Episode 3-a. The Flower That Smells of Rotting Corpses (6)

Adventurers, or travelers. The resonance of those words always lingered long in people's hearts.

They pressed on toward the unknown, pioneering new paths. Each had their own cherished dream. Wealth, honor, a lover, or something else entirely. Small wishes or grand ones, unique to every individual.

Some longed to visit the vast forest where elves dwelled, others craved a legendary sword forged by dwarves. The two kids trailing behind me dreamed grandly of ending wars, while the scrawny guy clumsily playing doctor harbored the absurd hope of curing all diseases.

A certain noble lady dreamed of the common folk's happiness, and the lone dwarf elder perhaps dreamed for his clan's long-held wishes. I had dreams too. Vague ones, utterly ridiculous, propelling me forward.

It started with a simple thought from my childhood: save that one gray-haired woman. But taking that first step toward that modest dream, I looked ahead and saw the destination lost in the distant horizon.

For me, saving one woman meant reshaping the entire world. Before long, adventure and travel had taken on that meaning.

And no matter how big or small, every adventurer and traveler had to step into danger for their dreams. Venturing into the unknown meant embracing its perils—that's what made someone ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠worthy of the title.

Even if it led to death, they took another step, then another, for what they desired. Many perished abruptly, their stories ending without reaching their dreams.

Still, everyone pressed on, hoping they wouldn't be the ones with the tragic ending.

When I asked where ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the three were, the middle-aged villager chuckled.

"Heh heh, those three? Probably up ahead by the flower."

"That's just it—I can't see them at all, sir."

I pointed near the flower, but if my eyes weren't failing me, there was no sign of their distinctive outfits. The villager scratched his head in exasperation and headed toward the flower.

"Hmm, maybe the flower's too close. Come here, young man. How's your eyesight this bad already...?"

He beckoned me over, his back straight despite the morning's labor picking fruit. He hadn't rubbed his back once, strolling leisurely as always. The old man ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I'd met in the village was the same, and so were all the villagers harvesting here.

I passed the glancing locals and approached the flower, but still no three people. I spoke ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠up again.

"Sir, sorry, but I still don't see them..."

"Aigoo, didn't realize your sight was this poor. Look closely—there they are."

The man turned with a calm face, raising his hand slowly to point at the flower. And then—

Thud. As I got close enough, someone shoved me hard from behind. I didn't fall, but it was like they were forcing me to touch the flower.

"..."

"See? Right there."

Forced right up to the flower, I finally saw them as the villager said. Even then, I half-wondered if it was a joke—their relaxed faces, gestures, everything seemed too ordinary.

I clung to that delusion until I confirmed the faint shapes of three people shimmering inside the stem.

"...Are they alive?"

The forms flickered, too vague to tell life from death.

"Heh heh, not sure ourselves. Why not ask them directly?"

"...Hoo."

No need to glance back at the villagers—the roots writhed, snaring my ankles and wrists. Maybe the villager was right; going inside to check might be fastest.

The roots gripping my ankles and wrists dragged me slowly toward the stem. In other words...

The flower's rotting corpse stench was real—the foul odor from devouring and decomposing creatures. I'd thought it just a smelly rafflesia, but it was a carnivorous nepenthes that ate people too.

"It started with villagers."

"..."

The roots tightened on my legs, pulling me closer, as an indifferent voice came from behind.

"Back in my youth, we sacrificed useless ones now and then. Sadly, it was often the village elders or the infirm first."

"You murdered innocents and call it sad?"

"Well... humans are like that. They only cherish themselves and their own."

Even as I listened, strength drained from where I was gripped.

"Stories say we once offered only beasts, but not in my lifetime."

"..."

A flower that stole life force, bearing blood-red, round fruits like droplets.

"Then I thought: why us? If outsiders sacrificed a little, everyone could be happy. Adventurers risk death anyway—they're prepared, right?"

"...You crazy bastards."

"Heh heh, cursing changes nothing. We just didn't want to die."

The villagers called this flower their treasure, eating its monthly fruits. No one looked ill or weak—perhaps thanks to that.

"But we couldn't break the ancient tradition passed down. So we thought: if sacrifices are needed, why must it be us?"

"..."

Long-term consumers of life-force fruits from adventuring sacrifices wouldn't see such things. And as that thought lingered...

Figures rushed desperately from the distant hill: a dwarf with a bloodied hammer, two kids and a white-robed man clutching vials. The villagers stared at me and the flower, oblivious.

"Adventurers can die anywhere—why not here? Send strong ones away unharmed."

"...Unbelievable."

They even phrased it politely, implying I looked like easy prey. Fuckers.

"So, time to go peacefully."

"Go my ass, you bastard."

"Heh heh, they say foul mouths mean weakness—you must be very weak."

Gratitude demanded a generous gift. I rummaged in my pouch, pulling out precious one-use bombs—worth a month's pay at Rendo's, saved unused. Clutching a handful worth my severance, I eyed the drooling stem.

"Yeah, yeah, you ugly fuck of a flower. Eat up and grow big."

I take back calling it fairy-like at night. Up close, it was just dick-shaped. Long pillar, flashy head—like a real man's cock.

"Hm? What are you—"

"Feeding the flower, asshole."

I punched my fist in, planting the stones in the squishy interior, yanking it out fast. Even briefly, life force drained badly—my hand trembled.

"That fucking bastard...!"

I flipped them off with that hand, drawing my sword to sever the ankle roots. But they were tough; weak swings from bound hands barely cut.

Unlike the softer stem, these roots resisted my unpowered blade. As I hacked away, villagers charged with hoes and rakes, eyes bulging.

"Kill him! Shame to waste, but this fucker dies!"

Listen to them. Strangers would think I was the criminal. I glanced at my approaching comrades and bellowed.

"Horn!!"

"Aye! Hammer time!!"

Splat. A villager's head vanished. Brains and blood sprayed; chaos erupted. Aberly's rattling coughs followed, his and the kids' vials bursting, worsening the frenzy.

Some still raged toward me, but I had no time—ducking low.

BOOM!! I'd timed the explosion; getting caught meant death too. The thick stem behind me erupted with a roar, spewing squishy sap.

Onrushing villagers vanished without screams, only ankles left. I hacked free of the roots, catching the three forms spilling from the stem.

"Aaaah...! Help me he—urk."

Villagers' eyes were on Horn swinging his hammer. My attackers were obliterated; the flower teetered, stem half-blown.

But my focus was elsewhere. We'd only shared a barn for days, but...

These adults were too light. Even drained, carrying them while running was easy. I rushed to Aberly, setting them down gently.

"...Aberly, they're alive, right?"

"Just a moment. I'll check."

Coughing, he rose, examining despite confusion, eyes serious.

Half-mummified. Arum Solis's firm muscles were gone, withered; the two women skeletal.

Aberly checked carefully, feeding them medicine.

"They're breathing faintly, so I gave restoratives and nutrients. But... honestly, they won't wake soon."

"..."

Their mummy-like state said it all. No priests or modern medicine here—saving them seemed laughable. Still.

If they were childhood friends, first loves, planning a cozy life together. If he'd laughed about building a family with kids...

At least open your eyes out of courtesy to your rescuers, you damn Gold Sun and gals.

I crammed handfuls of red fruit into their mouths. Behind, screams and Horn's shouts, but I focused on squeezing juice into their vomiting mouths.

How much time passed? I left feeding to Aberly and the kids, finishing with Horn.

Thud. The stem collapsed. Sword useless; more bombs severed it.

Beneath the oozing sap: corpses from Horn's hammer and my blade. Healthy men dead, prized flower ruined—only defeated elders, women, kids remained.

Ridiculously, only their grief lingered. Resentful glares from those who'd lived off others' sacrifices.

"...Feels like we're the villains."

"If they lived killing others, they should've expected death too."

Horn tsked bitterly; I replied calmly, watching.

People say adventurers embrace death, but their passing brings grief. Their lives, chasing dreams, weren't cheaper—perhaps more precious for that resolve.

No one wants to end as food for a man-eating flower. Shaking off the thought, I headed to the barn.

Inside, the three looked better but eyes still shut. We stayed days more—they'd die from a bump in a cart.

Abandoning transport plans, we nursed them on straw.

"Aberly, their status?"

"Th-their condition's improving, but eyes won't open yet. Feeding the fruit as you said speeds recovery—that's good news..."

"I see. Still too risky for the cart?"

"Hm... my view? Should be f-fine now..."

Reachable in days—blessed luck. I tsked like Horn.

"Load 'em in their cart. Horn drives ours; I'll take theirs to the next city."

"Y-yeah, let's!"

Time to go—overdue, but now essential. Didn't want to see this place.

The cart rattled on, packed with red fruits. Sap, petals, stem, roots for Aberly's research.

We gained much from this rest stop. Aberly called it promising for research.

So unease, their mummy forms, resentful stares—irrelevant. Brush it off, stick to purpose.

Of course, the nagging discomfort remained.

Driving the rattling cart, I muttered quietly.

"Feels shitty, really."

Corpse stench clung to my clothes. In town, long shower and wash to cleanse.

That is, if not for the weak voice from behind.

"Haha... bro. What's got you so down...?"

"...You."

"Th-thanks... bro. You saved us, haha..."

He laughed weakly, calling me bro. Without that, I'd stew in discomfort.

"You little sh—"

"Haha... all three of us... alive. Lucky..."

"You idiots, if you're weak sauce, live carefully—got it?"

But rough words spilled inevitably.

"Heh, finally casual with me...? Haha... ugh. Sorry... can't talk... more..."

That familiar, noisy voice eased my tension. Relief sighed out; my stiff back slumped against the seat.

The village faded. Left: ruined flower, corpses, resentful survivors, three with permanent scars.

And blood-drop-like red fruits.

A tiny village and a bizarre flower. One massive bloom emitting rotting corpse stench, yet bearing sweet fruit.