Chapter 171. Spirits, the Demonfolk, and the Wyvern
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Meanwhile, at the very moment Aster was trembling with anxiety.
A nameless lake somewhere in Amera.
By a lakeside so remote and sparsely visited that it was too small for even Moonlight Stone to be mined, an old man held a fishing rod.
Was he fishing for time itself? He hadn’t even baited the hook. He simply, with crystal-clear eyes, kept taking in the surface of the water without end.
Suddenly, it was right then that a whirlwind sprang up.
Wheeeeee—
The wind that appeared without warning swept violently through the surroundings, and yet—why was it? Even as the scenery churned and shook, the old man remained tranquil, without so much as a twitch.
Even in the very center of the gusts, the old man’s whitish beard did not flutter; it stayed calm—and it was right then that the whirlwind stopped.
A hush that arrived in an instant.
In a space filled with nothing but stillness, the old man lifted his head.
But something felt strange.
The old man’s eyes followed empty air.
No—rather than “following,” that focus seemed fixed in one place, as though he were seeing something.
As if he could see something others could not, his eyes were sharply fixed on a single point in the air.
In truth, the old man—no, Maisellne—could see what others could not.
And what, then, could he see?
Spirits.
Spiritist Maisellne watched his own spirit, Fury, floating above the lake, and smiled softly.
It was a warm smile, like one he might wear while watching a little grandson’s antics, and it wasn’t long before his mouth opened.
“Heh-heh. Are you sulking because I made you do it all by yourself?”
At Maisellne’s question, Fury snapped her head away with a huff, as if to say she really was sulking.
At the sight of Fury, Maisellne let out a helpless “heh-heh,” then reached into his robe and took out a small pebble.
“Here. It’s Moonlight Stone—the one you like so much. With just this one, will you… feel a little better?”
But had she gotten truly, thoroughly upset?
Fury kept her head turned and didn’t say a word.
Even so, she couldn’t help the way her gaze kept flicking—glancing and glancing—toward the Moonlight Stone, and at that, Maisellne smiled broadly.
Normally, she would come running, delighted over even a single small piece of Moonlight Stone, but it seemed this time she was seriously sulking.
“It can’t be helped, can it, hm? For this old man, a fairies’ dance is far too much. I’m not like I was when I was young.”
Even at his grumbling, Fury didn’t turn her head.
And seeing that, Maisellne felt the passage of years anew.
When he was young, she’d been like nothing more than a friend. At some point, she’d felt like a younger sibling, and now, she felt just like a granddaughter.
It was because of time’s flow.
Unlike humans, whose bodies and minds grew old with time, spirits were relatively free from time.
They kept that purity forever.
Perhaps the reason Fury was sulking like this, too, was because of that flow of time.
Fury knew it as well.
That Maisellne’s time did not have much left.
That unlike herself, who would not change, Maisellne’s time would soon reach its end.
Of course, Maisellne was still hale and hearty, so he had no small amount of time remaining—but to Fury, a spirit, even that felt short.
And then he’d left her all alone, so how could her heart not be hurt?
“Fury, I’m sorry. Hm? I said I’m sorry. Is that really how you’re going to be? Tch—then what about two Moonlight Stones?”
In the end, Maisellne held out a second Moonlight Stone, but Fury still seemed unwilling to forgive him.
That anger finally eased only after Maisellne offered a fourth Moonlight Stone and recited an apology so long it was practically a speech.
“Heh-heh.”
Watching Fury draw in the energy of the Moonlight Stone, Maisellne smiled with satisfaction.
They said people could feel that way just watching their grandchild eat—maybe this really was how a grandfather with a grandchild felt.
In any case, when Fury had absorbed all the Moonlight Stone’s energy…
Maisellne could finally ask what he’d originally sent her to do.
“So. Did you listen well to the children’s voices?”
Here, “the children” was what Maisellne called the spirits in general—everyone except Fury.
At Maisellne’s question, Fury flailed her tiny arms cutely, her lips moving as if she were chattering on and on.
Her expression changed from moment to moment, and as Maisellne listened, his own face shifted along with hers.
How much time passed like that?
When Fury finished speaking, Maisellne folded his arms and sank briefly into thought.
He looked as though he’d understood everything, but even Maisellne couldn’t instantly organize the language of spirits, which was conveyed as “will.”
If it were ordinary, everyday communication, it wasn’t so difficult—but this time was a bit special.
What Fury had conveyed included not only Fury’s own words, but the words of “other spirits” as well.
How long did Maisellne ponder like that?
Soon, his mouth opened.
First, to confirm Fury’s words.
“So you’re saying those guys definitely aren’t there, right?”
Fury nodded.
“You checked properly? Last time you couldn’t find them either—you nearly ended up in serious trouble, didn’t you?”
Had it sounded like he was interrogating her? Fury puffed out her cheeks as if sulking again.
“Enough. Even if you pretend to be mad, I’m not giving you any more Moonlight Stone. So—those guys definitely aren’t there, and the Deculan bastards aren’t there either?”
Fury shook her head vigorously. And then, the will she sent.
Reading that will, Maisellne snorted a laugh and shook his head.
“At that level, it’s not that they’re ‘there.’ They were just pen-pushers. And now, let’s see… ngh. When you get old, your memory isn’t so sharp. What did the children say again?”
In truth, it wasn’t because he was old. It was simply that because Fury was relaying the other spirits’ will in their place, it was highly volatile.
Anyway, Maisellne listened closely to the will the other fairies were sending through Fury, and soon nodded.
As was typical of spirits, unlike humans, it was rambling nonsense with all sorts of needless additions—but to summarize, it was this.
‘So….’
It wasn’t all that different from what Maisellne had first heard when he came to Amera decades ago.
Even now, “the children” were asking for help, and they were writhing in suffering.
But there was exactly one thing that had changed from back then.
The children told Fury this.
‘To find… a person?’
Maisellne’s eyes trembled faintly at the spirits’ voices relayed through Fury.
A vast, immeasurable span of time that even Maisellne could not fathom.
Spirits who had been trapped somewhere in Amera, weeping in wails of grief, were pleading with one heart and one purpose.
To find a single individual.
Only he… could save them.
‘…Huh.’
Maisellne let out a light sigh and swept his hair back.
For a moment, he panted in shock—then, not long after, he voiced a doubt.
The spirits had even passed along the “person’s” features to Fury, and Maisellne frowned at the image that had entered his mind.
‘But… is this really a person?’
And it was understandable.
The description the spirits had conveyed was something that was hard to call “human,” no matter how you looked at it.
“Fury, did you hear correctly? Are you sure it’s a person?”
Fury nodded confidently.
Maisellne narrowed his eyes, then immediately took out parchment and a pencil and began transferring the features in his mind onto the page.
It didn’t take long for the image in his head to become a drawing.
And when the drawing was finally complete—
Maisellne showed it to Fury and checked again.
“…This?”
But why was it?
Fury shook her head vigorously.
‘See, there’s no way that could be—’
He was thinking that, when—
It was right then that Fury, using plain physical force, snatched the pencil away.
Swish, flick.
Crooked, wobbly lines were drawn over a drawing that had been fairly decent.
When Fury set the pencil down with a little tap, Maisellne’s eyelids trembled faintly.
‘It got worse.’
The person in the drawing had these traits.
First, gray hair. The face itself was quite neat and fair—almost like Maisellne when he’d been young.
If that were all, it would have been an ordinary sketch—but the reason Maisellne had wondered, “Is this really a person?” lay elsewhere.
The eyes.
‘What in the—those eyes….’
Where there should have been a pupil, a strange vortex raged and churned. Since it was pencil, the colors weren’t fully expressed, but according to the image conveyed by the children’s will… yes.
A red current. Like madness.
Not only that—teeth jutted up sharply, like some devil from a fairy tale, and that smile looked truly wicked.
And lastly…
The pointed horns Fury had added.
“Hmm.”
Maisellne quietly fixed his gaze on the figure on the parchment.
Is this really a person?
‘…This looks just like the demonfolk from legend.’
Could it be the children were playing a prank?
As far as that thought went, Maisellne shook his head.
Spirits were too pure to lie. And the children weren’t in any situation where they could afford to lie.
Why would the children, who were crying out for help, ever tell such a lie!
Then the drawing had to be the truth.
‘Hmmm.’
Maisellne stared at the drawing for a long time—then lifted his gaze sharply.
“Could it be… that?”
Sometimes, cases like this happened.
Even with people, you know.
You think you’re relaying exactly what you saw and heard, but personal feelings and impressions get mixed into the words or expressions.
If the first impression was bad, you might emphasize only the bad parts of someone’s appearance while describing them…
‘…Spirits are especially sensitive, so it happens often.’
Spirits, in their purity, were far more sensitive than people, and when they saw something, they could see much more.
Disposition… personality—things people might only learn through experience, spirits could grasp in an instant, like a sudden insight.
‘But even so… this level is rare.’
Just how great a shock had the children received?
“Hmm….”
Maisellne thought.
He didn’t know who the boy in the sketch was, but he must not be an ordinary person.
Because the eyes the spirits had described were the window to the heart, and the horns sprouting from the head reflected what the person usually thought. And the teeth drawn sharp and jutting…
…meant he put what he thought into practice exactly as he thought it.
It was rare for an image to be exaggerated this extremely, but in general, it carried that kind of feel.
At the same time, another thought occurred to him.
‘…Am I truly trying to save spirits?’
What if they were not spirits, but some evil spirit sealed in ancient times?
Otherwise, they wouldn’t possibly point to an individual like this as a savior.
But only for a moment.
“Hm. Right. Let’s go.”
At Fury’s urging, Maisellne reeled in his fishing line and packed up.
Whatever it was, he had to confirm it with his own eyes.
“Alright, Fury. Where is this boy?”
Fury answered.
“Hm. Lake Gixen, is it.”
Once it occurred, the fairies’ dance would scatter and transfer from lake to lake. And of all places, Lake Gixen was the next location the fairies’ dance would shift to.
“It seems we must hurry.”
When the fairies’ dance bloomed, Maisellne found it hard to keep his mind properly steady amid the spirits’ wailing that rang by his ears. It wasn’t that he couldn’t endure it, but… there were simply far too many enemies who would welcome that moment.
Deculan might show no special movement, but as for “those guys,” there was no telling where or how they might be hiding.
Thinking that far, Maisellne stepped onto empty air.
In that instant—
Whooooo—
A whirlwind wrapped around his body, surging and swirling.
Maisellne’s figure cut through the sky where the sunset had just begun to settle.
Like a wyvern.
