The Ant Tunnels

Messi clenched his fist, opened it, stretched his arm — feeling for the sensation of his body, the play of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠every muscle.

He had felt it in those few exchanges just now.

He was not the man he had been.

He could move exactly as he pictured, and power ran true through his limbs. It was as if this body no longer belonged to him. His old physical sense had receded so far he could scarcely remember it.

And it was not finished. Faintly, steadily, his body was still being tuned. He was still in the process of improving — and improvement implied a goal. Gaston's body, most likely. That was the finest physical data he possessed.

In numbers, he was about half a Gaston.

Still not a hundred percent.

Synchronizing with another person's senses and coming to understand their body — that was a side effect of my Heal, wasn't it? I only meant to use it to learn how a body is supposed to be used...

Something was off.

In a single night, his flesh had advanced far beyond anything he had expected. The discrepancy forced Messi to think again about the nature of his own power.

When I use Heal, I synchronize with the other person's senses. Information about their body rises up of its own accord. And that information leads directly to complete understanding.

On the basis of that understanding, I try to use my own body the same way. I repeat it until it sticks. That is the process of making it my own.

Here, though, was a situation he could not account for. Feeling another man's senses and understanding his body was one thing. The ability to reshape one's own flesh until that understanding sank into it — that rested on an entirely different foundation.

A simple comparison: even if you had downloaded the installation file for an update, how quickly and how perfectly it installed still depended on the CPU — the central processor. And Messi was beginning to realize that his own processor was anything but ordinary.

The installation was too fast. Too perfect. For a single night's work, it was unreal. He suspected this was another ability entirely. Perhaps this was what Gaston had meant by aptitude.

"Messi, what the hell happened?"

Gaston had never been one to stand on ceremony. He came straight over and asked.

How was he supposed to explain this?

"I..."

"Hm?"

"I guess I was more of a genius than I thought."

Gaston stared.

I thought the same thing, but hearing it from the man himself is... something else.

Watching Gaston flounder, Messi let out a small laugh.

"I'm kidding."

"A joke?"

"Yes. I spent last night practicing the things you showed me. I couldn't manage all of it, so I figured I should at least get one thing right. I drilled just that one move like crazy."

It was the sort of answer that would have passed if you didn't know better. Gaston, however, was not convinced.

Isn't that the same thing? Even if he only worked the side swing, he copied a move he'd seen once — perfectly. If that isn't a genius, what is?

In the end, Gaston's mind settled on a single conclusion.

He's hiding something.

It was closer to certainty than guesswork. Aptitude did not change overnight. If it could, people would pay a fortune just to learn how.

Not my place to ask...

No one handed over a method that precious. And pressing further would have been rude besides.

Messi thought the same. A secret was only a secret while no one knew it. Even if he explained, no one else could copy it — and he was under no obligation to explain in the first place.

"Anyway, it's impressive. Congratulations. At this rate you'll see the end of the Savage Stage for sure. All that's left is to get a mana cultivation method. Then the end of Brave too... no, if things go well, even Radish..."

"I'd heard that even the lowest-grade cultivation methods are hard to come by."

"They are. Look at me."

Gaston had reached the end of the Savage Stage, but he could go no further. He lacked the aptitude to awaken mana on his own the way Ayla had, and he had never found a teacher willing to pass on a cultivation method.

Messi... had met such a teacher. But even a master had his constraints.

Everything his master possessed had come down from the Lumberjack Alliance. They sealed the leak of their secret arts with a lock-curse called the Pledge of Silence. Even a master could not simply give his disciple everything.

Instead, his master had taught him magic.

Unlike mana cultivation methods, the introductory arts of magic had been made public — a decision of the mages' association, the Ivory Tower. That was how confident they were. With each Circle one advanced, one had to surmount a wall of Truth, and those awakenings were thick and high.

There would always be a limit to what a master could teach outside his own field. But his purpose had never been to forge a powerful disciple. It had been to help a student who looked different from everyone else adapt to this world and survive in it.

In the end, Messi had been set far from any mana cultivation method. He knew, though, that the choice had been his master's best. Because he understood that his master's will had lain not in strength but in harmony and survival, he refused to be impatient. He would be satisfied with what he had now.

"Did you find the ant tunnels?"

"No. Nothing. We covered a fair stretch of ground around here, and still nothing... so they really are inside the Forest of Resentment, then?"

By the time the sun was beginning to set, Leto and the village chief had returned. Leto's shoes and trousers were caked in mud. That alone said ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠how far they had walked.

And they still found nothing.

Messi glanced up. Rain was still falling, light but steady. If he and Leto were not wrong, the answer lay in something outside themselves.

"The rain, most likely. They sealed the tunnels against it."

"Damn it. All that for nothing."

"Chief? Honestly, I was the one who did all the searching..."

"Oh, hush, Leto."

If this was how things stood, there was no help for it. They would have to ask for support. Messi took the two of them and headed for Ereb.

Ereb was having an attendant wipe the blood from his armor. He had already changed clothes in the meantime — a nobleman's idea of cleanliness. He also wore a distinctly self-satisfied look, as if to shout, So you understand my greatness now, outlander?

He thinks he did me a favor.

A real psychopath, Messi thought, but he offered his thanks all the same.

"...Thank you."

"Kyahaha! So you've learned some manners after all!"

Irritation needled him. He went straight to the point.

"We searched the area for ant tunnels and found none. It seems they closed the burrows because of the rain."

"So we camp, then? And if we run into an Enzo Muete while we're at it? At night you can barely see something coming from a distance."

The man couldn't remember people's names, but the monster's name was burned into his skull. It must have shaken him that badly. Messi found it funny, and kept the thought off his face.

"We won't be camping. I'll need to use the horses."

"The horses?"

"I mean to lure them out. They won't stay buried with prey standing right on top of them."

"Permission granted. We won't be able to use the beasts anyway, once we're down there."

If they went into the ant tunnels, even expensive warhorses would have to be turned loose. Better to put them to use like this.

Messi and the mercenaries gathered plenty of vines from the forest and tied one to each horse. Then they stationed the animals, one by one, at every spot that looked promising. Bait, thrown into the dark.

Ant fishing, in other words. Everyone took hold of a vine and waited, taut with nerves. If it didn't work, they would have to camp at the edge of the Forest of Resentment — and that prospect frightened them more than the wait.

The worry proved wasted. Sooner than anyone expected, someone felt a vine go tight.

"H-here! We've got a signal!"

"Ease the vine out slowly! The rest of us follow at once!"

At Messi's shout, they moved as one. Authority had settled into his voice. Ereb's warning, it seemed, had taken hold among the knights and the mercenaries alike.

They poured after the vine. One of them lagged. He could not keep up.

"D-don't leave me behind...!"

Den, who had been deliberately crippled, had no hope of matching that pace. He watched the others surge away and hobbled after them on his ruined legs, tears and spit running down his face. So this was how he would be abandoned.

Then his body went light.

"What's there to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠worry about when your big brother's here, Den!"

It was Durek. He hooked Den at his waist and broke into a run.

"Boss— boss! Thank you, thank you so much!"

As if I'd ever dump you. You've only just become useful. Hahaha!

Den wept and poured out his gratitude. He would not have, of course, if he had known what Durek was thinking.

The vine tied to the horse ran down into the earth. The ground around it looked wrong — hastily packed, out of keeping with the soil beside it. On Ereb's order, the attendants set to with tools.

The earth was wet, and they tore through it in no time. A small hole opened, and in moments it had grown. They excavated the entire mouth to match the passage within. The diameter was a good three meters.

The meaning of that size settled over them, and every face went tight.

"So there's an ant as big as this tunnel..."

Someone muttered it without meaning to — the thought slipping out on its own.

The mouth of the ant tunnels was like a black eye. Not a speck of light lived in it. To step through was to fall into an abyss. How deep did it go? A strange fear took them, and they glanced at one another.

Do we really have to go in?

Ereb answered that himself.

"We shall enter. The column will be divided into ten squads. Five knights, eight mercenaries, and three attendants to bear the baggage, moving in safety at the center of each squad. Mercenaries will follow the orders of their respective squad leaders. You, Captain — you'll agree, I take it?"

Ayla nodded. That they were not being used as shields was enough. Asking for command of each squad as well would have been greed. And knights of House Ahental were men of advanced training. They were, if anything, the more trustworthy choice.

"What about the guides, my lord?"

Leto asked. Ereb considered a moment, then pointed at Messi.

"Messi will take the vanguard. Squads One and Two will protect him. Messi — stay as far forward as you can and find the path. The other two will remain with Squad Five, where I will be. Do not stray."

The intent was obvious: Leto and the village chief were to be a leash around Messi's throat. They had been brought along for that purpose from the start, and there was nothing to rebel against. The village chief, for his part, grinned from ear to ear, thoroughly pleased. Stay beside this young lord, his calculation ran, and he would be safe.

Ramang was in Squad One. Messi's eyes met his. Messi inclined his head, as if to say he would be in the knight's care.

Ramang let out a breath first, then drew his sword. A greeting, in place of words. The blade was a knight's emblem, and his strength.

"All of you, remember this. Keep wounds to a minimum. If there ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is bleeding, call the healer at once. Remember — even the smallest bleed must not be left untreated!"

Ereb drew his own sword in turn.