plato seems to have failed. Ares has already left, Cleopatra is nowhere to be found, and it seems Utopia will perish today."
He spoke as though muttering to himself.
He pulled a bottle from his robes. It contained a deep-red mist. The mist, which should have remained still, writhed and churned incessantly as though it were alive.
Glass bottles were rare even in the wasteland. Hippocrates unscrewed the stopper, and the mist poured out.
The mist rapidly spread, seemingly endless as it surged and rolled in every direction.
Everyone enveloped by the mist gradually stopped struggling and fell into a deep sleep, free of pain forever.
The streets fell silent.
No one knew how many people had stopped breathing in their sleep.
As a doctor, Hippocrates was unable to treat these people at a time like this. He could only grant them their final peace, and he sighed with emotion.
After arranging matters at the academy, he walked toward Philosopher's Hall, where Plato was. Along the way, the suffering people all fell asleep, while the Gale heralding the torrential rain whipped up the things in the street and sent gravel flying.
Hippocrates saw that the guards of Philosopher's Hall had all transformed