The Last Rooster
"Pff— pffhah! Ha! Hahaha!"
"Oppa, stop laughing."
"Khh— okay, pfft! Hk! Khh! Haha!"
"I said stop laughing."
"How am I supposed to look at that and not laugh? He's a chicken. A chicken!"
"I'm a beastman too. Stop it!"
"Yeah, but you're cat-type. That guy's avian. Avian! Chicken-head! Fried chicken!"
"Chicken-head…"
"What? He is a chicken-head. Stood there trying to look all menacing by himself — and he was a chicken-head the whole time!"
"Ahem."
"Ah. By all means, speak, Sir Chicken-Head."
"It is hardly proper to say such things in a person's presence, is it not?"
"You're not a person, you're a chicken. And a thief. Why would I show a thief any courtesy?"
"Then do as you please. So. What brings you all the way out here?"
"What do you think? You stole our things."
"That much is true."
"How'd you do it? There weren't even footprints. And hand over the goods. Now."
"I controlled the chickens with magic. And yes, I stole your belongings… but what makes you think I still have them?"
"What?"
"I already sold them. Passed them off to a merchant for a handsome price."
"You crazy son of a— Fine. Then I'm taking you instead."
"Taking me where, exactly?"
"Where do you think? You're going to pay for what you did. I'll wring every last coin out of you if I have to, and get back what we lost."
"A shame, then. I have no fortune to speak of."
"What? You just said you sold the goods. Where's the money?"
"Gone."
"Cut the bullshit and spit it out."
"It is truly gone. I spent some of it on today's meal, and sent the rest far away."
"Sent it where?"
"Hero. What do you suppose this building is for?"
"How should I know? Abandoned factory, something like that?"
"Wrong. How much do you know of beastmen?"
"I don't. Almost nothing. Just… halfway between animal and human? Something like that?"
"You know nothing at all. We beastmen once lived settled in the Northern Lands. Until the land was laid waste."
"Keep talking."
"It was a land where magic itself flowed. Magic ran in the veins of those of us born there. Did you know that the first magic came from us?"
"No."
This bastard. Why did his way of speaking just change?
"We were the most powerful magical beings in existence. All magic began with us, in the beginning. Until you lot stole that spark from us!"
Mr. Chicken ground his teeth as he went on.
"Well. In the end, we failed to protect our homeland, and we had to fall back. South. To this side of the world."
"People did not like us. Because we were different."
"What began as dislike turned to anger. Anger curdled into hatred. And hatred, in the end, gave birth to discrimination."
Discrimination against beastmen? First I've heard of it. Is that why Lily's been hiding what she is?
"You asked what this building is?"
As the words left his mouth, the torches inside the building began to kindle one by one. The place was packed with old blankets, bowls, spoons, garbage — the remnants of lives lived poorly.
"This is where the discriminated beastmen gathered to live. We were poor. We were weak. We did not last long. The children and the old died first, and anyone who still wanted to live left this place. Now I am the only one remaining. This is my home."
"Right. I see. But… why are you telling me any of this?"
"I am not finished. Listen to the end. That we were discriminated against, that we died, that we were despised and trampled and driven out — all of it was because we were weak."
"In the end, a few among us began to think."
"Why should we have to be weak?"
"We were beings who commanded the strongest magic there was. The strongest, without question. So why should we be the ones who suffer?"
"So we decided to resist. We formed an organization. We researched magic. We built an army. So that one day, we could crush the likes of you."
Some kind of resistance, then. So this bastard funneled the money from the theft to them?
"Why are you telling me this? Isn't it a secret? If I spread word of this, your own people are the ones who'll suffer more."
"Because I hate you."
"What? I've never done a single thing to harm a beastman."
"That has nothing to do with it. What I — what we — cannot stand is your goal."
"My goal? What are you talking about?"
"The Demon King. You mean to kill him, do you not?"
"Yeah. If I kill the Demon King, that's good for you, isn't it? You could go home."
"No. The Demon King is a secretive being. We know nothing about Him. Nothing — except that He is our kin."
The Demon King was a beastman? He wasn't, though. Did he use some kind of shapeshifting magic? He's from the Northern Lands, so it's possible he was a beastman — but I cut off his head myself. Did I see it wrong?
"You. Is that actually true? That the Demon King is a beastman?"
"Ah, it is certain. He is our kin. And we misunderstood Him for a very long time. We failed to grasp His true intent, and did nothing but resent Him."
"What the hell kind of bullshit is this now?"
"We are beastmen. Beings whose outward forms resemble beasts. Should our way of life not be close to that as well? Not forcing ourselves to live by human rules — but living as beasts do."
"Yes. That is the Demon King's true intent! To set trials upon us, that we might evolve, and be reborn as a stronger race."
"You're insane. Have you ever even seen this Demon King yourself? If you haven't, how can you be so sure?"
"I know. Beastmen do not abandon their own."
"This is all just a delusion cooked up by you and a handful of your friends. And I'll tell you something else — if I report what you've just said, plus the part where you used chickens to steal our things, you're going to prison. Your little rebellion game ends here."
"And how, with no evidence? However much beastmen are discriminated against, no public institution will punish me on the grounds that I am a beastman alone. All you have is your claim that I confessed. How do you intend to put me in a cell with that?"
Damn it. He's right. A trace of mana alone proves nothing.
Then how the hell do I…
"Kyle! So here you were!"
"Maisha?"
"Indeed. I found the goods. A merchant said he had purchased them from some unidentified man. That is why I returned this way."
"Good. Is the merchant here?"
"He waits outside. Come in, if you would."
A balding middle-aged man stepped into the building.
"Ah, that's him. That's the man. I didn't realize earlier with the robe pulled over his head, but he's a beastman! I thought he was wearing a hat — that was a comb!"
"Hey, chicken-head. If this man testifies, you're finished, aren't you?"
"Ah. Then I suppose I have no choice."
He flicked his hand once, and chickens began to appear from who-knew-where.
And those chickens—
"Maisha! Protect the merchant! Now!"
"Hm? What are you—"
Too late. The chickens had already lunged in a mad rush and begun to peck the merchant.
"Aaagh! Get away! Let go of me!"
The merchant thrashed, but the chickens did not stop. Their numbers only swelled, until dozens of them had buried him completely.
We could do nothing but watch.
Blood ran out from between the feathers.
When the flock finally drew back, we were staring at a corpse, blood still fountaining from its torn throat.
No one could find a word. The atrocity before us had stolen every voice in the room.
"I just got he— Kyaaah!"
Clotine, arriving late, took one look at the blood-soaked corpse and crumpled to the floor.
"I… Big Sis Maisha was… too fast, I just, I just got here… hhik, what is this…"
"You son of a bitch. You killed a man just to destroy the evidence…"
"Well. It couldn't be helped. I take no particular joy in it either."
"You… you should have just stayed an ordinary thief…"
Sophistry. There are people who can never admit their own faults, their own mistakes — who deny them, who dump them onto someone else.
The worst kind of trash there is.
Wait. This… I've heard this somewhere…
It's your fault.
Ah. People had said that to me, once.
Ah. Someone who used to be precious to me had said those words in a dream.
How had I felt then? What expression had I been wearing?
"Hey."
"Why do bastards like you even exist? How can trash like this even be?"
"Why the hell do you dump the things you did wrong onto someone else? Does that let you forgive yourselves? I can't forgive you. You said you hate me? I hate you too."
I was still moving as if drunk, staggering, feeling my heart slam against my ribs as I approached Clotine where she sat crumpled on the floor.
"A chance to ask forgiveness… no. You're all the same. Not a scrap of regret. Not a scrap of remorse."
I crouched beside her as if to help her up, and reached out a hand.
But what I grabbed was not her hand. It was the knife at her hip.
My pounding heart beat faster still.
In the end, the heart moved faster than the head.
I hurled Clotine's knife straight at Mr. Chicken.
And then I launched myself after it.