ReadNovel Chapter 190 : Chapter 190
Chapter 190 : Chapter 190
Chapter 190: The Masterless Wasteland (2)
- Cyurio.
Letters were being inscribed across the blank page.
The nib of the fountain pen was busy above the white space.
- Cyurio, the eastern border city of the Holy Numeros Empire.
Is this the right way to write it.
Monica thought, pen held to her lips.
Letters were hard. Making them legible for oneself was one thing, but making them legible for others was harder still.
Words were even harder. A thing formed when letters clumped together. To complete what was called a word, one had to memorize spellings. And what of sentences. And paragraphs. Monica's hand did not keep faithfully to the rules embedded in letters. Not only was her form poor, she frequently broke rules of grammar. As though she had trouble blending into the rules of language, just as she had trouble blending into the rules of society.
- Take a look.
- At what.
- That girl over there.
- Ah, one-armed, is she.
- Today's fortune must be wretched. To have witnessed a curse of the Main Gods.
- That's too harsh. Is disability really a stern punishment sent down by the Main Gods? I think a little differently.
- What is it then.
- I couldn't say. How about we argue it over a coffee. Come to think of it, I had a gold coin in my pocket......
- Do you have one.
- No.
- Oh, good. Let's go.
- Hold on. I've a silver coin.
- Tch!
- Take it, one-armed girl. No need to thank me.
Clink.
A single silver coin dropped beside Monica.
Two men were looking at Monica. The man who hadn't tossed the coin looked annoyed, and the man who had tossed it wore an excessively bright expression.
These two are really putting on a show. Thinking that, Monica thrust forward the toe of her boot. She kicked the silver coin away, then lowered her head. She had been trying her hand at the journal.
- Monica Lohengrin.
First of all, she had written her own name.
A sandy wind brushed across the ink inscribed on the white page.
Where Dauane, the western border city, was humid, Cyurio, the eastern border city, was arid. A gravel desert encircled and besieged the city, while the iron towers raised throughout it were spattered with magic circles. It seemed the magic circles inscribed on the iron towers were artificially adjusting the climate.
- Fredrick, Harrison, Luciano, Geoffrey, Gregory......
Monica listed names.
They were the names of men who had lived in Sarrifis.
Abel had stopped by the 'Wasteland Crossing Office' on business. The script engraved on the office's signboard was more mature than Monica's. Monica looked back and forth between the letters written in her journal and the letters preserved on the signboard. A sigh welled up.
- Kristin, Francis, Gemma, Erica, Katrina......
Monica listed names again.
They were the names of women who had lived in Sarrifis.
When is Professor Argento going to come out. Monica mulled the thought over, lips working. She had already been waiting outside the office for thirty minutes. Sitting on a bench formed of hardened earth, it was too uncomfortable. Whether the far west or the far east, the situations of these cities were both poor.
- Fleur de Saint-Pierre.
I wish I could write a little more neatly.
Monica thought so, and,
- Dorian, and Gilbert Lohengrin.
And so, she didn't notice.
Just as she was writing down her mother's and father's names,
"Hey, kid."
Flop.
The presence of a man sitting down beside her.
"What are you doing out here. I'm freezing to death."
"I'm waiting for my teacher."
Monica raised her head.
Within her amber eyes, the man's figure took its place. Mid-thirties, perhaps? The coppery skin typical of easterners, along with sharply drawn eyes. At a glance, the man's impression resembled a bird of prey.
"I am, really. I'm not begging."
"Who said you were? Why don't you eat this."
The man rummaged inside the paper bag cradled in his arms.
Before long he held out a wrapped loaf of bread.
"It's called ciabatta. Made with flour, yeast, and water and salt. It'll be good."
"I told you I'm not begging."
"Who said anything about that? I'm just saying let's share."
The man set the ciabatta down beside Monica.
Then he began chomping on his own ciabatta. Monica stared quietly at the man for a while, then took a bite out of the ciabatta he'd given her. It didn't seem to be poisoned.
"Good?"
"It's nutty."
"Name?"
"Monica Lohengrin."
Monica picked up her journal.
She showed the part where she'd written her own name.
"Monica Lohengrin?"
The man's eyes narrowed.
He glared at the journal and shook his head.
"How in the world is that Monica Lohengrin. You wrote 'Maunica Luhengron' or something."
"I'm bad at handwriting, that's all."
"'Bad' is an understatement."
A goat could manage better than this.
The man murmured.
"Anyway, eat this. Corn bread. Made by steaming a dough of cornmeal. It'll be good."
"......I'm full."
"Eat it anyway. You have to pack on some weight to endure this god-awful cold. You're too skinny."
The man held out a wrapped piece of corn bread, and Monica reluctantly accepted it. She still had more than half of the ciabatta left.
"Why don't you let me see that fountain pen? Looks pretty expensive."
"Are you a robber, by any chance?"
"Where would you find a robber this handsome. Besides, sooner than steal a fountain pen......"
I'd kidnap you.
You'd sell for a much higher price.
The man whispered, and,
"Give it a try, if you can."
Monica gave a shrug.
"I wouldn't go down easily."
"Alright, alright, just hand it over."
The man snatched the fountain pen as though swiping it.
Then he wrote letters down across Monica's journal. With a flowing hand like rippling water, as if scrawling a picture rather than characters.
- Nizam Hashemi Rafsanjani.
The man's name was inscribed in the blank space.
It was the typical kind of name found among easterners.
"That's my name."
"Writing it without asking, what am I supposed to do. I can't even erase it."
"You can remember it or forget it, either way. Call me Mr. Nizam."
And also......, and.
Nizam murmured as he rummaged in the paper bag.
Before long a new piece of bread was held out.
"Eat this too. Croissant. There's cream inside. It'll be ridiculously good."
"I'm really, really full."
"Meaning you want me to force-feed you, I take it."
Good, good, and.
Nizam murmured as if singing.
Peeling the wrapper off the croissant, he went on.
"Listen well, kid. You have to be able to put away three or four loaves of bread easily. You can't avoid it. If you don't eat well, you can't live well. I'll help you out, so you just open your mouth meekly and......"
"──Who are you."
Then, a shadow covered Nizam's body.
Nizam snickered. A faint killing intent seemed to be piercing through the gap in his hand. As he slowly lifted his head to look straight ahead, a bastard sword that looked as if it had rotted in a bog was pointed at him. Ash-pile silver hair and black-blue eyes deep as a swamp. Held in the hand of a man whose appearance resembled a plaster statue.
"Wowww."
Nizam raised both arms high.
"Nizam Hashemi Rafsanjani, at your service. How about we put the sword away and talk it over?"
Abel.
Mr. Abel Argento.
Nizam murmured, and,
"Nizam Hashemi Rafsanjani."
Abel withdrew his sword.
He then glanced over the paperwork held in his left hand.
It was the paperwork issued by the clerk of the 'Wasteland Crossing Office.' The personal information of Nizam, the specialist who was to act as guide for Abel and Monica, was written on it.
"So you're the guide."
"The one and only! Truly a pleasure."
Nizam pushed himself up off the bench.
He spread both arms wide in an exaggerated greeting, then held out his hand toward Abel.
"Shall we shake on it? My family has been guiding this godforsaken land for generations. Trust me and leave it to me."
"We'll be heading beyond the border. The former territory of the Vianchiel Kingdom is our destination."
Abel clasped hands with Nizam.
Honing his black-blue eyes to a sharp edge, he put a question forward.
"Will you manage? It won't be an easy road."
"Of course! This land has never been easy."
Nizam bared his back teeth and grinned.
"Didn't I tell you, I've been guiding this land for generations. The Rafsanjani family has existed a full thousand years. Meaning we've been traversing the wasteland since before the Vianchiel Kingdom fell."
So allow me to ask.
There's something I'm curious about, Abel.
Nizam whispered.
"Lilith Problem."
Who on earth is she?
***
Lilith Problem.
Abel recalled her final moments.
The Saintess of Foresight whom he had seen in the domain of the God of Oblivion, in the Lost Library.
Lilith had been able to observe the future. Perhaps that was why, even being driven to execution as a witch, she had remained firm to the end. Were the arrangements left behind by Lilith, dead a thousand years ago, still reaching him? Most likely so. The Saintess of Foresight was lending Abel her aid from a far-off past.
"Passed down through the generations, you said?"
Meanwhile, Nizam spoke up.
Sprawled out carelessly on the bed.
"A commission from a woman called Lilith Problem. At least a thousand years ago. Said to one day guide a man called Abel Argento. A truly curious matter. How could a woman who lived a thousand years ago know your name? Wouldn't you say?"
They had just arrived at the inn.
Abel and Nizam were sharing a room, and Monica had been given one of her own. The sun had already set, so heading out into the wasteland at once was out of the question. The three of them had decided to rest for a day and depart in the early morning.
"So, Mr. Abel, say something. What in the world is going on?"
"I don't know."
You are too talkative.
Abel murmured.
"I get told that a lot!"
Heh heh.
Laughing shamelessly, Nizam sat on the edge of the bed.
"It's all the result of training, you see. To guide travelers across open wilderness, you need a silver tongue. You have to memorize at least five hundred jokes."
"I dislike jokes."
I will step out for a while.
Look after Monica.
Abel murmured.
Taking up his cherished sword sealed in its scabbard.
"Going out for a walk by yourself?"
Nizam hugged a pillow to himself.
Tilting his head, he went on.
"Better hold back on that. Nights are dangerous. Lately some strange religion has been spreading in Cyurio......"
"I know."
Abel gazed beyond the window of the inn.
Beyond the dust-streaked glass, Cyurio's scenery unfolded.
Unlike the capital, electric lamps had not been distributed. A few scattered torches were embroidering the city in small points of light. Cyurio bordered the former territory of the Vianchiel Kingdom, and it was likely the point the Parousia Denomination had penetrated most rapidly. And so Abel meant to observe the movements here.
"I am a paladin."
Abel took a step.
Passing Nizam, he stood facing the door of the room.
"If a cult is misleading the people, to cut it down is my work."
"Ohh. Now that's rather cool."
"It is not cool."
Creak.
The archway door opened.
"I'll be back in the morning. Take care of Monica."
Creak, again.
The archway door closed.
"Hmmm."
Nizam stuck out his lower bottom lip.
He thought for just a moment, then, index finger raised, nodded a few times.
"So it must be fate."
It must be.
It must be fated to be this way.
Nizam murmured.
"Lilith Problem, Saintess of Foresight......"
.
.
.
Deep in the night, the alleyways of Cyurio.
Abel stepped along without destination.
There was no particular place he was heading. He followed the endlessly dividing streets. Sometimes wherever his feet took him, sometimes in a direction deliberately different, now toward a busy thoroughfare, now toward a shadowed alley. In the end, it didn't matter where Abel headed.
He simply looked closely. Traditional houses made of packed sand spread in every direction, and the passersby were wrapped in thick cloth as they moved. By some person, or by some animal. Along the roadside, on the walls, somewhere else — it would surely have been left behind.
Every trace Lilith had left, having foreseen all of this in advance.
- Abel Argento.
And so, Abel found it.
In the middle of a wall lining an alleyway, amid gaudy murals, Abel's name had been inscribed in small letters.
Abel ran his fingers over it.
- How does it feel? The world a thousand years later.
Lilith's writing was too faded.
Naturally enough, given the passage of so much time. It seemed the writing had been barely preserved only because it had been scraped into the wall with a stone.
Abel walked along keeping his hand on the wall. With his fingertips he traced and read the words Lilith had left. Lilith's messages had been written along Abel's path.
- There isn't much I can do for you.
Leaving behind writing like this is about all of it.
But I hope it helps.
Because......
Abel brought his steps to a halt.
Then he gazed at the wall.
Dyes of every color had formed a mural there. The image of a praying woman. A mural of a woman who looked like Lilith caught Abel's eye.
- It's going to be a hard task.
Abel turned to look back.
With his back to the mural, he groped along its surface.
Lilith's writing came under his fingers again.
- Because most of those you'll have to stand against......,
Meanwhile, a certain old woman came to a stop across from Abel.
An old woman draped in a thick robe. The eyes revealed through a gap in the robe had no focus. She seemed to be blind.
- Will, in the end, be nothing but the powerless and the weak.
Lilith's writing could no longer be traced.
But it was enough. Abel could clearly understand the meaning Lilith's words conveyed.
"──Gather."
The old woman parted her lips, and,
'Lilith Problem's words are right.'
Abel gave a single nod.
"A new god has delivered His words to us."
Just as the old woman's words ended,
Silhouettes revealed themselves from between the alleys.
Without exception they were vagrants, and believers of the Parousia Denomination.
'In the end, they are nothing but the weak......'
And for that reason, it is easy for them to become the wicked as well.
Just as Abel was thinking,
- Let there be light!
- Let there be light!
- Let there be light!
A throng gathered in great numbers cried out with one voice, and,
"Before long, upon this land, alongside the new god soon to be born......"
The blind old woman twisted her rapture-drenched lips and shouted.
"──Let there be light for the God of the coming Parousia!"