Chapter 7: The Unattractive Flower (3)
Chapter 7: The Unattractive Flower (3)
Translation: Godtl
"Oh, look at the little porter. At least you've got some sense."
"No, he's got no sense at all, boss. If it were me, I'd have bolted the moment I noticed someone following."
"You sure you're a porter? Lighting a fire in the Demon Realm and just sitting there... You've got guts spilling out of your belly. Or are you just determined to die?"
The trio emerging from the shadows were thoroughly armed.
While being armed in the Demon Realm was to be expected, aiming a crossbow at someone was an entirely different matter.
"Hmm."
It was true—the Demon Realm had changed significantly.
Compared to when Jurgen had stood on the frontlines as a knight, the current Demon Realm was practically a different place in terms of danger and atmosphere.
But Jurgen knew.
Time could change mountains, rivers, and even the Demon Realm, but it could never change the malice in men's hearts.
Certain kinds of people, the monotonous evil they committed—no matter how much time passed or how the era changed, they would continue to taint this kingdom.
"So you're outlaws after all."
"'After all'? You talk like you knew."
"He's putting on airs. If he really knew, he'd have run long ago."
"If you do anything stupid, I'll put another hole in that forehead of yours. Stay quiet."
Criminals who had established themselves in the Demon Realm were called "outlaws."
Their main sources of income were tax evasion through smuggling, human trafficking, and plundering adventurers.
A chronic disease of the Demon Realm, they were the primary reason adventurers feared humans more than monsters.
Ethan bared his yellowed teeth in a smirk and rolled up his sleeve triumphantly.
"Seems you're mistaking us for some no-name thugs. Even someone with no education should recognize this."
His lackeys proudly displayed the tattoos on their forearms one after another.
The mark was familiar even to Jurgen's eyes.
"The Jet Black Group."
A tattoo pattern resembling a viper's fangs.
A criminal organization that made the Red Swamp in the northwest reward room of the Labyrinth Demon Realm's fifth floor their den.
The fact that their main territory was the fifth floor meant they were formidable.
They were vicious criminals most adventurers wouldn't even want to associate with.
"Got the picture now? Let's behave ourselves, yeah? Don't make this difficult."
Ethan was confident that simply showing the tattoo would smooth things over.
After all, his opponents were a sleeping little girl and a porter with nothing special about him.
Still, as an elite criminal, Ethan preferred to be thorough.
The girl in the red dress who had utterly humiliated him half a day ago.
Her behavior was amateurish, and she had no manners to speak of, but the fact that she'd made it this far was proof she had something to back her up.
The palette at her waist suggested she was probably an alchemist.
The original plan—joining their party and then stabbing them in the back—had failed, but as long as the result was good, the process didn't matter.
"What do you want from me?"
"Quietly put these restraints on the girl. Don't wake her."
"Mana Shackles. Haven't seen these in a while. More than that, you lot seem quite accustomed to this sort of thing."
"What kind of nonsense are you spouting? Just put the damn shackles on!"
"And after the restraints are on, what do you intend to do?"
"Boss, should I just handle it? This guy looks so clueless I doubt he'll do it right."
"Spare me, please. I'm sorry. I'm so scared my knees are shaking. Just give me a little time, and I'll definitely put them on."
The porter's groveling drew sneers.
"Keh heh heh, we'll take everything you've got first, then have some fun. After that, we'll sell you off."
"If you cooperate nicely, yeah? We might let you enjoy yourself a bit too."
A putrid excitement swirled around them like a pack of hyenas spotting rotten meat.
"Can't we just let this go? Pretend we never met from the beginning."
A brief silence was followed by raucous laughter.
"Bwahahaha!!"
"What a funny bastard."
"Hey, you little shit. Are you insane? We've been tailing you all day, and you want us to go back empty-handed?"
"Shut up and put them on. Looks like you're waiting for her to wake up. If things go south, we can just blow both your heads off and be done with it."
This wasn't baseless bravado.
Even if the woman were to rise and resist, being three against one gave them confidence they could subdue her.
An alchemist caught unprepared is as vulnerable as a child wielding a crossbow—just as likely to lose their life.
The only reason they wanted to clamp the Mana Shackles on her first was the risk of damaging their "merchandise" in the process.
The moment the porter fastened the Mana Shackles onto the woman, his two juniors would handle the rest.
Then—
"There seems to be a misunderstanding."
A quiet voice brushed against Ethan's ear.
"I am no porter."
Something was strange.
Despite the voice's languid, utterly tensionless tone, it felt like a hand tightening around his throat.
"I am a gardener who plucks poisonous mushrooms and weeds from the royal gardens."
"What the hell are you—"
"And in my eyes, you lot are most certainly weeds."
The unremarkable porter—little more than an extra—calmly set down a bag.
A briefcase, really. About 45 cm wide and 30 cm tall, made of richly dyed red leather. The kind a civil servant might carry rather than an adventurer.
"Viche, it's playtime after so long."
—Squelch.
He tapped the leather bag lightly with his toe, and as if by magic, the zipper slid open on its own.
The slightly parted opening of the zipper, for some reason, resembled the jagged, uneven teeth of some aberrant monster.
"I'll give you candy."
Ethan was an experienced outlaw.
He had lived a life closer to that of a beast than a man, driven more by instinct than reason to reach this point.
And now, that very instinct screamed a warning.
The two people he had considered prey mere moments ago might not be ordinary adventurers.
They could be "Cleaners" dispatched by the guilds or merchant unions.
Perhaps they were opponents he should never have crossed paths with in the first place.
His judgment kicked in.
Something's off.
I need to run. Now.
Yet even as the thought formed, his feet remained rooted to the ground, as if they had grown into the earth.
Like a drain plug pulled from a bathtub, his consciousness was being sucked inexorably toward the gap in the bag.
"Ugh... Ah..."
Within the widening zipper gap, there was darkness.
This wasn't a logical description—darkness, after all, is merely the absence of light, not an existence in itself.
But at the same time, he understood.
The darkness lurking within the bag's opening was no mere absence of light.
It was unreality seeping into reality.
A fragment of distortion from another world made manifest.
—Squelch.
The darkness, writhing like cephalopod tentacles, slowly oozed out, crawled forth, seeped through, and dripped thickly as it pried the zipper open.
Don't look.
But he couldn't tear his gaze away.
"Ugh... Ah..."
Drool spilled from Ethan's lips as he stared into the unfathomable Abyss before him.
Like an insect unfurling its gossamer wings, eyes—eyes, eyes, eyeseyeseyes—far too many eyes sprouted forth.
Eyes that seemed to excavate and shatter the soul just by being seen.
They multiplied endlessly, like grapes clustering on a vine.
Ethan desperately shut his eyes, but it was futile.
"My, my... There are eyes inside my head. Eyes inside my skull! In my brain, my brain, inside my braaaaaain!!!"
It was the solemn gaze of a judge dredging up terror, sin, secrets, and fear.
No—It did not judge. It merely observed.
Like a god contemplating its creations from the unfathomable void where not even starlight could reach.
Ethan felt his consciousness and ego shatter like a mirror struck by a hammer.
The sensation of It slowly gnawing at the fragments sent shivers coursing through his entire being.
"Ghh... Ghuuuuh...!!!"
Ethan's pupils slowly rolled back.
His trembling legs buckled of their own accord, forcing him to his knees.
Crawling like an insect, Ethan prostrated himself before It in worship.
"Ahh... Ooh, ooooh, Great One...! Absolute Sovereign reigning above all greed...!"
"Mother. Mother. My mother who devours me whole. I repent. I shall become one with you!"
"I am hideous...! I am filthy...! Pluck out my eyes so they may become yours...!"
The trio simultaneously crawled on their bellies across the floor, bowing their heads.
Repeating praises and hymns.
And.
.
.
.
"Hmm, seems they were quite the vicious lot."
Jurgen muttered while looking at the lone bag left behind.
Not a single trace—not even a shadow—remained of Ethan and his two companions.
To be precise, Viche hadn't executed judgment.
She had merely delivered a verdict.
Ethan's trio had been crushed under the weight of the sins they had accumulated.
"Zzz..."
At the sound of soft snoring, Jurgen turned to see Penelope with her mouth slightly agape, deeply immersed in the land of dreams.
Despite the earlier commotion, she must have been utterly exhausted.
With the criminals neatly disposed of and Miss Penelope's sweet slumber undisturbed, everything had worked out perfectly.
Just then, from the bag's crevice, eyeballs sprouted like snail's antennae, blinking at Jurgen.
Viche extended a slender tentacle, wriggling it through the air as if weaving invisible threads to form words.
[Snack] [Candy]
"Ah, I nearly forgot. By the way, Viche, didn't I tell you to call me Jurgen now?"
[Jurgen?] [Snack]
"I said Jurgen, not 'snack.'"
With a wry smile, he placed the candy on her... hand(?), and Viche wriggled her tentacles like a delighted sea anemone before swiftly hiding the candy inside the bag.
"Was it difficult?"
[Viche] [Bad guys] [Dislike]
"Same as ever. Don't forget to keep intimidating monsters like you've been doing until we leave the Demon Realm."
[Roger!]
"Go on in."
Assuming she would retreat now that the conversation was over, Jurgen was surprised when Viche tapped his shoulder with the tip of her tentacle.
Her gaze, brimming with curiosity, was fixed on Penelope.
"Something else to say?"
[Snack] [Her] [Female] [Like?]
"Tsk, you shouldn't refer to people as 'female,' you know."
Jurgen tapped the bag reproachfully, and Viche reluctantly retreated inside.
She dreamed.
A spring day in the meticulously groomed garden of the Rosemore Count Family, where not a single weed dared sprout.
A gentle breeze rustling through the emerald grass, the peaceful chirping of birds.
Young Penelope dashed across the picturesque garden with short, eager steps.
'Sister! Sister Clarice!'
Under the white canopy bathed in warm sunlight, Sister Clarice rested her chin on her hand as she read a book.
In their childhood, Sister always read thick, difficult books.
Little Penelope always thought her sister was amazing and took pride in her.
'Penelope! Didn't Sister tell you not to hop around like a rabbit or you'll get hurt? Last time you ran around the garden and scraped your knee, didn't you?'
'S-sorry, Sister.'
'Your last wound hasn't even healed yet, and you're already running around recklessly again?'
Sister Clarice closed her book for a moment, placing her hands on her hips as she scolded Penelope.
'But, but... I wanted to give this to you.'
But only for a moment.
At her little sister's mumbling, the stern mask melted away, replaced by a tender smile.
'Oh, you little troublemaker. What's got you so worked up this time?'
'Lemon candy! I saw new candy at the market and bought some!'
It was always like this.
When little Penelope lost the brooch Sister cherished.
When she ruined a dress by wearing it carelessly.
When she broke a vase while playing hide-and-seek, and Sister took the blame in her place.
Sister would only give her a light, painless flick on the forehead—never once truly angry at Penelope.
Penelope loved her sister, and her sister loved Penelope.
Yes, that's how it was.
'Candy? Again?'
'It's suuuuper delicious! I wanted to share it with you.'
'Whoa! What is this? It's really good!'
'Right?'
The scene of two sisters sharing candy in a garden as beautiful as a fairy tale.
This was a dream.
'...'
Penelope watched the faded memory from a distance, like a spectator.
Her childish self who knew nothing. Her sister Clarice.
She saw them smiling over trivial matters, giggling as if tickled.
Even though she knew better than anyone that such days would never return.
Then.
'Penelope.'
Sister Clarice called out to Penelope.
But that call wasn't for the young Penelope.
It was for the Penelope standing frozen outside the stage lights, a mere spectator of the dream.
A gaze devoid of warmth, carrying a cold detachment unlike before.
And within it, even contempt lurked.
'You really are... utterly useless, aren't you?'
The words, enunciated clearly and coldly, stabbed into Penelope like a blade.
"...!"
Her long lashes trembled over her wide-open eyes.
She couldn't speak. She couldn't react.
Just as she turned her back on Clarice, about to flee far beyond the stage—
...
...
"...Miss Lope."
"Ugh... uhh..."
"Miss Penelope, did you sleep well?"
Penelope forced her heavy eyelids open.
A campfire, a makeshift tent, a blanket, Jurgen, a dull gray cave wall, dim twilight.
Her thoughts, stiff from sleep, sluggishly pieced together the information before her.
Ah, right.
She had come to the Labyrinth Demon Realm with him to gather spices for cola.
Thanks to her blunder, they had to camp, and since they couldn't sleep defenselessly in the heart of a monster-infested Demon Realm, they had agreed to take turns keeping watch.
"Is it already my turn?"
Even after a sip of water, her throat felt tight.
The cold sweat from her nightmare had left the inside of her clothes damp.
Frankly, it was the worst way to wake up.
The lingering aftertaste of the dream, which had ended so unpleasantly, clung stubbornly to her.
Her heart raced, and Clarice's sharp words had carved a hollow ache in her chest.
"Now that you're awake, here's breakfast. Chicken soup."
"..."
Penelope stared blankly at the bowl Jurgen held out.
A simple soup with onions, potatoes, and deboned chicken.
For Penelope, who prided herself as a rare gourmet in Britannia, it wasn't anything special.
But considering the potato pancakes he had made yesterday, this soup might also...
Her train of thought halted abruptly.
Because there was an inexplicable word in his statement.
"Wait. Did you just say breakfast? What about the night watch?"
"You were sleeping so soundly, I didn't have the heart to wake you."
"So... you stayed up all night alone?"
"Staying up one night is nothing unusual for me."
Her drowsy mind, still clinging to a thread of the dream, snapped awake as if doused in ice water.
Watching Jurgen slurp his soup so nonchalantly, what Penelope felt wasn't gratitude.
It was something closer to self-doubt, born from inferiority.
No matter how kindly she framed it, it was resentment.
Before she could even realize it—
A sharp, unfiltered thorn shot out.
"...Did you not trust me either?"
No.
The person before her wasn't Clarice.
Jurgen likely had no ill intent.
It was purely consideration for her sake.
But what followed was uncontrollable frustration and agitation—like how one instinctively pulls their hand away from a scalding kettle.
"I could've done it. I didn't need your measly help."
She barely bit her lip to stop herself, but it was already too late.
She could predict his reaction.
He'd be bewildered, exasperated.
He'd probably think she was some unstable woman and naturally distance himself.
But Jurgen didn't get angry.
"Well, that wasn't the reason, but... if I upset you, I apologize."
"..."
She wished he had just gotten angry.
Seeing him raise his hands in awkward surrender, a stabbing sense of shame and belated regret stained her.
Penelope hung her head low.
Like a rose withered helplessly under the cold autumn rain.