MDCR 15

Chapter 15

“If my senior ends up in danger, I’ll step in.
That would obviously be reckless for someone as powerless as me, which means it’ll get dangerous—and that’ll be a real nuisance for you.”

“……”

“So if you don’t want that, then protect my senior properly. From the start.”

Surprising.

So—was this person stepping up for my sake?

Even Baemi was startled, flicking its tongue rapidly. Its black eyes blinked.

“If you need extra payment, I’ll pay it. Would a thousand Kalan be enough?”

Depor frowned.

“Mind your manners. I’m not some mercenary who fights for money. Very well. I’ll protect you—both you, junior, and this cute snake.”

As he spoke, Depor reached out to touch Baemi’s head.
Baemi’s head snapped sideways faster.

It was going to bite!
I hurriedly grabbed its wings. Baemi writhed and hissed.

Irix spoke indifferently.

“Depor. That thing bites.”

“As if a bite would—”

“But if it bites, you die.”

Irix drew a finger across his throat.

“Just—gurgle.”

I saw it.
Depor’s pupils shook.

He looked at me, as if asking for confirmation, but I just sat there with a blank, innocent expression. From now on, if I didn’t know what to do, I’d just wear a vacant look.

Unable to tell whether I was confirming or denying it, Depor eventually withdrew his hand.

“Understood. If it’s a sensitive creature, I’ll be careful. It would be troublesome if something expensive died.”

Behind him, Anerica laughed.
Meimon just blinked his big eyes, clearly not understanding.

I leaned back against the couch and looked at Meimon.

That upright boy was the most important person here.

His story begins like this.

‘What happened to Meimon, the one who went to save you, Irix?’

‘I killed him. Cleanly, instantly. So just mourn him.’

Meimon was an unfortunate boy.

Abandoned at birth, he grew up on the streets, using the ground as his cradle, surviving by following vagrants and beggars.

Duke Verkart discovered the boy’s hidden talent and brought him in.

While passing through a slum alley, he happened to notice Meimon using his ability.

Meimon’s power was spontaneous combustion—flames simply rose from his body.
Because he was gentle by nature, he had never hurt anyone with it. He only used it to make a bit of fire when it was cold.

“That looks rather useful.”

The duke approached Meimon, standing before him.

“I am Duke Verkart. Come with me. I will raise you, feed you, and educate you. All you need to do is grow into something useful.”

That very day, Meimon—the slum orphan—became a member of the duke’s sponsored “Legion” and enrolled in the academy.
A child who had begged just yesterday became a student of the empire’s most prestigious institution.

Meimon lived in a clean private dorm funded by the duke and, once a month, was invited to dinner at the ducal estate.

Each time, the duke praised him generously, sending gifts and allowance through his aides.

Meimon studied hard, graduated early, and entered the Camellia Order as a trainee. If he worked diligently for one year, he would become a full member, serving the empire. He intended to live up to the duke’s expectations.

Then, one day, the duke personally visited Meimon’s quarters.

“I have an urgent favor to ask, Meimon. Go protect my son.”

The duke continued.

“There are people in the Church who have long been targeting my son. They call him a ‘vessel.’ They’ve tried to take him away like an object—an ignorant child.”

Kind-hearted Meimon was genuinely worried. To someone from the slums, the Church was cruel and terrifying.
He didn’t know that they would never treat the duke’s son the way they treated slum dwellers.

“Irix is the precious remnant my wife left behind. My only family. My only hope. The one I love most in this world.”

All lies—but Meimon didn’t know what the Verkart father–son relationship was really like.

Throughout his academy years, Meimon only studied and never spoke with other legions.

“So please, Meimon. Protect my son.”

But Meimon failed.
Irix vanished without a trace.

To make up for his failure, Meimon began searching for Irix himself, using every method he knew. After relentless effort, he finally found him.

At the time, Irix was in a secret monastery run by the Church. Meimon infiltrated the place and met him—but Irix had already fallen. He refused to leave with Meimon.

“I’m not going.”

“His Grace worries about you every day. He grieves for you. You must return. I’ll help you.”

One could imagine the expression on Irix’s face without seeing it.

“No. I’m not going. I have things to do. You go back.”

“Please trust me. I’ll get you out. I’ll reunite you with the duke.”

And then—

Meimon was killed by Irix.

Meimon’s story is revealed later, but chronologically, he was Irix’s first challenger—and his first victim.

Why had Meimon searched for Irix so desperately?

The duke’s order was only to protect Irix from the Church. He never said to bring him back. Meimon had failed, yes—but he could have left it at that. There was no need to make amends.

And yet, Meimon searched.

He wanted to return his benefactor’s most precious existence to his arms. To Meimon, the duke was no different from a god.

Tragic.

The duke only ever saw his son as a tool.

He would have been pleased if Irix were returned. Anyone is happy when a lost possession is brought back.

But that would have been all.

The joy and happiness Meimon wanted to give the duke would never have existed.

Just then, a sound reached my ears.

Flap, flap—

I looked out the window. As expected, paper-crane drones filled the sky, swarming like a school of sardines.

From nearby came a desperate scream.

“I’m not one of them! I—I’m truly devout—ah, please forgive me! I was wrong!”

Beyond the window, a man was hanging, caught by paper birds.

He clung desperately to a train door handle.

The birds dragged him out. Their wings sliced into his body, blood spilling everywhere.

The blood-soaked man screamed.

“Please, spare me!”

Before him appeared a figure wearing a white mask. The way they moved made them look like a massive, ominous bird.

“Please forgive me! I—”

At the white mask’s gesture, a huge birdcage floated up. The birds shoved the man inside. Several others were already trapped there.

The masked figure unfurled a scroll of tightly rolled paper. Among the many names written on it, one began to smoke and vanished.

Depor spoke.

“An inquisitor. They’re here to arrest cultists.”

Who was he talking to?
Me?

“You must have seen this often, Meimon. Being from Shadow Alley.”

Ah—Meimon.

“Yes. Very often.”

Meimon’s voice was calm, quiet. His eyes were clear.

“So I thought it happened everywhere.”

Shadow Alley—the place where Meimon grew up—was one of the slums on the outskirts of the capital.

In places like that, inspections and arrests by the Church were frequent. Under the pretense of purification, inquisitors were regularly sent in to drag people away.

Even if they arrested the wrong people, there were no consequences. No one seriously checked.

Others—slum residents included—thought it was good riddance, treating those people as trash that needed to be cleared away.

Those taken away couldn’t afford donations, so they were all sentenced to forced labor. In harsh conditions, with meager food, unpaid, they were worked relentlessly. Those who returned hid the fact they had ever been taken—because once dragged away, it became easier to be taken again. Some spent decades cycling through forced labor.

People were dragged out one after another and imprisoned in a floating jail. It soon filled up like a crowded chicken coop.

Each time someone was taken, another name vanished from the inquisitor’s list. Many still remained.

Were all the people on that list on this train?

If so, then the upper ranks of the cult were astonishingly stupid.

It wasn’t just putting all their eggs in one basket—it was loading dozens of baskets onto a single truck.

A loud shout erupted beside me, filled with rage.