Chapter 4: Harmonica in the Ruins
After parting ways with Karian, Marhal fed the black horse an awakening agent. He hadn't wanted to use it if he could help it, but the beast moved so sluggishly—as if refusing to run unless he kept his promise—that it was even slower than a man on foot. With no choice, Marhal administered the drug, and the horse bolted. Tongue lolling, dragging its aged body, ignoring its rider entirely, it charged at full speed for over an hour before finally collapsing. Even as it lay dying, the black horse seemed content. There was no regret in its fading eyes. Whether that satisfaction came from fulfilling its dream or simply the drug's narcotic rush, there was no way to know. Still, its end didn't look so bad.
"Rest easy."
The horse answered with a feeble whinny, on the verge of death. Marhal straightened up and scanned his surroundings. They'd run far enough for one horse to drop dead, yet red flags were already visible in every direction. Planting a flag was just the beginning—the Land Race was only getting started.
If you've claimed land, you have to defend it and grow it.
Surveyors measured the distances between flags, calculated midpoints, and divided the land into rectangles as best they could. But flags couldn't be planted arbitrarily. For a flag to be valid, another flag had to be visible to the east when viewed from the same height—a limit on how much one person could claim at once. Otherwise, someone might just carry a single flag to the western edge. Taller flags were visible from farther away, claiming more land. They also had to be light, fast to deploy, foldable for easy carry, and long enough to spot from a distance. That was why lightweight, long, collapsible flags commanded such high prices.
Plant the flag, make sure it's visible, and you're done. Simple rules, but there was a reason for their looseness. The looser the rules, the more room for the Union to wield its military might and authority. And for nobles to exploit loopholes honed over generations. Eh, the distance between flags is ambiguous? Surveyor's discretion. That river crosses between them? No Imperial or Holy Empire claimant? Give it to whoever's got backing. It happened all the time, broke no rules, drew no punishment. Prime land—pastures, mines, vast plains—went to nobles and their cronies. Commoners without patrons got barren dirt.
Marhal pulled out his harmonica. He'd found it months ago while exploring the West alone, and it had proven useful ever since. He hadn't noticed before—two companions couldn't stand the silence—but walking endless roads alone was no way for a man to live. With harmonica in hand, Marhal crossed plains where red flags sprouted everywhere.
He wasn't heading west to east. They were coming from west to east. Not knights or superhumans—ordinary folk. Faces desperate.
No pursuers in sight, doesn't look like prey either. Just thieves, then.
Some hired by nobles or merchants entered the race to steal and flee. Victims couldn't uproot flags because of petty thieves, so they suffered in plain sight. Two horsemen charged straight at Marhal, drawing weapons.
"Might as well grab one more on the way back?"
Land Races weren't frequent—you had to make bank when you could. Marhal understood. But he wasn't rolling over. He picked up two fist-sized stones. The horses closed in. Seeing him not dodge, the men looked surprised. Marhal tossed the stones like a farmwife sowing seeds. One struck a horse's eye dead-on; the blinded beast lost balance and crashed. Its riders flew into the air. The horse skidded past Marhal, the men landing neck-first before him.
"Nothing worth taking, huh."
Marhal glanced at the dead horse and men, then kept walking.
Karian lay awake all night. He'd brought dry kindling and flint by the dead horse but didn't use them. He minimized unnecessary weight. A campfire had been the plan at first. But meeting Marhal changed his mind.
Shoot anyone ignoring warnings. One? Hit them. Two or more? Kill one. Advice from a landlord—not just any racer, but one who'd claimed land through every obstacle.
After Marhal left, Karian agonized. He knew how bonfires glowed on open roads. It was like advertising his position. So no fire. He let his eyes adjust to darkness, stayed still. That night, he loosed three crossbow bolts, killing two. Each trigger pull felt like his heart leaping out. The nightmare of first blood faded before his dream. All his focus: flag, land, dark. He caressed the land that would be his. The flag stood majestic, like the Eternal Snow Mountains, the Pubguk's greatest range. Night-adapted eyes saw no approaching hyenas. I can become a landlord. My land, my soul. Karian, scorned by village girls for not even leasing fields, would own land rivaling lords! Bloodshot eyes gleamed—like his horse's from overdose. Dawn broke. Sun rose evenly over the horizon. Karian finally saw his kills clearly. Two corpses in different directions, daggers nearby. He had a similar one, bundled with race supplies from shopkeeper Ena. He averted his eyes from their faces. They seemed familiar, somehow. He gritted his teeth, eyes fierce. Hyenas didn't dwindle—they grew. They eyed his flag greedily, then turned away at the arrow-pierced bodies.
"Marhal was right."
Kill approaching threats first. Or die. Karian clutched his crossbow, waiting. No water, no hunger. Tension and thrill surged stronger than ever; his eyes blazed even in sunlight. Sun passed midday. Far off, a dozen horsemen appeared, white flag bearer ahead. Hyenas scattered like the surveyor approached. Union's delicate hand drawing the world's priciest lines on vast lands. Karian dropped his crossbow. Stealing flags under their eyes defied the Union's validation, the race's fairness, every member state's power. They were here—safety. Tension ebbed, fatigue crashed. As Karian dozed, surveyors arrived.
The surveyor behind the flag bearer shed his robe.
"Those bodies yours?"
Karian startled at the soft voice rare in the wilds, glanced at the staff on the horse, nodded. Mage. Explorers of world's mysteries. Even a woman could survive here as one.
"I killed them."
"Flag bought with whose money?"
"Mine. My flag."
The woman covered one eye. Something appeared atop the flag—invisible, but real.
"Temporary watchtower confirmed. Nearby flags confirmed. Clean. Stakes team, go."
Two broke off south and north. Their stakes would mark his borders.
"Age and name."
"Karian. Twenty-three."
"Karian, age twenty-three, Pubguk native. Temporary land deed. Exchange at Union HQ or outpost for official."
Karian took the torn notebook page from the mage. The price of a Land Race: one sheet? Anxiety showed on his face.
"If... I lose this?"
"I remember your face. No matter the race, you're now a Union-recognized landlord, backed by every eastern nation and faction. No thief steals land with a sheet of paper."
Clop clop. First regular hoofbeats since the race began; surveyors rode off.
"Uwaaaah! Keuheuk..."
After long huddled sobs, Karian staggered east.
Marhal reached the ruins of a crumbled city. Blood scent hit from the entrance. Most corpses: horses halved, people sliced apart. Some stabbed in vitals, others burned.
"Knights involved."
Knight meant superhuman slicing the unslicable, but like spearmen or archers among soldiers, knights varied—scouts, rangers.
Not just knights—plenty of paid knight-level mercenaries too.
Ordinary folk entered at peril of instant dismemberment. Not worth going in. Plenty ways to profit elsewhere. More land over valuable land was his goal anyway. As Marhal raised the harmonica, he paused. Closing eyes, focusing: voices.
Imperial and Pubguk tongues—both flawlessly standard.
Standard meant elite dialect of rulers. Subtle to most. But Marhal, with eccentric friends, had an ear for it. Two perfect standards here, arguing it seemed. Words like fallen empire, relics, hidden.
Something I don't know?
Past searches yielded nothing, even with experts. Unlikely they'd come this far without cause. Worth the risk.
Before the Demon King's descent, two empires ruled the continent: West's Bachea Empire, East's Muet Empire. Now Muet alone held the title, but pre-demon, Bachea came first to mind. Muet boasted 200 years, imperial from conquering emperor onward. Bachea over 500, imperial-scale from founding. It influenced the West for those 500+ years till demons rose, scattering its vast assets and relic powers. Treasures that made Bachea. West pioneers eyed them over land. Muet too. Emperor Viktorma Muesilrigo II obsessed over Bachea's endurance, gathering all two dozen children—regardless of age or sex—declaring successor the one unveiling most secrets.
Bayola Muesilrigo sought them as heir. Scoured intel, tracked exiled Bachean officials to Pubguk. She, lifelong palace-dweller, trekked to world's end. Posing as racer to official's site, found Pubguk knights already there. Not low-rank—Pubguk flag over crest. Her guard knight parleyed ahead. Bickering in Imperial and Pubguk tongues. No real barrier—pride. Nobles knew basics; it was conform to mine.
Bayola sulked, watching endless spat.
"That official blabbed."
"He did? Even after I revealed who I am?"
"Yes. Exiled nobody. Can't track a runner. Best for him: sell to many, flee. Should've killed him."
Rebella, her dedicated knight and advisor.
"That wretch, granted mercy..."
Truth: blood phobia. Young among heirs, her elders avoided rivals, tormented siblings darkly. She'd seen her three pet cats dismembered, throats strangled with her own guts, hung on garden tree—beside her bedroom. Waking, she'd turned and seen. Blood terror since.
"Fight inevitable."
Bayola gestured; knights withdrew. She whispered to Rebella alone.
"Wh-what do I do? Blood! I'll faint!"
She'd tried curing phobia. Doctors slaughtered bull before her; its gushing blood and guts exploding haunted worse.
"Princess, no choice. This is lawless West."
"But I'm here! Imperial royalty!"
"West fears pioneer landlords more."
Bayola stamped inwardly. Only Rebella knew her true self. To knights, cold princess—must stay so. Voices rose; swords imminent. Knights awaited her word. Bayola squeezed eyes shut. Half-fake sigh like suppressed rage, about to command—
Music. Harmonica? In fiercest race city? Bayola, knights—all froze. Melody neared. Man climbed rubble, playing. Lowered it, spoke fluently: first Imperial, then Pubguk.
"Need an interpreter, by chance?"