Chapter 31
There was not a single demonic beast left. It was almost enough to believe it had all been a dream—but the traces were unmistakable. And they were tremendous. Several train cars had been torn away and completely destroyed. The railway bridge was heavily damaged as well. Deep claw marks gouged the ground here and there where the beasts had raked through.
“What happened, Zephyr?”
“As you can see, it’s all over.”
“I can see that. I’m asking who performed a miracle like this.”
Zephyr’s answer was simple.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“No, sir. I truly don’t. The demonic beasts suddenly vanished, and the falling train was back up where it belonged.”
Gatra tilted his head, doubt filling his eyes.
“You’re saying you don’t know why something like this happened?”
“Yes. I didn’t see anything. It was already over. It happened all at once. I didn’t see the process—only the result. As if time itself had disappeared. So I have no way of knowing who did it.”
“Do you at least know what kind of power it was?”
“I don’t.”
“I see….”
Zephyr was not one to lie. He looked genuinely curious himself.
Gatra glanced at the Inquisitors of the Order. Still inside the train, staring out, their long gray robes made them look like ghosts unable to leave.
“Did they do this?”
“I’m curious about that as well.”
“I’ll ask them.”
Gatra pointed at Zephyr.
“You’re coming with me. His Excellency will want to know too.”
Zephyr said nothing, and Gatra asked,
“You came here on his orders, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’d better come. But before that….”
Gatra looked at those standing behind Zephyr.
Meimon Azla quickly bowed. Gatra nodded in acknowledgment before looking past him.
There sat a boy of striking beauty with a stiff expression.
Irix Berkhart.
The duke’s only son—and the boy the Order had designated as the most sacred vessel.
Beside him sat an unfamiliar girl. She looked as if she had been drawn in soft pastel crayons.
Yet the cold soul in her eyes, framed by thick lashes, and the expression resting on her face felt subtly out of place. A face usually reflects one’s character and life—but her gaze and expression seemed misaligned with it. As if someone gentle and kind had suddenly been cursed into changing their personality.
“Hello, Sir Gatra,” Irix said.
“What a pleasure to meet under such circumstances.”
The exhaustion on his face made it clear he meant it.
“The feeling is mutual, Young Master. Is anyone hurt?”
“Just me, for now.”
Irix raised his arm. A blood-soaked handkerchief was tied around his wrist.
“It doesn’t look too bad.”
“I said I’m hurt.”
“You’ll recover soon.”
Gatra turned to the healer beside him.
“Take care of him.”
The healer handed over a wound patch and disinfectant. The girl beside Irix accepted them, untied the bloodied handkerchief, and revealed a deep gash. It must have hurt badly.
She cleaned away the blood, examined the wound, and applied the patch with practiced hands. She remained calm despite the blood and torn flesh—like someone used to seeing worse.
“She’s better than you,” Gatra remarked, pointing at the healer. The healer looked startled.
Gatra noticed the badge pinned to the girl’s jacket collar. She attended the same academy as Irix.
Could she be… a friend?
…
No. Impossible.
A friend, for Irix Berkhart?
“I’ll take my leave. Please return home safely.”
“Very well. Thank you for your efforts.”
Gatra left with Zephyr toward the wrecked train.
The train looked as though a dragon had bitten into it. One carriage in particular was far more heavily damaged than the rest. While others looked merely chewed, this one looked crushed and devoured.
“This one’s especially bad. What happened here?”
“Young Master Irix Berkhart was inside.”
“Is that so? Wait.”
Gatra raised a hand to stop Zephyr and glanced beside him. Figures in gray robes were approaching. The Inquisitors of the Order.
“Irix.”
After the far more formidable mage than Zephyr left, I called out to him.
“What.”
“You’ve got a cut on your neck too. Lift your chin.”
He hesitated, then slightly tilted his head.
“More.”
He barely moved at all.
In the end, I grabbed his forehead with one hand, cupped the back of his head with the other, and tilted it back. He froze. I wiped the blood from his exposed neck and placed a patch over the wound.
“That hurts.”
“Stop whining. Your neck wasn’t severed. People have endured far worse injuries than this without making a sound, so be quiet and bear it.”
“How would you know?”
“I used to be somewhere full of people who were hurt.”
He grumbled.
“I still don’t know where that was. If you’re done, go away.”
“You could at least say, ‘You don’t have to worry anymore,’ politely. Or at least offer a basic thank you.”
“Do I really have to?”
“I want to think you’re cute.”
“What would you do if you did?”
“I like cute things.”
He suddenly went quiet, as if struck.
After a moment, a very small voice answered,
“Thank you.”
Ah, how adorable. I want to smack him.
“But… are you okay?” he asked.
“With what?”
“Are you… not hurt?”
What tremendous progress.
If 0.01 becomes 0.02, that’s doubling. Going from 50.01 to 50.02 is nothing—but in Irix’s case, it’s the former. Twice as kind now. Oh my, how heartwarming.
“If I’m fine, then what?”
He’s so Room 301.
A copy is still a copy, after all.
I turned to Meimon.
“You okay?”
“I am.”
But Meimon had several injuries too. I tossed him the ointment tin the healer had given me.
“At least put that on. Even minor wounds should heal quickly.”
He caught it and bowed deeply.
“Thank you.”
I found myself looking at Meimon anew.
He had originally been destined to die. No one searched for him. No one wondered about him. Born in the shadows, he would have vanished back into them.
That fate no longer existed. He would live now. I hoped he would. Next year, the year after, ten years from now, twenty years from now—may he keep living well.
But why had he risked himself so desperately to save Irix, someone not even related to him and not particularly close?
Because of the duke’s orders?
No. The duke never ordered him. Meimon acted on his own.
Why?
Probably for the same reason I once did.
Because he had to.
I went into that building looking for Room 301. It wasn’t my job, but I went anyway. Even knowing it was dangerous. Even knowing I might not succeed. My body moved on its own.
Meimon must have been the same.
He wanted to save him, so he went.
And he died.
So did I.
Sometimes people help others for no benefit at all.
Call them foolish. Ask who will thank them. Mock them for thinking it worthwhile—they still do it.
When things are most dire, people instinctively help others. As if it were some hidden instinct.
That was Meimon.
He must have thought he was the only one who could save Irix.
Fortunately, Meimon would not die this time. He would live as he had until now—and continue to do so.
He may be a little lacking, but he’s kind. Kids like that should live well.
For a while, none of us spoke.
There wasn’t much to say. And the three of us weren’t particularly close.
Irix flopped down onto the grass.
Thud—
The scent of grass rose into the air.
Lying there and staring at the sky, he said,
“The sky is beautiful.”
I looked up too.
At first I saw only darkness. It was pitch black. My neck began to ache from craning, so I lay down as well. The smell of grass filled my senses.
After a moment, one by one, stars began to appear—until the sky was completely covered in them. Soon the Milky Way emerged in a hazy streak between them.
I was lying beneath a cascade of stars.
“Wow.”
This world often takes me by surprise.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of the night.
Grass, water, stone, earth… the vivid fragrance of life wrapped around me.
It’s nice.
Nice enough that I could die like this.
If this were my last memory, that would be fine too.
And…
Gatra.
The moment I heard his name, I knew.
He, too, was someone with his own story.
And of course—
He died at Irix’s hands.
