The Season of the Devil
Demons say that time slips away faster the older you get. It feels like only yesterday that the heavy snowfall announced the end of the year and Christmas had come, yet now the frost on the wind has melted and warm sunlight bathes the green barley fields. The season when flowers bloom and life germinates. At the same time, it is the busiest time for farming. Even now, somewhere, endless stretches of plowed fields and seed-sowing must be unfolding. Every farmer, thinking of the harvest, pours sweat and effort into the soil. Even covered in dirt, the sight feels noble and beautiful, infinitely close to nature. At least, that is how it looks to someone like me, born and raised in the city.
Westania’s capital, which had amassed enormous capital through war reparations and international trade. In my hometown of Central City, such scenes could no longer be found. By the time I was born, Westania had ended its war and reclaimed peace. And in doing so, it had lost nature.
The central government poured vast interest and budgets into urban development, and the heart of that development was the capital, Central City, where much of the nation’s infrastructure was concentrated. It did not take long for every plot of land in the city to be covered entirely in asphalt and cement. Buildings replaced trees. Factory complexes pushed out barley fields. High-rises, swelling rapidly in number, began to block out the sky. Smoke from chimneys mingled with dust clouds blowing in from the eastern desert, giving birth to smog. These days the air tasted so thick that I sometimes wondered if we would soon have to walk around wearing gas masks.
And I had no right to complain. Not because I had chosen to live in this city, nor because I was a wealthy man with gold bars stacked in his warehouse. Not all the factories and chimneys in the city belonged to me, and I had only added a hand to them belatedly, but in the end they were the crops I had cultivated. Just as a farmer’s lifelong harvest ends up on the dinner table, the yield of the factories built for my lifelong ambition flowed into my mouth. Therefore, I could never complain. This too was the fruit of the busy farming season.
I wonder, though—does my own appearance look noble and beautiful to someone else? The question lingers, but for myself, I simply think, So this is what bitterness tastes like, and continue onward, swallowing the nausea.
In that way, I gradually made my way through streets strewn with odors that crossed from unpleasant into outright revolting. Daneheim, 13th Street, South District of Central City. What came into view was not so much a street as an utterly disordered shantytown. Here and there, beggars wrapped in rags and cardboard boxes stared at me.
“……”
“……”
Clack. Clack.
I walked on as if nothing were amiss, exchanging silent glances with them. I felt no worry that they might rush me or discover my identity. I was wearing my combat suit as a precaution, and my face was completely hidden. Besides, their memories would soon be erased by the lord of this place, so I could comfortably pity these nameless souls.
Look at yourselves. You have nothing left to lose. You didn’t even get the chance for revenge. And yet you give thanks for what little you have been given and take comfort in the misery of others. I steel myself. Every time I pass through this filthy street, I make the same vow. I must not miss the opportunity that has come. I must not stumble even once. I must not ruin a lifetime of farming with a single misstep.
Convincing myself of this, I go to meet the devil once again today.
Clack. I suddenly stopped. Lifting my gaze from the pitiful beggars, I looked straight ahead. A single majestic mansion stood alone amid the shantytown, revealing itself in an instant. An isolated island that clashed completely with the dirty air, debris, and failures surrounding it. It was the castle where the devil lived.
Even if one did not know that fact, the sight of someone in a combat suit entering that distinctly out-of-place mansion would naturally draw attention. But no one could spread rumors. The mansion before me was the castle presided over by a devil, and the only human permitted to meet and perceive him was me. At this very moment, remembering me—the mansion’s guest—would also be unforgivable.
In fact, the shantytown beggars who had been staring at me just moments ago now stood dazed, their minds blank, before one by one they began to vanish into the mist. A distasteful trick. I have witnessed it for ten years now, yet I still cannot grow used to the sight. It is the devil’s sorcery, the one who always boasts of her own omnipotence. A measure to protect secrecy and safety, a Mystery that people call magic.
I stared silently at the old mansion before me, then stepped forward. The hoof-like soles that left the dirt floor crossed the wide-open gate as if welcoming a guest and trampled the weed-choked garden. As always, I flung open the front door of the main building. I passed through the bleak, dark lobby that had once hosted grand festivals and climbed the spiral staircase. Clack. Clack.
After countless steps, I reached the corridor. In the guest room farthest to the right lived the devil. It had been that way for ten years, and today would be no different.
Creeeak— I opened the door once more. And in the pitch-dark room, I faced a pair of glowing red eyes and a dagger flying straight at my throat.
It was sharp.
Clack. I hurriedly moved my arm.
The door opened.
The uniformed officer who entered immediately saluted the superior before him. A crisp, perfectly executed salute. Only after completing the textbook greeting did he begin his report.
“Reporting to the respected Director of the National Security Bureau of Great Westania.”
A bright, cheerful smile. At the seemingly playful tone, the Director frowned but said nothing. The person before him was not the type to correct her attitude over a few words of admonishment, and it was also true that there were few who could replace her within the agency. So he simply quietly scanned the report that had been placed on his desk earlier.
Special Affairs Division, National Security Bureau, Central City Police Department. Inspector Ellyna Bastard. On the surface she handled national security, but behind the scenes she was one of the carefully selected hounds deployed by the state to confront Mysteries unknown to ordinary citizens. Among them, the one standing before him was the breed best at catching prey. That was why, despite her shameless personality, she had been recognized for her achievements and risen to the position of second-in-command of the Special Affairs Division at the young age of twenty-three.
For a while, Ellyna recited the weekly incident report while the Director listened to her chatter. She covered everything from the city’s accident rate to the completion rate of cases handled by the Special Affairs Division, the department’s atmosphere and condition, and other minute details. Next would come the probationary reports for the newly assigned inspectors.
Naturally, the Director’s thoughts turned to one particular new inspector. Unlike other departments that received five or six new recruits per class, the Special Affairs Division had significantly fewer personnel for various reasons. In the previous class, only one had joined.
Junior Inspector Ellyse Bertman.
Upon seeing the name, the Director narrowed his eyes, then flipped the page and asked casually.
“How is the new recruit you’re in charge of? The work in the Special Affairs Division is harsh, so she must be struggling.”
“Oh, not at all. She’s really diligent and throws herself into everything. It reminds me of myself when I was a rookie, you know?”
“……Is that so? In other words, she’s adapting well?”
“Yes, yes. She hasn’t thrown up once while visiting crime scenes. She’s a bit stubborn, but she has a calm head for observation. Her movements are pretty good when she makes arrests, and… ah, and most of all—”
Ellyna Bastard grinned and tapped her own nose.
“She has an incredible sense of smell. Her nose is outstanding. She’s practically a natural-born hound.”
“……A hound. You didn’t say that to the new inspector’s face, did you?”
“Of course not. We only say it among ourselves. I’m not an idiot.”
The Director stared at her skeptically. Ellyna simply shrugged. Having deftly brushed off her superior’s suspicion, she moved on to the final report she had saved for last.
The Director frowned again as he checked the document. With her usual smiling face, Inspector Ellyna Bastard recited the special matters for the first week of March in the Special Affairs Division.
“After thoroughly examining the traces at the Western District port with Junior Inspector Ellyse, the tentative conclusion reached by the person in charge, Inspector Ellyna Bastard, is as follows.”
……Demian Cloud realized that the hand he had reached out to catch the dagger was empty. He also realized that a woman had slipped into his arms and was now stroking his chin.
The woman smiled brightly and mocked the foolish man before her.
“You foolish human. It seems you forget everything I say every time I see you. Why do you always come wearing that useless armor? Is there nothing inside that head of yours?”
“Knowing what kind of things you might do, how could I possibly come unarmed?”
“And does wearing that give you any way to stop me?”
“……”
“This is exactly why idiots are hopeless.”
Her silver hair swayed gently as she spoke. The woman flicked her finger under Demian’s chin and took a sly step back. With an innocent smile, she looked up at him.
Demian frowned and glared at the damned devil before his eyes.
“So, what shall I help you with today? You foolish human.”
Vampire.
Bathory Erzsébet said.