The Warrior with Lion Pelt
When Hector rose to his feet radiating murderous intent, Walter asked with a gentle smile.
"Is something the matter?"
A soft charisma. There was no aggression in Walter's smile at all, and yet something in it carried a dignity that forbade treating him carelessly.
Hector, who had been flailing as he got up, began muttering something or other about Kizen professors under his breath. A torrent of conflicts played out in his eyes in real time, but at last they snapped back into focus.
"I deeply apologize, Professor."
Hector folded like a chastened pup.
…See, I knew that's how he'd come out.
Simon breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Among students, Hector was famous for a savage temperament that showed no regard for fire or water—but around the professorship and other adults, he was scrupulous and composed, so his general reputation was actually good. Clever fellow, really.
"I'm not a Kizen professor yet, you know."
Walter scratched the side of his head, looking a bit sheepish.
"The Moore family will take full responsibility for cleanup, so that no word of this gets out. And if there's punishment waiting for me back at Kizen, I'll accept it gladly."
With that, Hector turned his back and trudged away.
Simon watched his retreating figure in silence. What set Hector apart, decisively, from students like Special Admission No. 10 Malcolm or the Third Prince Andre—hotheads who ruined themselves in a blaze of temper—was precisely that he knew when to fold.
Realizing the fight was over, the onlookers quickly dispersed, each hurrying on their own way. Walter and Camibarez were chatting away merrily together.
?
There on the ground lay a golden fountain pen that looked terribly expensive.
Simon bent down and picked it up.
How did this read again?
Etched into the pen, in elegant cursive script, was a single word.
…Judah? A person's name, it seems. Whose, though?
At that very moment—
Simon felt every hair on his body stand on end, and turned his head.
"!"
Walter, who until that instant had been dealing with the students so warmly and kindly, was glaring at him with the savage eyes of a nightmarish monster.
Flustered, Simon blinked once to see whether he'd imagined it—and Walter had already returned to that usual gentle smile.
"Oh, thank you. I must have dropped it on the ground earlier."
When Walter held out his hand, Simon bowed politely and returned the fountain pen. Receiving it, Walter asked in a quiet voice.
"Did you see it?"
…What did he mean by that?
The word Judah etched into the pen? Or that spine-chillingly terrifying look from a moment ago?
Simon spoke up.
"This fountain pen—you must have received it as a gift, Professor."
"Why do you think that?"
"Because it says 'Judah' on it. I've heard it's customary to engrave one's own name on a fine pen like this."
Simon said that and watched Walter's reaction. But the man simply let out a soft chuckle from his eyes.
"It belonged to a departed soul. I inherited it."
"Oh, I see. My apologies."
Walter tucked the pen into the inside pocket of his suit and extended his hand.
"Young man. What was your name again?"
Simon accepted the handshake and answered.
"Simon Polentia."
"You're a sharp student. I look forward to working with you."
The two shook hands and smiled at each other. Camibarez beamed at the scene with pride.
"Professor! Simon's in my group!"
"Right, the anonymous boy you were always talking about?"
"Ah—Professor!"
Camibarez flushed red. Walter's gaze shifted to Simon.
"I heard quite a lot from Master Silaje. I've received every research result concerning your SM-1 blood, so from the second semester you'll be able to receive your Hemomancy education properly."
"I look forward to it."
Simon nodded. More than that, though—
Is this person planning to let go of my hand at some point?
Once the handshake should have ended, Simon tried to release his grip, but Walter kept holding on.
Simon, though it might come across as rather rude, wrenched his hand free in a single explosive burst of force. Then he bent naturally at the knee and pretended to tie his shoelace.
"Forgive me. Such clumsy conduct in front of a professor—"
"Hm? Your lace had come undone. No trouble at all. You were fighting quite fiercely earlier, weren't you?"
Then Camibarez spoke up, glancing carefully at Walter's expression.
"Professor! Simon wasn't trying to fight, he was only—!"
"Fear not. I have no intention of disciplining anyone over something that happened while I wasn't yet a professor."
Having said that, Walter now held his hand out to Camibarez.
"More importantly—do you have somewhere to sleep tonight? Come stay at our lodging. I'd like to discuss at length the matter of Ursula's blood we spoke about before."
At those words, Camibarez took a light hold of Simon's sleeve with both hands.
"Thank you for the offer, but I'm fine! I promised I'd stay with my group members."
"Hmm, is that so."
Walter withdrew his hand and smiled as if in regret.
"Then I shall see you both at Kizen. The city's been unsettled lately—do take care of yourselves."
"Yes! See you at Kizen!"
"Goodbye, Professor."
Walter waved to the two of them and turned to walk away. Simon, head still bowed, stole a glance upward.
The man who would replace Silaje as the new Professor of Hemomancy.
…Judah. Why do I feel like I've seen that name recently?
"What's wrong, Simon?"
"Oh, nothing. Just thinking. Meilin must be waiting. Let's go buy quills."
"Okay!"
The two bought their quills and packed up a mountain of lunch food before returning to the Clock Tower Lodging.
"Meilin! Rick! We're back!"
Camibarez hurried into the living room with a shopping bag on her arm. But the lodging was completely empty.
"Huh? Where did the two of them go?"
"What's up?"
Simon asked, changing into his indoor slippers as he followed her in.
"Meilin and Rick aren't here."
Simon set down the food he was carrying in the kitchen and checked the bathroom, but the two weren't there either.
"Did they step out for a bit while doing their homework?"
"Seems like it."
Exhausted from his fight with Hector, Simon flopped onto the soft sofa. He finally felt like he might live.
"You rest! I'll prepare the meal until they get back!"
"No, I'll help too."
Simon rose from the sofa again.
…
Looking down at the floor as he stood, something about Simon's expression shifted.
With a slight frown, he knelt down and began slowly sweeping the floor with his palm.
Soil. And the traces of footprints.
There was soil in a lodging where everyone had to change into indoor slippers. Simon began examining the floor meticulously.
He could see marks where someone had forcibly wiped away footprints. But they hadn't managed to clean everything in the short time available.
Would Meilin and Rick have had a reason to erase footprints? On top of that, both of them had been wearing indoor slippers when they got up from sleep.
…
Following the traces of the wiped footprints led to the terrace. Simon stepped out onto it and scanned the surroundings with sharp eyes.
One side of the terrace railing had been wiped perfectly clean of dust, leaving a distinct mark—as though a rope or something similar had been hung over it.
"Simon?"
Camibarez, who had sensed something was off, came out onto the terrace as well.
"Your face is scary. Did something happen?"
"It looks like—"
Simon stared at her, his face gone hard.
"—someone broke into the lodging."
Dim lighting, humid air, and somewhere in the distance, the stench of mold.
Meilin let out a long sigh.
"…Haaah."
She had been captured.
Both arms were bound behind her back to an iron chair, and her legs were fixed fast with rope—she couldn't move an inch.
For some reason, it felt like déjà vu from Deathland.
The fury she had packed down tight was beginning to seep upward, simmering.
"Agh, I'm SO irritated!"
When she shrieked, the men around her flinched and turned to look. Paying them no mind, she ground her teeth in irritation, click-click.
Seriously, I was beating all of them by myself!
After Simon and Camibarez had gone out, Meilin had been pestering Rick into working on his vacation homework. Rick, complaining it was stuffy, had been studying out on the terrace when suddenly a scream—"Ugh!"—was heard.
Meilin rushed to the terrace in alarm, but it was already too late. Before she knew it, those burly, muscled men had swarmed up ropes onto the terrace. Rick, whether from a proper hit or not, was rolling around on the floor even in his Kizen uniform.
The skirmish that followed.
Meilin performed a magnificent one-woman massacre, felling as many as eight unidentified men, but when the intruders stripped off Rick's uniform and held a blade to his throat, there was no other choice.
And so she'd been dragged to this place, wherever it was.
If it weren't for that moron!
Her gaze dropped downward. Rick, likewise bound in rope and lying on the floor, was squirming like a worm.
Apparently stricken by some strange poison, he was staggering and spouting nonsense—truly, truly pathetic.
"You may rest easy. It is a nerve-disrupting poison, and after an hour or two he will recover without aftereffects, so it is said."
A somewhat awkward accent of the continental tongue. When Meilin, still bound to the chair, lifted her head, a man was walking toward her out of the darkness.
The very man who had subdued Rick.
"Who the hell are you people?!"
Meilin shouted.
"Kidnapping Kizen students? Where the hell did you dirt-farmers crawl out of? Or did somebody line up and shoot you all in the backside or something?"
Several of the men twitched their eyebrows, but the man who had stepped forward to her restrained them.
He too was bare-chested like the others, his body painted with strange patterns. But his frame was monstrously huge, the patterns adorning his body more flamboyant, and atop his head he wore the pelt of a lion's head turned over like a hood.
There was no doubt this man was the leader, Meilin surmised.
"My name is Wichasha Wahamrata. And we are of the 'Hoopa' tribe."
"Hoopa tribe, lung tribe, whatever! Untie this!"
"Forgive me, but that request cannot be granted, so it is said."
Wichasha looked down at her with impassive eyes.
"Prepare."
At his word, men emerged from the darkness carrying strange objects. Wichasha himself received what looked like a red cloth, and looked down at Meilin.
"It will not take long."
Holding the red cloth, he stretched both arms over her head. Meilin squeezed her eyes shut.
…Please hurry and come! Simon!
Hah! Hah!
Simon and Camibarez were running through the streets, gasping for breath.
They'd gotten a tip from travelers passing near the Clock Tower.
Large men in robes, moving in a group, had been coming out of the Clock Tower. Rick and Meilin must have been kidnapped by them.
"What on earth is going on?"
Camibarez said, her voice on the verge of tears.
"Why Rick and Meilin—!"
"I have no idea."
Not a single clue. There were far too many possibilities.
What did I miss?
Simon resolved first to calmly organize the information he'd gathered since arriving in this city.
For one thing, the kidnappers had violated an ironclad taboo that would be branded deep into the mind of anyone belonging to the Dark Alliance: never touch a Kizen student.
So it was likely the work of outsiders, not the doing of Langestin's residents or its gangs. He hated even to think it, but in the worst case, they couldn't rule out a fanatic Priest who had infiltrated the city.
And one more crucial piece of information:
Beware the men with strange patterns painted on their bodies.
Kajan's voice surfaced in his memory.
Kajan was not the sort of man to blurt out idle remarks. Why had he told him to watch out for men with patterns on their bodies? Weren't the big men who'd emerged from the Clock Tower exactly that?
When Simon's thinking reached that point—
"C-could it be…!"
Camibarez, lips trembling, offered up a new possibility.
"That thing from the newspapers—! Could it have something to do with the murderer everyone's been talking about in Langestin lately?"
"…Hard to say."
He couldn't be certain, but that theory felt a little off. Simon opened a subspace and took out the newspaper he'd bought earlier.
The scene of the crime was stark and raw.
A wall blown apart, and a person sprawled dead in the middle of the street, arms spread wide.
A crime that seemed almost impulsive. No effort made to conceal the traces.
But the men who had kidnapped the two of them were different. They had gone all the way up the Clock Tower, kidnapped Rick and Meilin, and even erased all traces of their coming and going.
There was a sense that these two kinds of crimes simply did not fit together.
Oh!
At that moment, Simon's eyes widened as he looked at the photo of the murder scene in the newspaper. Looking closely, he could see it—a chaotic pattern smeared across the victim's abdomen.
No way!
Simon stopped in his tracks.
"Simon?"
"Just a second, Cami."
Simon dashed into a nearby general store and bought up the past several days of Langestin local papers, every last one. All of them carried the unidentified murder scene on their front pages.
My hunch was right.
Differences in size and color aside, every victim had that strange pattern painted on their body. The murderer was no maniac killing indiscriminately.
He's been hunting exclusively those men with patterns on their bodies.
So when Kajan had insisted he be careful, it wasn't the murderous lunatic who'd been unsettling the city lately he'd meant—but the men with painted bodies.
That lent real weight to the possibility that the men had kidnapped Rick and Meilin.
Then who exactly were those men?
Why were they being murdered?
Above all—why had they kidnapped the two of them? What purpose drove them to commit acts like this?
First, I should try to find Kajan.
But finding Kajan in this vast, complicated city would be like searching for a needle in a desert. And Kajan would surely be tailing those very men right now, so there was no real need to go hunting for him first.
Alright, then. What's the best way to move?
Simon's brain spun at full speed.