The Follower and the Pilgrimage
Vandine glanced around. The one presence that had troubled him most had suddenly vanished without a trace.
Why is he gone?
Where did he go?
Everything felt hopelessly tangled. He had come out to scout the situation with a light heart, merely intending to settle on a date for the operation, and instead an unexpected ambush had appeared.
He had assumed he would only need to deal with a handful of Full Moon Knights at most — so what was with this colossal mass of magic?
'That is unmistakably the power of Desperatio, the God of Despair.'
The first time his keen senses had caught that aura, every hair on his head had stood on end. He had never once experienced anything like it, even back in his homeland. Since arriving in this country, the only being who had ever given him such a feeling was Duke Randert.
"Looking for me?"
"……!"
A frigid voice rang out from behind Vandine just as he slipped into a shadowy back alley. His body froze solid as a statue in an instant. He could not even bring himself to turn around — he lacked the presence of mind to tell whether it was by his own will or someone else's.
Thud. Thud.
Never before had the sound of footsteps felt so terrifying. And never before had someone been walking up behind him while he remained unable to look back.
"Hoo. And here I was wondering who it could be."
The one who appeared before Vandine was Death. The same Death who had been complaining of a stomachache and searching for a bathroom had, for some reason, turned up here out of nowhere.
"So you were Mors's lackey?"
"…Wh-who are you?"
"Me? You'll find out. Isn't that why you were tailing me in the first place?"
Vandine could not answer Death's unhurried question. His instincts told him everything he needed to know.
'This one is far stronger than I am!'
Perhaps it was because the man carried the power of the God of Despair, who commanded the Demon Emperor's armies. Without the faintest inkling that his opponent was a demon god, Vandine arrived at that conclusion entirely on his own.
"I told you not to follow me, but honestly, you really don't listen, do you."
"……?"
"Ah, that was me talking to myself."
Leaning lazily against the wall, Death asked,
"So who are you supposed to be? I've never seen your face before."
"…And what, might I ask, are you?"
"You've been shadowing me this whole time and you still don't know? I'm the porter. The resident servant, so to speak."
"You… a servant?"
Vandine's face twisted grotesquely. Who on earth possessed that kind of power and worked as a servant? For a cover identity, it was an utterly ridiculous choice.
"Actually, it suits me pretty well. If you're ever in the market, you should give it a try. They feed you, and sometimes they even let you sleep."
Death went so far as to recommend the profession to him.
Vandine swallowed hard. He had only just arrived in Carrington, which apparently meant his intelligence-gathering had been insufficient. Nowhere had he been able to obtain any information suggesting that a man like this attended the Duke of Randert's son.
'An escort knight disguised as a servant, most likely.'
With an only son to protect, it made sense to station a guard of this caliber. The plan would be thrown off somewhat, but nothing had truly changed. He would simply have to think it through more carefully and craft something more meticulous.
"Now then, answer me. Why were you following me?"
'What? Does he actually think I was following him, rather than the Duke of Randert's son?'
The unexpected question flustered Vandine inwardly. What reason could he possibly have to tail the man's servant?
And yet, the misunderstanding was an enormous stroke of luck. If the Duke of Randert's son tightened his security any further, it would be his side that suffered.
"…I was simply curious."
Vandine smoothly softened his tone. He had judged it important to show the man goodwill.
"Curious about what, me?"
"I have never seen anyone wield such tremendous magic."
"Heh. Well, I did get a little worked up."
In his good mood, he must have let his guard slip for a moment — a huge surge of his magic had escaped without his noticing. If even this greenhorn had sensed it, then Rayegar, lurking somewhere in Carrington, would have felt it too. Irritation flared up in him at the thought of yet another nuisance landing in his lap.
The one small mercy was that, judging by the man's reaction, the auras of the others had remained concealed.
"Which is exactly why this is a loss for me."
"…Is that truly the power of Desperatio, the God of Despair?"
"A body that makes Mors look like nothing more than a footnote."
"Do not speak carelessly of my god! Would it please you if I insulted yours?"
"No? Then why haven't I killed you right here and now?"
An overwhelming wave of killing intent erupted from Death without warning. Vandine was completely crushed beneath it.
Bound as he was by his contract with the demons, he had no choice but to be exquisitely sensitive to magic. He knew, instinctively, that if this being decided to kill him, there would be no escaping it. The gulf in power was that absolute.
What Vandine did not know was that Death was the supreme powerhouse of the Demon Realm, commander of the Demon Emperor's armies. If one were forced to draw a comparison, it was like a wolf finding itself nose to nose with a savage beast.
"Mors. Rank fifth of the Demon Realm, the God of Death. So you're a human borrowing that one's power…"
Mors was a god a full four ranks above Death. And yet Death referred to him as nothing more than "that one" without a hint of hesitation.
The truth was that Mors, as the god presiding over death, had always been on catastrophically bad terms with Death. The two snarled at each other on sight — lifelong rivals, the both of them — and things had gotten so bad that the Demon Emperor Crudelis had been forced to issue a special decree.
'Henceforth, Mors and Desperatio are forbidden from meeting alone, at any time or place. Violators will be punished to the full extent of the law.'
It had been an unavoidable decision, born of the impossibility of predicting what disaster might unfold whenever the two were left in the same room.
And of all people, he had gone and run into that god's follower. The man claimed he had simply been curious and followed him out of intrigue — but whether it was his distrust of Mors or something else, Death didn't believe a word of it.
"So where did you get magic that powerful?"
Perhaps it was the way Death's eyes had narrowed to slits.
Vandine worked up the courage to ask, hoping to lighten the atmosphere. Death merely gave a dry snort and tilted his head back.
"Decent accomplishments, sure — but did you pick the wrong god? You seem remarkably stupid."
"Wh-what did you say?"
"Did you honestly think I'd just hand you the answer for asking a question like that?"
"…Surely we could help each other out?"
"BWAHAHA! That's the funniest thing I've heard in ages."
A follower of Mors, asking him for a favor. If that fool ever found out about this, he would stew in indignation for a good hundred years.
I'd rather like to see that, actually.
"What is so funny?"
"Curious? If you want to know, go ask your own god."
"……?"
"Tell him you asked someone named Death for help, and he'll probably laugh in your face. Then you'll understand."
"What in the world are you talking about…"
"Well. Time for me to head back."
Death pushed himself off the wall.
"I was on my way to the bathroom, after all."
Between the curtains of his long black hair, Death's dark eyes blazed with a piercing light.
"Consider this a warning. Don't follow me again. Next time, I'll show you what my power really is."
"Kgh—!"
Death simply walked past Vandine's side. Yet Vandine let out a strangled groan and collapsed to his knees. Not a single wound marked any part of his body.
All he had seen was a single vision.
The image of someone with vast black wings spread wide, watching him from within the darkness.
In that instant, a crawling chill seized him, and a despair of impossible depth swallowed Vandine whole. For a long while, he could not move so much as an inch. A terror bore down on him — the bone-deep conviction that if he took even a single step, the man would return and kill him.
Bayul had spent a considerable sum of money being milked dry by his friends as their source of funds, but he didn't regret a single coin. Compared to all the help they had given him, that much was nothing.
"Haaam… Rita, do we really have to go now?"
Though it was still the small hours, they had returned when the morning sun was all but rising. Unlike his friends, who were still wandering through dreamland, Bayul had been seized by Rita from midmorning onward and bundled into a carriage.
"It'll be hard to find time any other day, you know. Classes start back in two days."
"That's true, but… haaam!"
The yawns kept coming, and Bayul could barely keep his eyes open.
"I've been thinking it over, and I've decided this can't go on."
"Huhhaa… what can't?"
The carriage was already rolling along toward some destination or other. Rita had told him where they were going, or so it seemed, but he had caught it half-asleep and had no idea where he was actually headed.
"Bar, that's what! His cooking just won't improve!"
"…You mean his cooking skills?"
"Yes! I watched him like a hawk the whole time, and he did everything I told him to — not a single mistake! And it still tastes terrible. He made it exactly the same way I did. Isn't that just bizarre?"
"It is strange, yeah."
Even with an identical recipe, different cooks could produce subtle variations in flavor — but Bar's food was, frankly, not fit for human consumption. It was as if some inexplicable something lurked behind it.
"There's no doubt about it. He's been hit by an impurity."
"An impurity?"
"Yes! Some wicked thing that spoils the taste of food has latched onto Bar — I'm certain of it!"
"…And so?"
"What do you mean, 'and so'? So we pray, obviously! The only way to wash away an impurity is to pray to a god!"
"A god? Which god?"
Bayul absentmindedly peered out of the carriage. Something about the road felt terribly familiar.
"Carrington has tons of temples, did you know? I suppose that's what being an international city does. Anyway, out of all of them, I found the absolutely perfect god!"
"…The perfect god?"
"A god with a similar feel to the one we worship back in Hamilton."
Oh no. Don't tell me—
Even as Bayul's heart sank, the carriage tilted and began climbing a hill. He didn't need to look out the window to know. This was the road leading up to Carrington Academy.
"There's this place called the Temple of Despair, see! And it's right on the academy where you study, young master! It's close by, and the name speaks to me somehow! Anyway, that's the one I picked!"
"So, just to be clear — the plan is to pray to the God of Despair so that Bar can learn to cook well?"
"Yes! Exactly!"
In that case, there was really no need to trek all the way to a temple… no, actually, no amount of praying was going to fix that…
"I promised Bar that I'd make him able to cook something delicious, remember? And I intend to keep that promise, no matter what!"
Rita, both fists clenched tight, radiated pure, concentrated responsibility.
"But why are you taking me instead of Bar? Isn't he the one who has to be there?"
"Because I don't want him to feel pressured. He's already got his tail between his legs — I can't have him shrinking any further. And you, young master, I figure if you come along, the temple won't dare look down on me."
"Oh. So that's the reason."
Whenever moments like this came along, it was clear that behind all her grumbling, her thoughtfulness was second to none.
"All right then. Since it's come to this, I hope Rita's wish comes true. When Bar finds out, I'm sure he'll be grateful. Isn't that right, Sir Ian?"
"……"
No answer came. Bayul turned to the seat beside him and found Ian's eyes closed.
Is he… sleeping right now?
Bayul could only stare blankly at the unexpected sight.
Ian had come along out of duty, unable to neglect his obligations as an escort knight — but it seemed the aftermath of yesterday had taken its toll on him as well.
"I suppose he must be tired. Let's let him sleep."
Come to think of it, the only one among them in perfect spirits was Rita. Not a trace of fatigue could be found on her beaming face.