Into the Fairy Forest
Stinging sunlight poured down from above. Beneath it, a woman lay sprawled on a makeshift bed with nothing on her body but a single bikini, the insect-like antennae atop her head swaying lazily, as if in a fine mood.
The woman drew nectar from a flower, savoring the sweetness as it flooded her mouth. Eyes narrowed to slits, she trailed the tip of her tongue across her lips.
"Honey really does taste best when you pluck it fresh yourself."
She licked the honey smeared at the corner of her mouth and flashed a satisfied smile. Watching her, a hulking man heaved a sigh.
"Ha... Could you at least show a little tension? We don't even know how strong this Lebetri is."
Looking annoyed, the woman turned her gaze away.
"Shut it, Mister Breeder..."
"Don't call me by that damn nickname!"
The man's face flushed crimson.
"I'm not even married yet!"
"Which is exactly what makes you even more of a Mister Breeder..."
Gritting his teeth, the man trembled with clenched fists.
"One of these days, I swear I'll punch you."
"What, for real? You? A schmuck like you?"
Exuding killing intent, the woman bore down on him.
At that moment, a single sheet of white paper came riding the wind from far away. Like a living butterfly, it changed course again and again as it fluttered toward her.
"Hoh..."
The woman had no intention of catching it with her hands. Planting both palms on the ground, she kicked her body upside down into a handstand.
The instant the flying paper swept past just above her head, she snagged it cleanly between her toes.
Her body spun in a smooth circle. After a full rotation she landed back on both feet, took the paper wedged at the tip of her toes into her hand, and flashed a grin.
"So? What do you think of my foot-catch skills?"
"Don't use expressions like that..."
"It's disgusting!"
"Haha! What are you gonna do about it, born loser?"
"Ugh..."
While the man fumed, the woman unfolded the paper without a care.
[Lebetri is suddenly moving south.]
The man beside her snatched the paper away and reread its contents over and over.
"Did Tira send this paper? More importantly — south?"
"Why are you so shocked?"
"We spent days preparing to ambush them here!"
He had set the traps on his own and analyzed the terrain. Lebetri was supposed to come north to meet them — but she was heading south, in the opposite direction.
"Goddamn it..."
The man ground his teeth in fury.
"It was all for nothing."
Watching him like that, the woman let out a snort of laughter.
"So what?"
"What?"
"Waiting around just isn't my style..."
The corner of her mouth curled up, slow and deliberate.
"I like it better when I get to... pluck what I want and eat it fresh myself."
Running her tongue over her lips, she sprang to her feet.
The next moment, a pair of bee wings that had never been there before burst from her back and spread wide. The wings began to shiver.
— Bzzz. Bzzz-bzzz.
The woman pointed south.
"Let's go. This time, it's us who heads for Lebetri instead."
In the middle of a vast plain stood a single military tent. A woman maintained her firearms while hauling boxes of ammunition.
Right in the thick of it sat a man whose head was shaped like a wooden fish — the hollow drum monks strike while chanting.
"...Maha Prajna Paramita Heart Sutra."
— Thock.
He brought a massive wooden rod down onto his own head.
"...Form is emptiness, emptiness is form."
Thock...
"...Feeling, perception, mental formations, consciousness — they, too, are thus."
Thock...
Each time he struck his head, a clear, ringing sound rolled across the plain. The woman in military fatigues fished out a cigarette and set it between her lips, lit it, and exhaled a long drag of smoke.
"Ha... Back on the battlefield, I never even had time for stuff like this..."
She gave a wry smile.
"All it ever took was the resolve to fight for my homeland, and that was enough."
But the monk did not stop his recitation.
"...A mind that wavers makes for a trigger that wavers too..."
"So that's why you keep hitting your head?"
"No. It is to kill desire..."
— Thock.
"To kill anger..."
— Thock.
"And... to mete out fitting punishment upon a foolish living being."
She snorted at that.
"Is that living being Lebetri, by any chance?"
"It is."
"Punishment, hm..."
She gave the specially modified shotgun slung across her back a light pat.
"I agree. On a battlefield, extreme punishment is a necessity."
The monk pressed his palms together once more.
"Every sin carries its price."
Just then, a wind stirred. A single sheet of white paper drifted through the air, slowly closing in on them — and, as if guided by an invisible hand, it came to a stop before the monk.
The monk spread open his palm, and the paper settled precisely onto it.
"Could this be... inevitability?" the monk murmured.
She clicked her tongue at the sight.
"Spare me the useless philosophizing. Just deliver the report already."
The monk quietly unfolded the paper.
[Lebetri is suddenly moving south.]
...
A brief silence passed. Then she snatched the paper and read it.
"South?"
Her brow knotted deep.
"Our intel said north!"
The monk, if anything, seemed to smile — though with a wooden fish for a head, there was no way to confirm it.
"Fate has begun to move."
"What fate?"
"No... it seems it is not fate, after all."
The monk shook his head.
"It appears someone is trying to slip free of their fate."
Blood soaked the floor. Bright-red gore crept along the gaps between the tiles.
At its very center stood a man in a pristine white chef's uniform, silent as the dead. In his right hand, an enormous Chinese cleaver, dark blood dripping steadily down its blade.
At his feet lay the corpse of a woman whose head had been cleaved clean in two — a member of his team, his own fighting partner. But...
"Filthy."
That alone — being dirty — was reason enough for him to kill her.
Unbothered, he drew a snow-white handkerchief from his breast pocket and began slowly wiping the blood from every inch of his body. Meticulously, until every stain was gone... until not a single drop remained.
When at last his clothes had returned to their original white, he nodded in satisfaction.
"As expected — a head chef must be spotless at all times."
At that very moment, a sheet of white paper came riding the wind.
The man glanced at it.
A kitchen knife appeared in his left hand. With it, he pinned the paper to the wall.
Then he walked over unhurried, drew out the knife, and unfolded the paper.
[Lebetri is suddenly moving south.]
...
The space, already silent, grew quieter still. The man folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket. Then he spoke, softly:
"This time, I suppose... I shall have to become a traveling chef."
The kitchen knife and cleaver vanished from his hands into thin air. Then he drew on a fresh pair of white gloves.
Only the wind blew across the wasteland. I glanced back over my shoulder. Nothing was there — but the future was another story.
For an instant, my vision blurred. A man clad in nothing but a pristine white chef's uniform, brushing himself off each time the sand clung to him.
"Tch..."
At the click of my tongue, Lebetri's eyes flicked toward me.
"What, something wrong? Or is it just those damn flies?"
"There are flies?"
"No — it's just a figure of speech."
I answered with a smile, as if nothing were wrong. Fortunately, she didn't press any further.
Quietly, I scanned our surroundings.
'Damn it... the moment one fly latches on, the others are bound to come swarming.'
I set about erasing our footprints from the ground, one by one. Lebetri asked, puzzled:
"Why all of a sudden?"
"Just in case."
"Hiding our tracks?"
I gave nothing but a silent nod and kept at it until not a single trace of us remained.
Then I rose and walked off in the opposite direction. Ten paces — and there I deliberately left a set of footprints. After that, I gave them a rough, careless smudging with hands and feet.
Not enough to erase them completely. Just enough that it would feel like someone had tried.
Then I left a crisp, unmistakable trail leading the other way. Returning to our original heading, I kept walking as if nothing had happened.
A few hours later, a man in a pristine white chef's uniform arrived at that very spot. He looked around without a word.
On the ground: crisp, unmistakable footprints.
...
He gave them a single glance — and walked straight past.
"Toying with the food, are we."
With that, his gaze shifted to the faintly smudged trace on the other side. He knelt and brushed the soil with a fingertip — and naturally, the moment he was done, he flicked the sand from his glove and wiped it clean with his handkerchief.
The corner of his mouth lifted, just barely.
"Hoh."
He followed that trace for a few steps. Then stopped again.
...
After a moment's thought, he slowly surveyed his surroundings.
"This trace, too, was left behind on purpose."
Brushing the sand from his shoulder, he carried on his monologue.
"An ordinary cook would have chosen the ingredient that gleams brightly on the surface."
This time he produced a bottle of disinfectant and began spraying himself down, resuming as he worked.
"A somewhat more careful cook, however, would have chosen this one — harder to spot, but far better suited to the guest."
A brief silence.
"How amusing."
He withdrew his gaze from the faint trail as well.
"You think quite well, don't you."
He did not chase the trail any further. He simply murmured, calm as ever:
"As a chef, I believe I shall seek out my ingredients myself."
And he began to walk, unhurried.
I stopped in my tracks yet again. In the end, the fly had latched on after all. No... better to call it time bought.
I said nothing. I simply turned around, slowly.
At the far end of the wasteland stood a man in a pristine white chef's uniform. The distance kept his face from view.
But he, too, had apparently spotted us — frozen mid-step, staring our way.
Only the wind swept across the wasteland. Lebetri asked, quietly:
"You know him, don't you?"
I shook my head. Lebetri nodded back with a look of understanding.
Far away, a Chinese cleaver materialized in the chef's hand. Sunlight slid down the length of its blade.
And with a single remark, he took his first step toward the two of us.
"Time to see which piece of meat is the one that used its head. In other words — a quality inspection."