The Black That Flowed from the White Prison (4)

“Urgh!! Hack! I—I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!! Die!!”

Elang bellowed, spewing vomit and sweat and tears.

Luchika did not so much as glance at him. She sat quite calmly beside a severed head, absorbed in turning the pages of a book.

“Aaaah!! Aagh! Aagh!!”

Elang shrieked something that was neither quite a scream nor a curse and thrashed against the chair. The chair, however—one he had designed himself with such loving care and bolted firmly into the floor—only rattled under his heavy, blubbery weight. It did not budge.

Luchika seemed thoroughly uninterested in his flailing fit. By the time the blood from the three heads had pooled on the floor, Elang was exhausted, panting, able to force only a thin metallic wheeze from his throat.

Silence settled over the room.

Having quietly finished the last page with a soft rustle of paper, Luchika shut the book with a crisp snap and smiled at Elang.

“Have you read this? I don’t usually pick up novels like this, but it’s rather fun. The story’s predictable, yet the writing is quite good, isn’t it?”

“Hack, hack. Liz… Liz…”

“I suppose a novel really ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠does need regret, misery, and obsession? Ah, the part where the crown prince goes mad with remorse was especially delicious. Still, in my opinion the heroine really ought to end up with the Magic Tower Master. What do you think, Father Elang?”

As if the long bout of thrashing had never happened, Luchika chattered about the book as blithely as a daughter gossiping with her father.

“Demon… Rak… tahan… Corrupted…”

Elang muttered fragments that refused to form proper words.

“Hm? No reaction. Ah! Shall I ask Miss Lizbet instead? She was so noisy earlier, all that shrieking—now that she’s quiet, maybe she’ll give a proper answer?”

Luchika tapped Lizbet’s head with a fingertip. At the impact, Lizbet’s mouth—her long tongue already hanging out—fell slightly open.

At the sight, Elang’s chest clenched. Something inside him began to crumble, dry and brittle as old leaves.

“Ah, how unfortunate. It seems Miss Lizbet can’t answer. A pity, isn’t it, Father Elang?”

Luchika looked at him. Bathed in the golden light that fell over her face, she wore a smile as gentle as a saint’s.

She tossed the book carelessly beside Lizbet’s head and walked over to Elang with soft, unhurried steps.

“Well then—shall we share one of your hobbies as well, Father Elang?”

“Ah… ah. Don’t. Don’t…”

Beside the chair where Elang sat lay the tools he had favored in his younger days. Long neglected, they were caked a dull, sticky red with old blood and rust—instruments of torture.

“I can use healing magic quite well myself, you know. Father Elang. The Goddess taught me personally.”

Luchika’s whispering voice slid gently into Elang’s ear.

Hmm.

Auntie says she prefers the Grand Duke of the North?

Isn’t the Grand Duke of the North a little too full of himself?

“Not at all, my daughter. When a man of that sort finally opens his heart without once straying, he is the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠kind who will give you everything he has.”

Ehh. I still like the Magic Tower Master better—he’s stronger.

Isn’t an all-purpose overpowered character the superior choice?

I set Elang’s ninth right leg neatly beside the eighth.

The problem with only having one is that it won’t stand up properly. Keeps toppling over.

“S-spare… spare me…”

“Oh my, you’re awake! I was truly worried you might have broken already. Don’t Father Elang’s plump little legs look rather nice once you’ve gathered them all like this?”

The moment Elang regained consciousness, he began babbling whatever he thought might save him.

Except I had already heard all of this, starting from about the third time I cut off a leg. Ledgers of corruption among the order’s officers. How heretic inquisitors would come after me if I killed him. How the abbot of the order was a pedophile. How when they summoned heroes, a black-haired ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one meant a dud and they shipped them all off to the Labyrinth City.

Come to think of it… maybe I should head for the Labyrinth City myself.

“Do you mean to seek the Holy Sword?”

Well, I don’t exactly have a purpose or anywhere else to go.

“I have told you time and again—your mere existence is a blessing upon this world, my daughter.”

Yes, yes.

I spoke to Elang, who was still looping the same dialogue like an NPC.

“Father Elang. You’ve already said all of that several times. Shall we wrap this up now?”

“No—no! Spare me, please spare me! I—I’ll talk! I’ll talk! An identity—an identity card, you need one, don’t you? Lady Luchika—Luchika! An anonymous identity card issued by the White Brightness Society—one that guarantees anonymity while granting you treatment equal to a noble’s! I have one! A—an item that is absolutely impossible to forge! I went through so much to obtain it! If you spare me—if you spare me, I’ll give it to you! Please, please, have mercy!”

Oh. Elang was suddenly fluent, pleading in a desperate voice.

Suddenly speaking so well. Not broken enough yet?

Hmm. Well, a little cutting here and there is the sort of pain one can endure.

I had a fair idea of the object he was describing, so I pulled it out of Black. A short rod of hard white metal, densely set with tiny gemstones.

“You mean this? I found it in Father Elang’s safe, right next to the gold coins.”

And I pulled out the others as well—the ones from, ah, what was his name, the scarred man’s safe. Different colors, but four nearly identical items in total.

Identity cards, huh. So that’s what they were for.

“I have these too. Quite a few, aren’t there?”

Under the gentle golden light, Elang’s expression burned black.

Ah. That face, overflowing with despair.

A delicious little shiver.

“If this is all you have, I’m truly disappointed. I was about to start on the parts that actually hurt—so if anything else comes to mind, please raise your hand nice and high.”

“Ack! No! No!! Stop!!”

I forced the gag that had been rolling around in his mouth back between his teeth. Poor thing—his tightly bound hands could not lift even a little.

Hehe.

I kneaded the plump, soft flesh of Elang’s jaw as he sat there helpless.

Haa. How long will he last?

In my previous life the record was thirty-seven minutes.

…

Hmm. Elang broke in only six.

A little disappointed, I gave his plump chin one last squeeze, then had Black take his head.

As expected, killing something already broken is no fun.

I extinguished Auntie’s bright golden light and sank into the comfortable dark. Then I gave Black time to eat Elang.

A cute little crunching and chewing filled the air, and the man who had so generously provided money and provisions vanished without a trace.

“The night is deep. Rest now.”

That was the plan, Auntie.

I walked quietly to a pitch-black corner and lay down. The smell was nothing to celebrate, but not a single ray of light reached it—cozy and perfect. The floor was a bit cold, but the soft armor and cloak made it comfortable enough.

“Ah, my poor daughter. There is a soft bed upstairs—why lie there?”

Any dark corner is fine as a place to rest, Auntie.

“Ah… it pains me. It pains me so…”

With Quilsena’s nagging as a lullaby, my mind slipped swiftly down into the dark.

Hmm. Good morning.

I opened my eyes in the basement, where a faint wet smell of blood and a stale musk still hung in the air. I must have slept rather well; there was no ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fatigue at all. Perhaps thanks to Auntie’s power.

I stretched lightly, dusted myself off, and cleaned my sticky mouth and sleep-crusted face with purification.

My stomach gave a faint, queasy roll.

Ugh. Come to think of it, all I’ve eaten was a scrap of bread rolling around on the table yesterday before I disposed of the pig.

There was something like a refrigerator, wasn’t there?

I strolled out of the pig’s basement at my leisure. The pale light of approaching dawn was beginning to filter in.

I padded into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator-like thing.

Isn’t the gap in technology between a remote farming village and this place a little too severe?

I vaguely recalled my birthplace. I had already forgotten how many siblings there had been, but that place had been a pure hovel.

The cold box was packed full of food and fruit, sausage, cheese, vegetables, even milk—an abundant store of ingredients.

Might as well take a reasonable amount of this too.

I bit into a wrinkled smoked sausage and had Black sweep the rest of the food away clean. It was fairly salty, but the herbs and pepper balanced it beautifully.

As expected of a pig—he ate well.

I made one more circuit of the house for anything I might have missed the day before. Nibbling sausage and bread as I went, I found myself rather full. I washed it down with cool milk from a bottle.

Well. There was a fair pile of gold alone. What a plump, generous little pig.

He was a good boy who gave without stinting.

I stood before a decent-looking mirror in the pig’s daughter’s room and set my appearance to rights.

“That’s right. Always make a habit of presenting yourself properly.”

You really do nag an awful lot, Auntie.

I adjusted the armor and sword-belt the scarred man had given me this way and that until I looked like a seasoned adventurer.

Hmm. Black hair means a dud hero, huh.

Summoning heroes like a gacha pull—what an entertaining world.

Is this a game world?

Perhaps because it was morning, Black had crawled back inside me, and my hair was the bright platinum blonde I’d been born with again.

Is this the first time I’ve properly looked at my own face?

Quite the beautiful girl, aren’t I.

Watching Black swim in my golden irises, I smiled softly.

A book by the author MintChocoLove sat on the desk beside the mirror, so I carefully packed it away. Something to read when I got bored.

Well then. Time to go.

Uh… what was the name again? I left the pig’s cool, silent house behind.

Thanks, pig.

The soft plumpness of that pork jowl was pretty nice.

I’ll put those fifty-eight gold coins you so generously gave me to good use.

And thanks for all the silver, too.

Funny thing—the pig actually had fewer copper coins. Richer than a slave merchant? What kind of profession is ‘priest,’ exactly.

“Ah… a priest is not meant to be that sort of thing.”

Ah yes—you mean anyone without Holy Power isn’t a real priest.

Well, Scarred Uncle had deeds and titles and whatnot as well, but they’re basically kindling. I’ll use them for campfires later.

Who had the bigger net worth? Who cares.

The streets were quiet; it was still quite early. Come to think of it, I had lived in this city my whole life since being sold here, and I still barely knew the roads. Once again I felt the gulf between life in that white prison and the city’s technology.

Still, using the tall city walls as a rough guide, I made it to the train station.

From a hovel to a train… what even is this world.

“Show me your identity card.”

Oh. I didn’t know—they check right at the station entrance.

A guard in metal armor, mid-yawn, addressed me.

Thanks, pig.

I smoothly produced the white identity card the pig had given me. The guard snapped to attention. He touched a short rod from his belt to my card; a green light flared, and he saluted.

“Confirmed.”

So in the end, this is what nobles use when they’re up to something shady?

Nice.

I boarded a train that, to my eyes, looked rather old-fashioned. There was a certain romance to it—antique charm, you could call it.

The fare was thirty silver. That’s ten times what an ignorant five-year-old would cost.

My destination: the Labyrinth City, Larites. Far enough that the trip would take nearly a full day.

Alone in a four-person compartment, I read MintChocoLove’s novel with Auntie and held heated debates.

Auntie seems rather fond of black-haired male leads.

I prefer white hair.

And a large chest is essential.

Is treating black-haired barbarians as duds also deliberate, somehow?

Well, if I take Auntie at her word, these are the same insolent people who pass off light magic as holy power.

Anyway, “hair dark as the deep sea,” “the color of a night just fallen”—you could glimpse the author’s careful, coded anguish in the phrasing.

Thinking such things, I let the train carry me and kept reading.

It really is fun.

Is it because all I’ve read until now were filthy boring scriptures?

My head feels like it’s going to explode with dopamine.

I had passed I-don’t-know-how-many stops when—

Rattle.

“Ah. Hello.”

A bow.

“Oh my, hello.”

A red-haired young man with an open, friendly face and a shy-looking silver-haired girl entered the compartment. The girl clung tightly to the young man’s arm and peeked from behind him—at me, or rather, at my book?

In any case, we exchanged greetings.

“This is compartment fifteen, right?”

“Yes. Please, come in.”

I gave them a bright, beautiful smile.