vncnus Chapter 189 : Chapter 189
Chapter 189 : Chapter 189
Chapter 189: The Masterless Wasteland (1)
'Will this do.'
Abel propped his chin in his hand.
They were inside a carriage. Amid the noisy clopping of hooves, Abel was scanning the scenery unrolling beyond the window. A signpost stuck up on one side of the forest road. He used it to calculate the time. It would take a solid hour to reach the nearby Dimensional Door. It was time to depart for the east.
'No, not yet.'
Abel rummaged in the inner pocket of his formal coat.
He took out the token of the Parousia Denomination and rolled it in his palm. Ever since the obsidian had broken, it seemed to have stopped working. The voices of the former Cardinals no longer came through, and it seemed to have fallen to nothing more than a dim, gloomy ornament.
'There isn't enough time.'
For Abel, and for Dauane, there wasn't enough time.
Dauane was on the verge of total collapse in public order. That was why he had summoned the Inquisition Bureau. Of all the paladins, they were the group most practiced in real combat. If Abel had to depart for the east, leaving the west to the Inquisition Bureau was the only option left.
'Isaac Tournaisen.'
He was a trustworthy man.
His only flaw was being too sentimental.
Isaac would likely reestablish order in Dauane in short order. Abel had also instructed him to track down apostates in possession of Parousia Denomination tokens and report the results of their interrogations. For Abel, it was the only move he had.
Given that Grand Duke Marchand had made contact with the Parousia Denomination's ringleaders in Dauane, the city had to be even more rotted than it appeared. If Abel couldn't intervene directly, there was no other way but to entrust it to Isaac.
'Were there any gains?'
Abel gazed at the token of the Parousia Denomination.
Clenching it tightly in his fist, he shook his head.
It wasn't enough yet. He had only just taken the first step.
"Professor."
Meanwhile, Monica opened her mouth.
Monica was seated across from Abel.
"Miss Henrietta......, did she truly not know? That she was an apostate."
"She may have, and she may not have."
Abel answered quietly.
To the clerk he'd claimed Henrietta had not known she was an apostate. But that had not been a statement of certainty. Since Henrietta had taken her own life, there was no further need to second-guess.
"You had best grow used to it, Monica."
Adventure is always absurd.
Abel whispered.
"......Right."
Monica brushed her hair back.
Somehow, a bitter taste lingered in her mouth.
"By the way, about that Director of the Inquisition Bureau. Mr. Isaac Tournaisen."
Why didn't he pass his family name down to his son?
Why was it his given name he passed down instead of the family name?
To that question from Monica,
"Originally, the family name was passed down too. His son's name was Isaac Tournaisen the Second."
Abel explained briefly.
"But he separated from his wife. His son seems to have decided to take on his mother's family name. I don't know the details. What I do know is......"
Isaac Tournaisen's son, Isaac Fordina.
He was being educated in another country. Among the Mother God's Left Hand, the Inspector was tutoring Isaac Fordina. Isaac Fordina would, before long, become one of the Mother God's Right Hand.
Telling her that would hardly make sense to Monica.
"I saw it in a dream."
Then, Monica murmured.
At a glance, she seemed somewhat confused.
"No, that's not right. It wasn't that I saw it. I was told he had died."
I think the name was Noel.
A girl I didn't know told me he'd died.
"Senior Lizer's name came up too. Out of my own mouth. At first I thought it was a silly dream. But it's strange. Why would I have said Isaac Fordina's name? Senior Lizer is one thing, but I'd never met Isaac Fordina. For the record, in the dream I was the Hero on the eve of the final battle with the Demon King......"
In any case, it went like that,
How does it strike you? Monica asked Abel.
"Do you have any idea what it might mean?"
Is her memory coming back?
Abel kept his mouth closed and thought.
Epezeria was a world that had once perished. It had only just barely been reconstituted from a world that had met its end. It wouldn't be strange for memory confusion to arise. Above all, Monica would have been the one to face the final battle as the Hero.
"I don't know."
But Abel didn't say so.
He only wore a faint smile and asked her back.
"Everyone considers you the Hero. The Holy Sword chose you, and the fate of this world rests in your hands. Is that as far-fetched as a mere dream?"
"You're stating the obvious."
Monica folded her arms.
Lips pursed, she glared at Abel.
It wasn't that she hadn't sensed something suspicious. The past few days, the idea of the Hero kept being raised. Not only from Abel's mouth, but even from the mouth of Dietrich Leinhart, a man she had only just met.
"It's too much of a joke for me to bother answering."
But how could she doubt it.
Am I, perhaps, the Hero, and.
Just thinking it made her face burn. Her head felt as if it might melt. She'd put such fantasies behind her before she'd even turned six. Monica scratched the nape of her neck and went on.
"Giving you the benefit of every doubt, if I were the Hero, then you would have to be the Hero too, Professor. You'd have to be an even greater Hero than me."
"Why do you think so."
"Because you're my teacher. Even if I tried my hardest until the day I die, I wouldn't be able to catch up to you."
"You have never yet tried your hardest until death."
"That's a figure of speech, a figure of speech. How is a person supposed to try their hardest until death. Once they're dead it's all over. Have you ever done that, Professor?"
"It seems I've done so about a hundred times."
Still, I will respect it.
I will respect your perspective.
Our perspectives are clearly different.
Abel murmured.
"So take this."
It was a journal.
Abel took a journal out of his backpack.
It was held out toward Monica. Did he purchase this in the capital? Monica thought as she tilted her head. The cover of the journal was made of fine, antique leather. The gold-trimmed patterns appeared to have been engraved by hand, and the fountain pen tucked between the pages looked like a costly piece as well.
"I meant to give it to you when the chance came. A reward for passing the live assessment."
"Is this also an artifact?"
Monica took the journal.
Demian, Ernst, and Roberta had all been gifted artifacts by Abel. Was this journal one of those too? Monica wondered as she turned the cover, and,
"It is an ordinary journal."
Abel shook his head.
Then he rummaged inside the inner pocket of his formal coat. He drew out his own journal to show Monica.
"Write your story in it."
"You're saying I should keep a diary?"
"Write whatever you like. Write down the foods you want to eat. Write down curses aimed at your rivals. Whatever it is, all of it will become your story."
Monica pressed her lips together.
Head lowered, she looked at her own journal. Predictably enough, it was empty. No matter how she flipped through it, all that met her eyes was blank space, empty of writing.
Abel's journal was different. She could tell just from the cover. Preposterously worn, and surely as old as Abel's weapons. Why were all the items the professor possessed so aged.
Aged enough that it wouldn't be strange if they'd been thrown out long ago.
"I know more than you do."
Abel declared in a quiet tone.
"Perhaps I could tell you. About the things you are questioning. But I don't intend to. You will come to know it naturally, either way. Above all, your story must be completed by your own hand, and only when it is written by your own hand can you yourself come to terms with it."
So let it be.
Call it spiteful, if you like, and.
Abel whispered with a faint smile on his lips, and,
'I don't get it. What is he talking about.'
Monica picked up the fountain pen.
She examined the nib and thought. He knows too much. For some reason, this man knows too well. It's as though he knows more about me than I do myself.
Come to think of it, there had never once been an exception. There had never been a moment when Abel didn't know about Monica. It had been that way even at their very first meeting. As though he already knew, he had recited Monica's name. Why was that. Monica thought she didn't know.
"Just tell me one thing."
Is it really only a matter of perspective?
Just that much? And even if it is just that, isn't that a yawning gulf?
Just as someone surveys the world by looking at the ground from the sky, or looks up at the sky from the ground and surveys the world; just as a newborn feels the world by flailing its limbs, or an old person feels the world with stiff and aching limbs — perhaps they are, in truth, yawningly different.
Can it all be bundled up under the word "perspective"?
All of this.
"It's about time you told me."
I don't get it. I really don't get it.
Thinking so, Monica asked.
"Our adventure......, what is its purpose?"
"Who knows."
Abel gave a shrug.
He gazed beyond the window and murmured.
"To protect this world, perhaps."
"Ridiculous. Why not just say we're out doing the shopping."
I'll jot it down for now, I suppose.
Monica pointed the fountain pen. At the first page of her journal.
In an unpracticed hand, she wrote down. Just as Abel had said: the purpose of the adventure is to protect this world.
"By the way......"
Then, suddenly, Monica raised her head.
The worn journal held in Abel's hand. She gazed at it and spoke up.
"Professor, you've been keeping a journal too?"
"I did, once. I don't write in it anymore."
I no longer have any story left to write in it.
I merely carry it in order to check back on it.
Abel murmured.
"Because I must not forget."
Everything written in this journal.
***
Groans, groans, groans.
Breaths, breaths, breaths.
The sound of bound bodies twisting. The sound of gagged mouths working. The sound of water dripping. The sound of rats drinking up the droplets. The sound of wind. The sound of an iron door opening. And alongside that, footsteps. The sound of a cane touching stone. The sound of Christophe's boots as they drifted slowly through the Catacomb.
'How wretched.'
Christophe's cloak fluttered.
The crest of the Sharma family engraved on the cloak warped with the motion.
The Catacomb beneath the Naflansee Grand Cathedral — Christophe had just set foot in it. There were numerous men and women bound to stone pillars, thrashing. Their ages varied, their races varied too. Without exception they were lay believers of the Parousia Denomination, and if one were pressed to define their status, they belonged to the lower class.
'Is this unbearable?'
Thud.
Christophe's cane pressed into the stone floor.
Christophe raised his head. He looked at a woman bound to a pillar. The woman was thrashing her body, eyes wide. Christophe's silhouette was reflected in her dampened pupils.
"Speak."
Christophe reached out.
As he removed the gag from the woman's mouth,
"What was it you coveted so."
Flop.
The gag came loose and fell.
The woman's eyes slanted toward Christophe.
Her lips began to tremble. The woman ran her tongue over her dry lips, then bared her bloodshot gums and smiled.
- A promise......
They promised me so many things.
The woman murmured.
- Only they can. They'll bring back what I lost. I have to pray. So I have to pray. My baby, my baby who died before he could even be born. I have to pray to get my baby back. I have to pray. I have to pray. I have to pray......
──Let me go!
The woman's scream carved itself into the stone walls.
- You......, all of you too......
Christophe stroked his mustache.
Eyes narrowed, he gazed at the woman's face.
The woman's gaze was unfocused. Because she had been exposed to black magic. Enthralled by the apostates, had she come to believe she could retrieve the child she had miscarried?
- All of you should pray too.
The woman smiled, her laugh turning rank.
A sweet breath leaked from between her yellowed teeth.
It was mixed with the residue of black magic.
- You too have one, don't you. Something you've lost. What did you lose? Tell me about it. Tell me, right now! What is it that you nobles have lost! Tell me right now!
Well now.
Communication is impossible.
Christophe thought with a sigh.
"Frail lady, your predicament is plain. Of course I too have things I have lost. When one has lost too much, or lost what was too precious, one comes to cherish empty hopes. I can understand that, whatever the degree."
Let me go, let me go, let me go──!
The woman screamed. As if Christophe's words could not reach her.
"I am no different."
That I too cherish empty hopes,
That I too desire things — I am no different.
Christophe murmured, and,
[How unexpected.]
Just then, a voice reached Christophe's ear.
A stern woman's voice. Iris René von Orléans, she too must have arrived at the Catacomb.
Christophe turned to look back.
[For the head of the Sharma family to speak of hope. Hope is an emotion that can never be rational.]
"I've shown you a shameful side of myself."
Ho ho, and.
Christophe gave a nonchalant chuckle.
"By the way, Duke Orléans, what kind of figure do you cut now?"
A golem was standing there.
Not Iris, but a golem. A golem crafted in the likeness of a female body, nothing more.
[Forgive me.]
The golem took a step forward.
The crest attached to the golem's chest stood out.
The black swan crest symbolizing the Orléans family. Iris's voice was flowing out from that spot.
[I had urgent business, and so I moved the golem. But please rest assured. The mission entrusted to me by His Majesty will be carried out without delay.]
"That it will. You are, after all, the real power in the capital."
[And yet I am still merely called a maiden. 'The Iron-Blooded Maiden.' A ludicrous epithet.]
"Do bear with it. Gossip in the social circles tends to run light-tongued. In my younger days, my epithet was the Mad Philosopher."
[Rather fitting, I should say.]
"I shan't deny it."
In any case, and.
Christophe murmured.
As he looked at the woman crying out.
"Have you none."
None that you have lost.
At Christophe's question,
[I do.]
Iris answered briefly.
[But I cherish no empty hopes. I have no right to cherish hope.]
"Is that so."
Perhaps so.
Christophe murmured.
"Though that may be, for now......"
Then his gaze slipped sideways.
Looking at the golem standing upright, he whispered.
"In your present state, you......"
Are every inch like a doll.
***
"Um......"
The clerk's lips worked.
The eastern border city of the Holy Numeros Empire, Cyurio.
The surroundings of Cyurio were wasteland in every direction. The area as a whole was also called the Masterless Wasteland. Cyurio was closely adjacent to the former territory of the Vianchiel Kingdom, and the old territory of the now-barren Vianchiel Kingdom was fouling Cyurio's natural environment.
"Let me confirm this once more."
The clerk flipped through her paperwork in a fluster.
To travel Cyurio, one had to hire a guide. This was to prevent casualties caused by the harsh natural environment. The clerk belonged to the 'Wasteland Crossing Office,' which served as intermediary between travelers and guides, and she was a young orc woman who had only just shed her new-hire status.
"Abel Argento......"
The clerk raised her head.
Facing the reception counter stood a young human man.
A man with a face as rigid as a plaster statue.
"Is this Mr. Abel Argento, correct?"
"It is."
The man, Abel, spoke in an indifferent tone.
"Truly, is this correct?"
"It is."
I already submitted my identification.
Why are you confirming it again?
At that question from Abel,
"Well......"
The clerk tilted her head.
She could hardly accept it herself, but she began to explain what was written in the document.
"I must collect the guide mediation fee, but......, it's recorded that a proxy has already paid on your behalf."
Really,
How this happened, I simply don't know, and.
Murmuring that, the clerk closed the paperwork.
It was old paperwork. Old enough that it wouldn't be strange if it had crumbled into dust.
And so it was strange. Truly strange, the clerk thought as she went on.
"About a thousand years ago......"
Under the name of Abel Argento's proxy,
Lilith Problem.