The Scent of Blood
Day four of the train journey.
Only a single day now separated them from their destination.
Plenty had happened along the way. Simon had whiled away entire afternoons napping in broad daylight, and there had been card games for three with Ellen in the mix — until the game looked fun enough from another compartment that visitors kept dropping by, turning their little group into seven.
Whenever the train stopped at a station, they'd step outside for a good long stretch and stock up on food. The meals served on the Holy Train were decent enough, but they were starting to wear thin — at the stations, you could buy lunch boxes that were far tastier and far more generous with the portions.
Each station had its own local specialties, and sampling them had become a pleasure all its own. This was the true flavor of travel, something you could only savor in the Holy Federation.
Wanting to soak up even more of the train's culture, Simon made his way down to third class and mingled with the passengers there. The customs were different, but they were the same good-hearted folk you could find anywhere.
With his trademark easygoing charm, Simon befriended everyone almost instantly. Before long, whenever he walked past, the old-timers would shove bottles of rum at him and insist he take a swig. Once, after drinking himself into a dazed haze and stumbling back to his compartment to slump over the desk, Lethe had thumped him on the back with an expression of utter disdain.
And then there was Inquisitor Metin.
Even after Lethe had dragged him off and beaten him, the man refused to give up, doggedly interrogating Simon at every turn. Each time, Lethe would glare at him from the side like she wanted him dead, but Metin didn't so much as flinch — leaving the senior inquisitors caught in the middle, thoroughly embarrassed.
In the end, it became routine for the seniors to cut Metin's interrogations short and haul him away themselves.
Part of it was fear of Lethe's wrath, but the truth was that Simon's reputation among the inquisitors had grown remarkably — a devout, well-mannered young man. Nobody took Metin's side anymore.
"Hey, hey! Drop the scowl, rookie."
Whenever Metin managed to fire off just two questions before the seniors dragged him off, one of them would sling an arm around his neck and say cheerfully:
"Even if that kid really is a necromancer, don't you think we owe him some credit? You'd scour the whole Federation and never find anyone that devout."
"……"
At that, Metin stared silently at the senior inquisitor.
This senior's name was Odel. A fourth-year inquisitor and the mood-maker of the team.
"Seniors like you."
"Hm?"
"Seem to know an awful lot about necromancers."
It was meant as sarcasm, but Odel just threw his head back and laughed heartily.
"Ha! Of course I do! Catching those things is literally my job!"
"Necromancers desecrate the dead, harbor carnal appetites for corpses, and commit acts of terror for their own amusement. They are a monstrous breed."
Odel grabbed Metin by the crown of his head and scrubbed it briskly back and forth.
"Ugh, that hurts!"
"Well, sure~ what those freaks get off on is beyond even my comprehension. But the ones who go around terrorizing cities and doing evil are the extreme cases. Let me put it simpler for you: only those kinds of people do those kinds of things. Do you really think that earnest, sweet kid over there is going to run off and commit terror and mayhem? Your only reason for thinking so is that he's a 'necromancer,' isn't it?"
"……"
Metin bit down hard on his lip, feeling even his resolve waver for an instant.
"Whether they do evil or not, necromancers are unforgivable simply for existing."
Odel snickered.
"Yeah, yeah. Why am I even begging for understanding from some devout youth like you? My point is just — have some flexibility."
Before they knew it, they'd arrived at the inquisitors' lounge at the front of the train. Odel stopped at the door, patted Metin's shoulder a few times, and went on.
"Plenty of ordinary people hate the Goddess, you know. Their lives are in shambles, and no matter how hard they pray, not so much as a crumb of bread falls from the sky. And yet the monasteries keep taxing them — tithes, the Twelve Articles, collecting fees day in and day out. If you threw every single person bitter at the Goddess into a heresy trial, there'd be nobody left to farm, and the entire Federation would wither up and die."
"……"
"Alright, alright, enough lecturing. Let's go in!"
The two opened the door and stepped into the lounge. Five men, including the team leader Baccarat, were boisterously laughing among themselves.
"Oh, rookie! Did you get schooled by that kid again today?"
"Judging by that death glare, definitely!"
"Hahahaha!"
Ignoring them all, Metin dropped heavily into the seat at the far end. Baccarat waved the seniors off. "Enough, enough."
"Good work, Odel. Metin."
"Sir, yes, sir!" Odel answered with a grin.
"……"
Metin only gave a stiff nod, hands clasped. A few senior inquisitors called out his rudeness, but Baccarat shut them down again.
What do these honey-licking rear-line slackers know anyway.
Metin had nothing but contempt for the seniors here.
Metin and his original squad had been assigned to the eastern front lines, the contested territories. That was a place soaked through with Dark Alliance propaganda, crawling with necromancer sympathizers and heretics.
Anyone suspicious got interrogated first and questions asked later — you had to rule with an iron fist to establish order, or you'd be the ones dragged off and killed.
But the inquisitors assigned to the train, enjoying a peaceful rear assignment, were hopelessly indecisive, every last one of them.
From the good-natured team leader Baccarat to Odel, who actually defended necromancers — Metin found the whole lot of them pathetic.
"Come on, everyone!"
Odel rose from his seat and clapped his hands to liven things up.
"We're done with today's schedule, and yesterday was the Holy Festival — we just let it slide! That calls for a light drink tonight, at least!"
The Holy Festival of Deva was a tradition of drinking monastery-made red wine while offering prayers to the Goddess. Saying so, Odel pulled a top-shelf bottle from his bag.
"Brought this all the way from Banyard Monastery! A 17-year vintage."
"Hoo-wee! Isn't that the expensive brand?"
"Nice, very nice! We're his disciples too — we owe the Goddess a proper festival toast."
The room buzzed with excitement. Odel poured everyone a glass. Metin refused at first, but under the weight of the seniors' stares, he reluctantly accepted.
"Where's Sarah?"
Baccarat asked. She was the lone woman on the train's inquisitor team.
"Same as always — asleep in the women's compartment the second her shift ended. You know Sarah can't touch a drop."
"Then let's keep it modest and call it a night."
The decision was made. Odel, the bottle's owner, raised his glass and offered the prayer. Everyone closed their eyes and listened.
"In gratitude for the great Goddess's grace! Laus!"
"Laus!"
Everyone brought their glasses to their lips with gusto. Murmurs of appreciation rippled around the room.
"Mmm! Now that's good!"
"Not bad. Though there's a bit of a burning going down the throat……"
By the time they registered the strangeness, it was already too late.
"……Huh?"
The inquisitors looked down. Something blood-red had burst out of their chests.
The walls of the train car had turned red like living flesh, and spikes now jutted out from them. The wine had frozen their bodies the instant it went down — no dodging, no defenses.
Crash!
Odel, the only one still standing, smirked and let his wineglass drop from his hand. The wine stained the floor red like blood.
"You……!"
Baccarat's pupils shook.
"You're not Odel……!"
Thud! Thud! Thud!
At Odel's gesture, countless spikes erupted from the walls and skewered Baccarat's body through.
"You're the most troublesome one here, so I'll make sure you're dead. By the way."
Odel turned his head.
"How did you catch on, rookie?"
Five inquisitors lay dead or dying — and one man alone had half-risen from his seat, gripping one of the spikes in his fist.
"Your body carries no scent of divinity, and no trace of Jet-Black either. All I smell is blood."
Metin said, nostrils flaring.
"A revolting stench of blood, so thick it drowns out every other smell. That's the kind of reek only history's worst butchers give off — and for someone like that, you were acting far too composed."
"Hm. So all that talk about a smell wasn't nonsense after all?"
In truth, Metin had tried to warn the other seniors that Odel carried a suspicious scent. But after the Simon fiasco, no one trusted his word anymore.
"Metin, front-line inquisitor of the East."
Vmmm!
Metin spread both arms. A subspace opened, spilling out torture implements that clattered to the floor or snapped into place on his body.
Metin took his combat stance.
"Heretic interrogation begins now. Reveal your true identity, quietly."
"A fine idea. Consider it my parting gift."
Fwoooosh!
A vile aura erupted from his body, shredding his shirt away. Across his bared torso, red sigils had been painted over every inch of skin.
"My name is Aloken."
As Odel ripped the living bio-mask from his face, the features of a middle-aged man with long, narrow eyes were revealed.
"Bishop of the Blood Heaven Cult."
* * *
The fight lasted barely two minutes. Bloodied from head to toe, Metin collapsed against the wall.
"Weak."
He hadn't even been an obstacle. Aloken walked on, smiling with his teeth bared. Beyond the inquisitors' lounge lay the crew compartment, and beyond that, the engine room.
When Aloken crossed into the next car and flung the door open, the crew members, deep in meal preparations, froze in shock. Aloken raised his arm.
Wham! Wham! Wham!
By some incomprehensible force, several crew members crumpled to the floor, drenched in blood.
"Kyaaaaaa!"
"Shut your mouths."
At Aloken's chilling words, the survivors clapped their hands over their mouths and trembled. He flicked his wrist, and nooses of blood came flying through the air, coiling around the crew's necks.
"Kgh!"
Gripping the nooses, Aloken marched straight for the engine room, dragging the wailing crew behind him.
The engine room's iron door was sealed shut, but when Aloken pressed his palm against it, fresh blood erupted like an explosion and blasted the door apart.
"Gahk!"
The chief engineer shrieked and toppled backward from his seat.
Aloken looked around. At the center of the engine room sprawled an immensely intricate permanent holy magic circle, with pipes feeding divinity into it packed wall to wall.
"From this moment, this entire train is an offering to the Blood Heaven Cult. The inquisitors are all dead. Give up any thought of resistance."
At those words, the color drained from the chief engineer's face.
The Blood Heaven Cult! The very band of mad heretics who'd been carrying out massacres all across the Federation!
"Turn the train, chief engineer."
Aloken dropped a map at the feet of the trembling man.
"Reduce speed and divert to the point marked C on this map."
The engineer looked — and there it was, genuinely marked in red: the letter C.
"B-but that line's been decommissioned for years! It's nothing but ruins! If we send the train down there……"
"The tracks have already been restored. By us."
Aloken's voice went cold.
"Save the excuses. Do as you're told."
The chief engineer swallowed hard and said:
"You're asking me to put the passengers in danger? I can never do such a——"
Wham!
Before the engineer could finish, Aloken's hand swept backward. One of the dragged-along crew members collapsed with a wet thud, drenched in blood.
"Kyaaaaaak!"
A scream like tearing flesh shook the engine room.
"Every time you stall, I kill one."
Wham!
Blood burst from the second crew member's body as he sagged to the floor.
"After these are all gone, I'll haul the passengers out of their compartments and burst every one of them right in front of you."
Wham!
The third crew member's body burst. The chief engineer shook uncontrollably. Aloken reached out toward the last remaining crew member.
"Please! Oh please! *Sob!* Chief! Save us!"
The last crew member wept and begged.
The chief engineer wept too. This butcher meant every word. He truly would drag every other passenger aboard up here, even if he had to sacrifice the entire crew first.
"……Very well."
At last, the chief engineer sat down and activated the holy magic circle.
A short while later, watching the slowed Holy Train slide safely onto the C-section rails, Aloken allowed himself a satisfied smile.
"Excellent."
Wham! Wham!
The chief engineer and the crew collapsed, their bodies soaked in blood.
Now nothing could stop him. Laughing aloud, he drew out a communication crystal.
"All according to plan. Begin."
* * *
"Everything's going just as planned~"
Lethe, in high spirits after her dessert of cream cake, said in a soft voice.
"Just a little farther to go now, and we'll be there. From the station, we head straight up, and the Tree of Life will be waiting. Soon I'll be able to save Teacher Anna."
"……"
Lethe stopped mid-sentence and looked at Simon.
"What's with that grave look on your face?"
"……Don't you smell something strange?"
Lethe shrugged.
"Have you caught whatever that Metin fellow has? Smells? Honestly."
"Blood."
At that word, Lethe's face stiffened slightly. Simon rose from his seat.
"There's blood in the air. So thick it burns the nose."