chap 14 10

“...Pat.”
“Pat.”
“Aye.”
“Hang in there, Pat,” said Ranta.
It felt like Pat nodded.
Ranta walked. He walked in silence.
Ranta had walked on his own feet all this time. He could walk anywhere. He could keep on walking.
He climbed a slope. Forged a path where there was none. He slid occasionally, and because he was carrying Pat on his back, he couldn’t grasp on to the trees and grass.
Who cares? It’s no big deal. I’ll make it work. Climb. Climb. Keep on climbing.
Close to sunset, he reached the top of a small hill. It was an open space, and he could see far into the distance.
The river meandered. The setting sun made the surface of it shine.
The mountains went on like crazy. The forest spread out in silence. That one place with smoke rising from it must have been a village.
“What do you think, Pat?” Ranta asked. “Quite the view, huh?” There was no response.
Ranta laid Pat down on the ground.
Pat had long since stopped breathing.
“...Am I being true to my own heart?” Ranta whispered to himself over and over.
For whatever reason, he couldn’t find an answer.
Was it a yes?
Or was it a no?
He didn’t know. But why?
He knelt next to Pat, watching the moment the sun set.
The world blackened by the second.
The wind was cold.
The clouds in the sky blotted out the red moon.
Scattered raindrops fell, then it started to come down in earnest as he watched.
“Am I being true to my own heart?”
Ranta removed the mask and cast it aside. He stood up, and shouted out loud, not caring if his throat gave out.
“Yes! I’m being true to my heart! Pat!!” He looked at Pat.
In the lashing rain, Pat didn’t stir in the slightest.
Pat was dead.
“O, Dark God Skullhell, please, take Pat into your arms. Everyone is equal under you, right?”
Ranta started to dig a hole with his bare hands. He never once rested. The thought of stopping never crossed his mind. He dug.
He kept digging.
He ignored the heavy rain, and expanded the hole.
Until the hole was perfect for Pat, he dug as if in a trance.
Ranta laid Pat in the bottom of the hole.
“Here’s a gift to take with you... because I don’t have anything else to offer.”
He laid the nine copper coins that he had seized from the orcs he’d killed on top of Pat’s chest.
He was well aware that he was being foolish. What did he mean, “a gift to take with you”? There was no afterlife. The dead went nowhere, and could take nothing with them.
While he was filling the hole in, dawn broke.
The rain had let up at some point.
Ranta picked up his mask.
He was alone, so he needed no name.
If no one knew who he was, he could be alone.
Ranta used a knife to dig another groove into the mask. The mask had to change. He didn’t need to engrave Pat’s name in it. He needed only to remember it.
Ranta put the mask back on, and began to walk again.
 
4. Alcohol
It was already early evening, but thanks to the hanging oil lamps and torches everywhere, the streets were as bright as day.
It was around the time when the men who had just finished their work in the mines would be heading out to town in search of wine, food, and women. A rowdy good time would be had by all.
No, it wasn’t just the mines. This town had an ironworks, too. The ironworks was still in operation, and smoke rose from its chimneys, so the fires in the furnaces probably never went out. The day shift would leave at night, and the night shift would surely go out to drink in the morning.
This was a town that never slept.
Orcs, goblins, kobolds, undead, and more—the roads were filled with men from the minority races, and the area around the pubs and eateries was especially packed.
In one place, someone was singing cheerfully, and in another, two fools were fighting. There were people watching that scene with raucous laughter, too.
Ranta was not so innocent as to let this chaos overwhelm him.
That said, when he saw a furry giant that stood around three meters tall stomping along half-naked, yes, he was obviously surprised.
“Is that a troll?” Ranta muttered, astonished. “I’ve heard they exist way up north, in the Great Icefield, and the Iceleaf Forest.”
Whatever the case, no one was paying attention to Ranta and his mask, so he was grateful for that. Of course, he’d boldly set foot in this town figuring he’d probably be all right. He was correct.
“But...”
Wasn’t there anything that could be done about this smell? Their body odor was so strong that it made his eyes water, and combined with the harsh smell of puke from the drunks and other excrement, it formed an incredible stench that filled the entire town.
“I’m sure I’ll just stop noticing it at some point,” he told himself.
A guy could get used to anything, after all.
He went down a somewhat wider road, and encountered a chain gang of gumows sitting along the roadside.
They were for sale. They likely existed to do the most dangerous jobs in this town, the ones no one else would do, no matter how well they were paid.
Some piece-of-shit, like that orc with his hair dyed in three colors, would buy them.
They were slaves.
They were bound by chains soaked with their blood, sweat, and tears, being led off to the place where they would be worked to death.
There were gumows among them who were no older than Pat.
“This is reality... huh?”
Ranta quickened his pace. He passed the line of slaves, and approached the orc with the tricolor hair.
The orc with the tricolor hair must have been pretty well off. As if to show off his wealth, he wore necklaces, earrings, bracelets, and all sorts of other jangling shiny golden trinkets. The bag around his waist was especially gaudily decorated, and it looked good and heavy. “Personal Skill, Black Light,” Ranta murmured.
He passed by the orc with the tricolor hair. Beneath his mask, he smirked.
In his right hand, he held a wallet made of lizard skin. It wasn’t Ranta’s. With a move too fast for the eye to follow, he had pilfered it from the orc with the tricolor hair’s pouch.
“So long,” he said in a whisper, then entered an alley.
Checking the contents of the wallet in the darkness, there might not have been any gold coins, but there were five silver ones, and ten copper.
“Too easy. But that’s what happens when you’re me.”
The wallet itself would probably fetch a good price, but he had no desire to use it himself, and selling it off would be too much hassle. He discarded it in the alley, and went looking for a bar.
There was no shortage of places where it looked like he could get a stiff drink. Many stalls sold alcohol, and business was booming at all of them.
Ranta made a point of choosing the largest place he could find. It had an iridescent sign, the kind of thing orcs probably loved, and text written in the undead script, which looked like a mass of snakes had laid a large number of eggs. That was the place’s name, no doubt, but he couldn’t read it.
He pushed past some orcs who were shouting at one another by the entrance, and went inside.
It was a large establishment, with a high roof. Half of the first floor had an alcove that reached up to the ceiling, and there was a second and third floor, too.
Not every seat was full. The building was maybe at eighty or ninety percent of capacity, but it was still incredibly lively. It was so noisy, he could barely hear the multiracial band that was performing on the stage on the second floor.
The clientele were downing zwig, the green, foaming drink which was favored by the orcs, and dubrow, the milky, sour drink beloved by the undead, along with beer and distilled spirits, at an incredible pace.
Ranta held a copper coin between his thumb and forefinger, as if showing it off as he walked around the pub. He did this to prove he wasn’t penniless, and he had come here with money and the intent to drink. If he didn’t do something like that, then if the staff watched him closely, or if a rough customer picked a fight with him, he couldn’t object.
In one corner of the pub, there was a gray elf drinking. The table sat three, but he didn’t seem to have company. It looked like he was alone.
They were called gray elves because their white skin had an ashen tone to it. Their hair was silver, almost white, and their eyes were blood red. Their mouths were like simple slits. This one wore a mixture of pelts and chain mail, and he had a large pile of luggage at his side. The fingers that held his mostly transparent glass bore many rings, and his talon-like nails had a luster like obsidian. He looked incredibly ominous.
Ranta sat across from the gray elf without hesitation, then put the copper coin on the table as if pushing it towards him.
The gray elf glared at him. Then again, his face was practically expressionless. He might just be looking at Ranta. Still, he was inscrutable.
After some time had passed, a small waiter came. “Hey, hey, fatchoo doin’?
The waiter was a korrigan. They lived in the Plateau of Falling Ash, and their race was like humans shrunk down to half the size, with ash and rust rubbed into their skin for some reason. As far as Ranta
knew, when they formed into groups, they could get uppity and cause mischief. They were noisy, ridiculous, easygoing guys.
Ranta pointed at the gray elf’s cup, then held up two fingers. “This, two.”
“Jyah?!” The korrigan waiter jumped up, and banged on the table repeatedly. “Dahh, jen, johh!” Was he pissed, maybe?
Ranta laid out a second copper coin on the table. That still didn’t quell the korrigan’s anger.
“Dohh, dahh, johh, gihoa!”
He pulled a knife and swung it around, and looked ready to strike at any moment. Seriously?
Ranta kept putting copper coins on the table. At the eighth coin, the korrigan finally settled down. The waiter snatched up the copper coins, and skipped off humming.
“Four coppers apiece. Damn, that’s expensive stuff.” Ranta spoke in the human language despite himself.
The gray elf’s eyes narrowed. You... You, yuma... human?” “What if I am?” Ranta asked.
“I... report you. Here and now. Raise voice... Everyone hear. What happen to you?”
“Try it.” Ranta put his elbows down on the table, weaving his fingers together. “You know what’ll happen, I bet.”
“You... die. Here. Get killed.”
“Maybe I do. But before that, gray elf, I’ll be taking you with me.”
“Tch, tch, tch, tch...” The gray elf’s shoulders shook with a creepy laugh. “Business... with me? Human.”
“I want to go south.”
“...South. To Oortahna, I see.”
“Yeah.”
“Why... come to me?”
“You’re a shaman, right? You must travel around. I know there are gray elves like you, at least.”
“I am... not cheap.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I not know you. I am... very expensive. It cost you.” The gray elf tapped his nails on his cup.
Without taking his eyes off the gray elf, Ranta read the room around him. He could feel them. Eyes. Multiple pairs of them, too.
His skin tingled. This sensation. It made his throat feel awfully dry. The korrigan waiter brought two cups, and left them on the table.
“Thanku,” Ranta called out after the waiter, then hurriedly looked around.
There were at least two orcs looking his way. They weren’t dressed like the laborers, the slaves, or the modestly wealthy folks of this town. If anything, they were travelers like Ranta or the gray elf.
Ranta took his cup in hand. The cup was still half full of amber liquid. As befit its price, it looked like hard liquor.
“Looks like you’ve got your own situation,” Ranta said.
“Everyone does... until they die.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Wezelred,” said the grey elf, as if introducing himself.
“I’m Ranta, Wezelred. Mind if I call you Wezel?”
“’Kay, Ranta. I leave here... this pub.” It didn’t feel sudden.
“You do, and you’ll get attacked,” said Ranta immediately. Wezel nodded. “Then, afterwards, I hear your story. How that?” “Fine.” Ranta shifted his mask, and took a swig.
His dry throat burned with pain, and the smoky fragrance came out his mouth and nose.
His esophagus, and his stomach, they were hot.
He took a breath.
“You drink, too, Wezel. This one could be your last. Take your time, and enjoy it.”
Wezel smiled slightly, raised his cup, and took a sip.

5. Enemy
Ranta drank his spirits to the last drop, then left the pub.
He could see the back of Wezel, who had left the bar before him, off in the distance. The elf was carrying some awfully large luggage, but he seemed light on his feet, or at least his steps were smooth.
Two orcs had left the pub to go after Wezel, but Ranta didn’t see them now.
The mining town was filled with noise at night. The main streets were as congested as ever.
Ranta tailed Wezel at a distance.
It might not just be him; they could be watching Ranta, too. He was on his guard, but for the time being, he didn’t think he was being followed.
Wezel took a right turn. Immediately after, one of the people on the street quickened their pace.
That orc’s hair was a dull orange. He was suspicious.
The orange-haired orc turned the corner after the elf.
Ranta made a point of walking past the corner, rather than rounding it, and when he did, he spotted both Wezel and the orc.
Ranta turned right at the next corner, and started running. Then he took another right, and the moment he went into an alley, he heard a noise.
Wezel had fallen to the ground, and his things were scattered around. There were two orcs on the other side of him. The orangehaired orc from before, and another pink-haired orc.
The pink-haired orc had been in the pub.
“Personal skill...” Ranta laid his hand on the hilt of his katana, then instantly accelerated.
He leapt over Wezel.
The pink-haired orc was trying to clobber Wezel with some kind of fold-up club. It seemed he noticed Ranta, but by that time it was too late.
“Dazza?!” the orc shouted.
“...Time Flies Like a Dream.”
Ranta effortlessly severed the pink-haired orc’s head.
He wanted to say, That’s talent for you, but the fact was, though there had been quite a difference in power between them, it was easy to do this when someone was caught off-guard.
The remaining orange-haired orc went for the two handaxe-like blades that hung at his waist.
“Gash!” the orc yelled.
“You wanna go?” Ranta grinned.
Orange-hair was only maybe 180 centimeters tall. He wasn’t that thick, either. He was a lightweight, as far as orcs went. He was dualwielding axes, so he must have been the type that competed using speed and the number of moves he could employ.
Ranta unleashed a three-strike chain to test him, and Orange-hair deflected them all with his handaxes.
Ranta wasn’t going to start out underestimating the orc. He anticipated Orange-hair was a reasonably capable opponent. Those axes were dangerous. Plus, this was an orc, so he had more strength than appearances would suggest. Ranta couldn’t make light of those handaxes’ power.
He tried moving left, then right, to keep his opponent in check, but Orange-hair showed no sign of that movement disturbing him.
Ranta went for another swing, but it was deftly parried.
Orange-hair’s stance was low. He lowered his hips, bent his knees, and leaned forward. There was no wasted strength in his axewielding hands. He, like Ranta, was watching and waiting.
Orange-hair was cautious. Was he waiting for reinforcements? That seemed possible.
Guess I’ll hook him, Ranta decided in an instant, kicking backwards off the ground using his heels and the tips of his toes.
It was Exhaust.
As Ranta moved backwards as if he had been launched that way, Orange-hair charged in.
If Ranta had been in Orange-hair’s position, he’d have attacked now, too. That seemed to be the only option, the thing one ought to do, so Orange-hair did it. The orc’s choice was, by no means, a bad one.
However, it came half a second too late.
“O Darkness, O Lord of Vice.”
The true form of darkness, or perhaps malice made manifest, pooled in a horrifying miasma.
Then it formed a vortex.
“Dread Venom Wave.”
The miasma enveloped Orange-hair.
“Bugoh...?!” Alarmed, Orange-hair backed away, swinging his axes. That wasn’t going to dispel Skullhell’s miasma.
The poisonous gas permeated Orange-hair through every orifice in his body—no, even through his skin.
“Nnnnguh...!” Orange-hair’s whole body shuddered, and he foamed at the mouth.
That’s gotta be tough. Let me give you a hand. Ranta leapt over Wezel to strike at Orange-hair again.
He meant to settle this right away and put the orc out of his misery, but it looked like the orc was going to be stubborn a while longer.
Orange-hair used both handaxes to parry Ranta’s katana.
Dread Venom Wave was Ranta’s own original Dread Magic spell, made by forcibly combining Dread Venom and Dread Wave. It robbed the target of their life force, and enervated them as if they were suffering from a high fever.
Orange-hair had to be having a pretty hard time, but he wasn’t giving in.
“Glad to see it,” Ranta grunted. “—But still!”
He suddenly planted a front kick in Orange-hair’s gut. It hit him in the solar plexus, and even the orc had to go down after that.
“O Darkness, O Lord of Vice.” Ranta gripped his right wrist with his left hand. “Dread Aura.”
This rising miasma, was it an unending malice, a premonition of destruction? He accepted it with his whole being, and it made him seethe. He was seething.
This is the will of Skullhell. The Dark God commands me to kill.
Bring death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death. Death.
Unmistakable death. Nothing but death.
The overwhelming urge to kill activated every cell in his body, and that wasn’t really a contradiction. Life was connected to death. Life and death were laws.
“Secret Art—”
I am the bringer of death.
Ranta charged in with Leap Out, thrusting his katana.
Orange-hair was still struggling, and must have tried to twist out of the way. If he weren’t being violated by Dread Venom Wave, he might well have managed to dodge.
Instead, the katana plunged mercilessly through his throat.
There was an unmistakable end of life, a sensation of death, there.
“Blossoming of the Gaudy Flower.” As Ranta pulled his katana free, he pushed Orange-hair away.
Orange-hair was entirely dead. The dead could resist nothing, and when pushed away, the orc merely crumpled.
Wezel was sitting cross-legged on the ground. He had a knife in his hand. At first glance, it looked like the sort of thing you might give to a woman or child for self-defense, but it was nothing so cute. That blade contained a demonic glow, and it had sucked a terrifying amount of blood. It must have harbored some special power.
He was a creepy gray elf. He might have managed to handle his pursuers alone, without Ranta’s aid. If so, why had he made Ranta get his hands dirty? He had some ulterior motive here. Was that what it meant?
“So, why are they after you?” Ranta questioned.
“...You do not need to know.”
“Well, not like it matters.” Ranta laughed it off, then sheathed his katana.
It was a given that the gray elf had ulterior motives. Everyone had things they were carrying. At times, they couldn’t hold onto them, and they spilled out. And once they dropped them, it was all too common to be unable to get them back.
Wezel put away his knife, and began gathering up his scattered luggage.
“I, too, have business in the south,” he said.
Ranta helped out. “Oh, yeah?”
“There is a place I must go.”
“In other words, you and I could travel together, huh?” Ranta asked. “If you wish it... yes.”
Ranta stopped and asked himself: Am I being true to my own heart?
The answer was clear.
Yes, I am.
“Do you think there’s any reason I wouldn’t?” Ranta offered Wezel his right hand. “This should be a fun trip, Wezel.”
“Tch, tch, tch...”
Wezel’s shoulders simply heaved with ominous laughter, and he made no attempt to take Ranta’s hand.

6. Good
The red moon looked down as if laughing at them.
Wezel headed west and further west.
Ranta followed behind him, keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings as he walked.
It was dawn in the forest. He couldn’t even see his feet. Not that this scared him. Doing dangerous things was, well, dangerous. Even Ranta would, just occasionally, trip, or step on something weird and think, Ew. Creepy was creepy, you know? But still.
Wezel walked without hesitation, as though he could see clearly. That was strange, no matter how you looked at it.
“Hey,” Ranta put in.
“...What?”
“I’ve been wondering. Do you gray elves have good night vision?”
“Tch, tch, tch, tch...” Wezel had a good laugh, then stopped and beckoned Ranta.
It felt like he might stab Ranta if he carelessly wandered over, but if the elf was gonna do that, then so be it.
I’d cut him up before he could stab me. I mean, seriously, killing him’d be easy.
When Ranta walked over, Wezel spread both arms upwards, narrowing his eyes and breathing deeply.
His red pupils sparkled ominously. Like his eyes were shining. Did it just look like that? No, no matter how many times he checked, they really were shining.
“Ruwintimroti... Ruwingwinbodoichiewiris...”
It was a low voice, different from when he talked, far too low.
Was he chanting a spell?
“Yeruwifi...” Wezel continued. “Imatebuimugaruwado... Tiwiyesuburidirevad... Igolusingweldinoswun...”
Suddenly, Ranta heard another whisper, separate from Wezel’s chanting.
What was this?
There were many whispers, going back and forth, not in any particular language—but something was strange.
Ranta tried plugging his ears.
I knew it, he reflected. He could still hear them. Why could he still hear them?
“Is this... what shamans do?” Ranta asked hesitantly.
Wezel pointed both hands at him.
“Whoa!” Ranta’s threw his head back involuntarily.
He didn’t know what it was. It might have had no form, no mass, but something—that was all he could call it—something had come at him.
Not just come at him, but come inside him.
It flowed in, racing around his body.
“Hah?!” Ranta shouted.
Suddenly, his eyes brightened.
“It’s bright...!”
He felt like the glare of the sun was shining straight into his eyes.
Ranta blinked. Nothing changed. It was still bright.
“This is... incredible,” he said, awed.
“It is Mooncraft,” said Wezel. “The most basic kind.”
“If you had this kind of convenient magic, you could’ve cast it on me sooner,” Ranta griped. “It is not magic.”
“It’s close enough.”
“It is different. Completely different. They are similar, but not.”
Wezel started walking. His eyes must have been shining because of his shaman technique. If so, were Ranta’s eyes shining now, too?
Walking through the forest that seemed as bright as midday, Ranta realized it wasn’t always bright. It seemed that when the moon was behind the clouds, it got dark.
“Mooncraft, huh,” Ranta murmured. “I get it now.”
That aside, though, Wezel had strong legs. When they were resting, he didn’t lie down, just sat, and once they started walking again, he wouldn’t rest for quite a while.
Ranta had confidence in his own stamina, but he was in awe of Wezel’s toughness. Still, though, no matter what, he wouldn’t say, Uh, hey, I’m pooped. This’s tough. Let’s rest.
“Hold on,” Ranta said suddenly. “Weren’t we going south...?”
He had gotten sick of suffering in silence, so he’d just muttered that to himself, but Wezel actually engaged with him for once.
“You came from... where?” the gray elf asked.
“Thousand Valley.”
“South of there... the Nargia Highlands... did you cross them?”
“Nah. The security there was crazy tight, so I wasn’t getting through there.”
“...I’ll bet.”
“I went back and forth, wandering for over a year—going through the mountains, and stuff. I saw the Nehi Desert, too. Didn’t set foot in there, though, obviously.”
“Wise.”
“In the end... Let’s see, today would be the 1,113th day, so it’s been three years and change, huh.”
“South of here is...” Wezel looked towards the south for an instant. “...Lake Gandah. On the shore of that lake is what was once the city of Arabakia... Rodekia.”
“I know the name, but that’s it,” Ranta said. “It’s not Rodekia anymore, right?”
“Grozdendahl. It is a major base for the forces of the alliance.”
“The alliance—Wait, you don’t mean... the Alliance of Kings?”
“Tch, tch, tch...” Wezel’s shoulders heaved with laughter, but he gave no answer.
“The Alliance of Kings is gone now, isn’t it?” Ranta said slowly. “So why...?”
Long ago, the No-Life King had supported orcish, goblin, kobold, and gray elf kings, urged them to cooperate, and together they’d formed the Alliance of Kings.
The Alliance of Kings had destroyed human kingdoms like Ishmar, Nananka, and Arabakia one after another, and then, at the strong request of the orcish king and others, the No-Life King had become the emperor, establishing the Undying Empire.
However, when the No-Life King, who was supposed to be undying, had died, the situation had changed completely.
With no emperor appearing to succeed him, the Undying Empire had fallen into pieces. With the alliance fractured, the undead race created by the No-Life King now held power in the former lands of Ishmar, and the orcs were in the former lands of Nananka.
Meanwhile, the comparatively weaker goblins had put down roots in Damuro, while the kobolds set up a base in the Cyrene Mines.
That was the human understanding of the situation, at least.
But it had been a long time since Ranta’s departure from Alterna. The situation might have changed by now.
There was something about this that bugged him, or rather, something he remembered.
Soma had said there were signs indicating the revival of the No-Life King, and he’d established the Day Breakers to infiltrate Undead DC in the former domain of the Kingdom of Ishmar.
Ranta was, technically, a member of the Day Breakers, but he hadn’t been particularly close to Soma or any of the others. He hadn’t been given any detailed information, and it was unclear whether there were actually any signs warning of his return or not. Still, he didn’t think Soma was bluffing. Soma didn’t feel like the kind of guy who would do something that underhanded.
So the man had most likely found something out.
And, the fact was, the Alliance of Kings was on the move.
“Hey, Wezel,” Ranta spoke up. “What’s in Undead DC?”
“Ishidua Rohro. It is the home of King Ishi, the king of the undead.”
“Ishidua? Sounds familiar.”
“If so... that is not surprising.”
“Is he famous or something?” Ranta asked.
“King Ishi... was the prince of Arabakia.”
“Uh...?”
“He received the blood of the No-Life King... turning him into an undead. He was... a loyal vassal. The No-Life King’s closest associates... were the Five Princes. He was one of them.”

Chapter end