Chapter 36
Chapter: 36
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>Translator: penny
>Chapter: 36
>Chapter Title: Aslan of the Western Mountains (3)
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>Aslan and Bart returned to the village clearing just as the sun was beginning to set. Night came quickly in the mountains.
"For now, tomorrow we'll start gathering herbs first thing in the morning. We need to show Jerome some results, so brace yourself for an early climb."
Bart was staring silently up at the mountainside, lost in thought.
What a blank expression.
"Shall we rest then? Until you get a place to stay, you're welcome at my hut for now."
As Aslan started leading him toward his own dwelling, he spotted a figure approaching them and stopped in his tracks.
It was a gaunt woman staggering along, her face hard to make out in the dim twilight. But Aslan recognized her from the odd twist of her left arm.
Marta. Jerome's poor wife, who got beaten every day.
Up close, her face still held the refined lines of what must have been stunning beauty in her youth, but the harsh life in the slash-and-burn village and Jerome's violence had aged her beyond her years.
Dark circles under her eyes and a perpetually melancholic expression made her look like a long-term invalid.
In a thin, trembling voice, she asked Aslan,
"Dear... Aslan. Have you seen our Kaien by any chance?"
"Oh, no. Sorry, Marta. I haven't."
"That boy went off with Jerome. Didn't you hear anything when you came by our house earlier today?"
Aslan could guess why she was so anxious. She must have thought Jerome had dragged Kaien off somewhere to beat him again.
Aslan didn't care what happened to a rotten kid like Kaien, but he felt sorry for Marta worrying about her son. As he shook his head apologetically, she bit her lip as if about to cry and staggered away from them.
Aslan watched her go for a while before clicking his tongue and muttering,
"She's really pitiful. They say she was dragged here by Jerome in her youth and has been stuck with him ever since, living a life of constant beatings. When Jerome loses it, he's no joke. She can't even leave because of her son, but that son... what a piece of work."
But Bart stared after Marta as she disappeared down the path and said something inexplicable.
"That woman isn't worried about her son."
"......?"
"You're in danger too, Aslan."
Bart turned to him and asked out of the blue,
"Have you ever incurred resentment from that boy named Kaien?"
"...Huh?"
Aslan blinked.
Resentment? Wasn't that kid just a jerk who hated everyone?
Come to think of it, he did seem to glare extra viciously whenever Aslan passed by.
"I'm not sure? Why do you ask all of a sudden......"
Aslan trailed off dumbly, a chill suddenly creeping over him. In the darkness, Bart's eyes seemed to gleam with an eerie light. The clear gray irises he had thought them to be now shimmered with a strange metallic silver sheen.
"If you must climb that mountain tomorrow, at least stick to areas you don't usually go and move cautiously."
"......"
What basis do you have for saying that, when you just arrived in this village? No such retort even crossed his mind.
It was an uncanny sensation.
A chilling feeling, like standing before someone who could see right through him. His heart sank as if he'd heard an command he absolutely could not defy.
So the boy could only swallow and nod.
* * *
The next morning, the two set out for the mountains at dawn.
Aslan had been a bit bothered by what Bart said the day before, so he decided to check out the abandoned fields beyond the usual paths today.
As he led Bart along the trail past the clearing toward the fields, he felt eyes boring into them—unlike usual.
"......?"
When Aslan turned curiously, the ones staring quickly looked away and pretended to go about their business. Most were from Jerome's band of raiders who had come over from Rohan.
'...What's that about?'
They weren't saying anything, just watching, so though suspicious, he had no choice but to keep going.
Pushing aside his growing unease, he quickened his pace. To gather enough from new spots, he needed to hurry.
Climbing unfamiliar trails, Aslan worried a little. Starting work with a new partner, what if they gathered less than usual? Would an angry Jerome just kill Bart?
But it was just unfounded worry.
Bart found herbs like a ghost. Whenever he stared at a spot, a patch of rare herbs would mysteriously appear nearby.
Does he have a great nose for herb scents, like a hunting dog?
Thanks to that, Aslan's mouth fell open; he had braced to scour the whole mountain.
The problem was he was useless at the actual gathering. Every time Bart reached for a herb patch, his heavy manacles and chains crushed the nearby plants.
Nor was only the herbs damaged. Even slight movements left thick gashes on his skin from the cuffs. Aslan clicked his tongue at Bart's wrists, already covered in scratches and bruises.
"I'll gather the herbs. Just leave them and sit over there in the shade."
At his words, Bart slumped dejectedly into the corner of the tree shade. It was almost funny seeing this man, who wouldn't flinch at Jerome beating someone to death or a blind hammer swing, looking so wilted.
How on earth had his wrists stayed pristine before?
Fortunately, finding herbs took less time, so Aslan alone could gather plenty.
Feeling a bit more at ease, he worked busily and struck up conversation with Bart.
"Bart. You said you researched plagues before? Did you follow a particular school?"
It was something he'd heard from Seymour, an apothecary he'd known. According to him, some apothecaries focused on plagues themselves, forming plague societies.
There were traditional schools in the plague societies, and the most radical one had faced heresy charges a few years back, with all members executed.
The Devil's Plague Society. Maybe Bart's stigma came from ties to that radical group, Aslan guessed.
"Were you part of the Devil's Plague Society by any chance?"
"Not Devil's Plague Society—the official name is the Kshantara Plague Society."
Bart replied indifferently. He rested his chin on his knee, staring blankly somewhere, eyes unfocused—lost in thought rather than observing.
"There were always heresy debates, but if they dug through every plague research record, no society would escape punishment. What brought them down was internal fractures among members."
According to him, the key evidence in the trial came from internal research documents leaked by society members.
As the most radical group, fierce debates were common, and two members who fell out badly enough to harbor grudges denounced each other.
What kind of bullshit internal drama is that.
"It was a society with many achievements, but all those valuable records burned in the end. A shame."
He sounded wistful, but apparently wasn't a member himself.
"After that, most plague societies went underground. It'll take them a while to resurface."
"Hmm, I see."
After that, they exchanged various stories. Mostly about the herbs they were gathering, and as Jerome predicted, Bart was quite talented as an apothecary.
Even Aslan, who thought he'd learned properly from Seymour for years, paled in comparison; Bart knew a vast amount about herbs.
"My first mentor was more traditionalist. He devoted his life to revealing herb efficacies and cultivation methods."
Bart explained in a quiet tone.
"The apothecary who taught you seems to follow the Adelheit School, which connects plague symptoms and remedies concisely—less focus on herbs themselves."
He called it a fine school dominant among the capital's young apothecaries. Seymour must have been even greater than Aslan thought.
Eventually, the talk turned to Aslan's past.
Bart listened attentively to Aslan's rambling, especially intrigued by Rohan's deer traps. He even let out a small gasp of admiration at how Aslan picked up basic circulation methods and awakened his aura on his own.
Then, as Aslan was recounting a tense escape from Rohan's subjugation squad,
"Aslan."
Bart suddenly cut him off, calling his name.
"We need to head back to the village now."
What? We haven't gathered enough yet.
The sun hadn't even reached noon high. But Bart's face, standing and gazing toward the village, was gravely serious, so Aslan hurriedly packed his herbs and tools and stood.
There was an irresistible force in the words Bart said with a straight face.
Plus, absorbed in talk and working nonstop, they'd gathered more than expected.
When they hurried to the village clearing, quite a crowd had gathered, buzzing.
They huddled around something, whispering. As Aslan approached, they glared at him with hardened faces.
"Aslan."
Jerome, standing in the center, called him.
"You're back earlier than usual. Did you go near the waterfall today by any chance?"
Aslan swallowed. The eastern waterfall was where he often gathered moonbutter grass. There were small traps nearby—he should have checked them today.
"I came back early to check the traps by the waterfall. Today we went around the fields behind the north side."
"I see."
Jerome glanced around casually, and some nodded. Aslan spotted among them the ones who had watched him intently before heading up the mountain that morning.
'This... what's going on?'
A bad premonition hit.
Jerome eyed Aslan's face, then stepped forward, ordering the men in the clearing.
"Search every inch around the waterfall for spy evidence. Report anyone with suspicious movements today—no exceptions."
"Yes!"
"Yeah, boss."
As most of the men rushed off, Aslan finally saw what they had been crowding around.
A corpse. One of Jerome's raiders, especially cocky.
Conrad, was it? Aslan recalled him yesterday, drunk and boasting about raiding Asane's trading caravan.
A dagger was buried in his back, eyes wide open in death. One ankle broken at a grotesque angle, all fingernails ripped out like he'd been tortured.
Spy. Jerome had said spy.
A cold sweat chilled his spine, body shivering. Standing quietly in the clearing, sorting his thoughts, Jerome's son Kaien—who hadn't left—limped over. His already fierce sanpaku eyes gleamed unnaturally white.
Thump-thump. As he reached Aslan's side, Kaien twisted his lips in a grin and whispered in his ear.
"...You catch on quick, you little shit."