Chapter Two: Another Land’s God

“Run! Go! Don’t look back!”

Five men dashed as fast as they could through the gray morning light. Two of them wore priests’ vestments, the other three the armor of knights. Kicking up dirt, stumbling at times, they tried to keep to the last patches of night’s darkness.

“Ruuuun!”

The knights were armored, but there were so few of them. Traveling the roads between cities at night was immensely dangerous. The merchants who made the rounds on the frontier always traveled with at least twenty fully armed guards, and even then they moved only during daylight. When night travel was unavoidable, the entire company carried torches, sang songs, and played musical instruments in hopes of scaring off any wild animals.

All this was simple common sense to those who lived in these remote regions. And yet these men seemed to be doing exactly the opposite. They had been on horseback at first, but with no fire, breathing as quietly as they could. And they hadn’t taken one of the main roads, but a branch path some distance away. They wanted no one to see when they left town, no one to guess where they might be going.

But they paid a steep price for their audacious refusal to heed accepted practice. They had been ten when they set out—three priests, and seven knights to guard them. They had ridden on seven horses the knights brought. The priests, having no experience in horsemanship, rode with the three physically smallest knights.

But between the setting of the sun and its rising, their number had been cut in half. Less than half, including the horses. The animals had all met their ends early, leaving the men no choice but to flee on foot. Leave the horses behind. Leave comrades who still had breath in their lungs. It was the only alternative to letting the entire party be devoured.

“Hrgh...!” One of the knights suddenly stopped running. He turned around, back the way they’d come. Perhaps he’d foreseen that he would eventually be eaten when he fell, exhausted, and he’d decided that it was better to die with his sword in his hand, to strike even a single blow... But behind him, there was no sign of the bizarre creature they had been sure was chasing them.

“Wh-Where are you?!” the knight demanded, bloodshot eyes darting right, then left. “Come out and face me! Xenobeast?! You’re just an overgrown animal! One good slice and you’ll—eeeyaarrrgh!”

It came from above him: a shadow from a tree branch over his head grabbed him like a hawk swooping on a mouse. Sharp claws seemed to dig into his throat. Then the shadow gave a half-twist, using its downward momentum to tear off the man’s head.

The headless corpse collapsed to the ground with a geyser of blood. Beside it, a grotesque creature, something like a mountain dog with exceptionally long limbs, took the man’s head, his face still frozen in an expression of horror, and slammed it against the ground.

Once, twice, three times... With the fourth blow, the back of the head split open and the skull shattered, its contents dribbling out. A long tongue unrolled from the creature’s jaws and began gently lapping up the brains.

A xenobeast. That was what these things were called. The word didn’t refer to a specific species or organism. Xeno-: strange, other. An animal that was no longer an animal. Many were violent, indeed evil, and loved to eat humans, especially their brains. Xenobeasts understood that that was where intelligence and spiritual power resided, and that the more of it they consumed, the sooner they themselves would grow in spiritual ability.

Therefore, a xenobeast who spotted a human could be expected to attack. Not out of hunger, but to become more intelligent. It wasn’t the motivation of an average beast.

“Benjamin...” one of the knights moaned, speaking the name of the man whose head had just been torn off.

“Look what we’ve been reduced to already...!” another knight, Clifton Arnold, said ruefully.

“We cannot give up yet.”

“Milord Bartok?”

“Do we not say that a knight’s greatest honor is at the vanguard and at the rear guard? To protect others is our duty! Go, Arnold, look after the priests!” Then the knight called Bartok stood and drew his sword.

His words might have been more convincing if he had spoken them at the beginning, before they had left their comrades to die. But no one at that scene was likely to point this out. Freakishly formed animals loomed to the left and right of the roadway.

Three of them in total. There was no hope of beating them. Even a single such monster would overwhelm a normal human, let alone three that had already eaten several knights and priests. It would make them that much more intelligent, that much more of a threat. The spiritual power a xenobeast gained by eating a person made it all the tougher.

“Milord Bartok—I wish you success in battle!”

Once he was sure Clifton and the priests were running again, the knight Bartok readied his sword. He would buy them time. Perhaps he could even take one of the monsters with him. Xenobeasts had flesh like other living beings. If you cut them, they would be wounded; stab them in the right place and they could be killed. But...

What?

Bartok furrowed his brow. The beasts weren’t attacking. In fact, one of them seemed to be slowly backing away. Could the overwhelming force of Bartok’s resolution have intimidated them?

Hardly... What... is going on...?

Bartok was forty-five years old, well past his prime as a knight. Practically an old man in the ranks. But that meant he had a great deal more experience of battle than youngbloods like Clifton Arnold. It had given him some ability to sense what was going on in situations like this.

But now, that sense was confused. There were three xenobeasts in front of him; that much was obvious. But what was this feeling that seemed to come so keenly from all around? Had he been surrounded by a pack of xenobeasts, or wild animals, without realizing it? But what he sensed now was... different from the aura of the creatures in front of him. It lacked a certain—reeking quality. Bartok didn’t have the words to express it. It was an aura, and yet not an aura, lying gently over everything around.

It’s almost like... being in the stomach of some... giant creature...

No sooner had he thought this than he gave a start as part of the aura began to cohere. Bartok, who had been standing anxiously at the ready, took an almost unconscious swing with his sword. He didn’t aim at the xenobeast in front of him, but swiped directly at where he’d felt the aura come together.

But nothing met his blade. Had he imagined it? No...

“What is this...?”

As he pulled his sword back, a thread came with it. On closer inspection, it was a vine.

What was going on here? Perhaps he had simply caught his sword on the plant.

Suddenly, he realized the scream he heard was coming from the xenobeast. Bartok looked forward again, and saw the creature entangled in vines, the same as the one that had been on his sword. He saw now that entangled was too kind a word for what was happening. The vines bit deep into the creature’s flesh, and he could hear the sharp crack of breaking bones.

“Milord Bartok!” The voice belonged to Clifton. He should have been gone by now. Bartok looked back to find the young missionary running up to him.

“Arnold! What happened to the priests?”

“They’re over there.” Bartok looked where Clifton indicated, and indeed, the two surviving priests were standing there. Their faces were obscured by the distance, but they seemed quite shocked. Clifton wore the same expression, one of astonishment mingled with horror.

And finally...

There was a sound of something breaking, and all three of the xenobeasts slumped over, their strength gone. A broken bone must have finally pierced some critical organ. Blood bubbled out of their mouths. And then the “absorption” began.

“They’re... They’re...” Clifton muttered, trembling, as if delirious.

And it was no wonder. Even Bartok had never seen such a disturbing sight. The vines and ivies moved like snakes, like earthworms, slowly digging into the bodies of the xenobeasts. Into their mouths, their ears, their noses. Then into their still-open eyes, pushing past their eyeballs. It almost seemed a kind of violation of the animals by the plants.

What was more, the creatures’ corpses withered before the knights’ eyes. Even the blood stopped frothing at their mouths, and they became desiccated, as though they had died of starvation. It was all being absorbed—the blood, the bodily fluids.

“We must... We must be dreaming,” Bartok groaned.

Finally, when the corpses had been sucked dry, reduced to less than half their original size, they were carried off somewhere, without a sound. The vines seemed to simply lift them away.

But something looked to be taking their place. Something emerging slowly from the depths of the darkness between the trees.

“Wh-Who are you?!”

She appeared to be a young girl. Her age, perhaps ten years. A face still innocent with youth. She looked sweet; if Bartok had seen her on the streets of town, it would have been hard not to smile at her.

But now he, Clifton, and the priests could only watch her with faces stiff with fear. Each of them knew that she was more than just a little girl.

She wore a white robe such as none of them had ever seen before; it was not an ordinary outfit, nor clothing for farm work. The hem was long, as were the sleeves, and it wasn’t pulled tight anywhere, but hung loosely on her. Even more striking were the vermillion cords woven along the edges, as if for decoration. The robe had nothing in the way of buttons. It was very strange, but also, somehow, very beautiful.

Then there were the four “horns” growing out of the girl’s head. Two smaller horns budded on each side of her forehead, and just behind them, almost past her ears, grew two larger horns, twisted into branches like a stag’s antlers. It was possible they were simply ornaments made to look like horns, of course, but the hair they sank into was clearly not that of a human. It was the vivid green of fresh grass.

“Who are you? What are you?!” Bartok demanded. The girl blinked and looked at him as if she had only just realized he was there.

In a tranquil tone, she replied with her own question: “What manner of creature are you?” As she spoke, she pointed at Bartok with the stick she held in her right hand. It, too, was unique. Leaves grew at the tip, as though it had just been broken off some tree. But each of the leaves was a different color, a whole rainbow of them, and on the other end was a ring of gold.

“What do you mean in coming to my realm?” As she asked this second question, the girl began to approach them with steps that gave no sense of any weight.

Bartok and the others could say nothing, but only watch her with abject astonishment. As she walked, something bright appeared in her footprints. Flowers. Flowers of every hue, and already in bloom. They hadn’t existed the instant before, yet now they grew as naturally as if they had always been there. They sprouted behind her, a parade of flowers that blossomed with every step she took.

What in the world could be happening?

I—I hesitate to believe it, Bartok thought, but could this be...?

One of the priests kneeled and spoke: “W-We are men with cause to travel in haste through this land. Might you—even your honored self—be the erdgod of this place?”

Wordlessly, the girl turned to look at the priest, her green hair billowing gently. Such a simple gesture, and yet she almost seemed to be dancing.

“My name is called Yggdra.” Her tone was solemn. “And the name of my familiar who stands before you, Ulrike.”

“An erdgod... with a name...?” Clifton breathed, amazed.

Erdgods and demigods rarely had names. Or at least, they rarely introduced themselves. While there might be one creature that served as its “core,” the erdgod itself was a conglomeration of xenobeasts and wild animals who had imbibed its divinity, meaning its concept of an “individual” was vastly different from that of any human. Or so it was said. Some erdgods did have names, but these were often invented by the humans who worshipped them, for convenience.

And here, not only the god itself, but...

“A familiar with a name, too?”

“We are many, and one. One, and many. Our messenger Ulrike is one of our progenitors and among our oldest familiars.”

Bartok and Clifton looked at each other, struck dumb. They did not entirely understand what she was saying, but...

“This is...”

The erdgod of the next town, the one Bartok and his companions had risked the dangers of the night to meet. They had heard only vague rumors, and even the priests hadn’t known what this deity looked like. But now, here it was before them.

●

In the biggest room in Yukinari’s “sanctuary,” on the floor.

The sheepskin map was spread open, Yukinari and the others sitting on the floor around it. They didn’t use chairs or a desk for the same reason they hadn’t at the Schillings mansion—they simply didn’t have a table big enough to hold the map.

“So we’re looking for somewhere close, ideally a one or two-day round trip, with relatively stable harvests.” Yukinari looked up from the map at Fiona, who was sitting directly across from him. “And if they have a large economy, that would be good, too. I know it’s a lot to hope for, but is there anywhere around here like that, Fiona?”

“Hmm...” Fiona furrowed her brow and looked at the map.

Incidentally, Yukinari had come into possession of the map when he stole it upon fleeing the Church in the capital. He had taken it so as to have some sense of where to go, rather than running blindly. It seemed to have originally been used to determine tax levies, and it depicted quite a large part of the kingdom, with the capital at the center. It was likely that few other maps showing such a large area existed. The one real problem with it was that unrolling the entire thing took a great deal of space.

“I think the most prosperous town around here would be... Rostruch, probably.” Fiona leaned over toward what, from Yukinari’s perspective, was the right side of the map, near where Friedland was positioned.

“Probably?” Fiona’s answer had included an uncharacteristic note of uncertainty.

At the moment, Yukinari and the others were trying to find a partner for trade. Obviously, any trade that utilized the main roads required the permission of the capital, but this was a sort of covert commerce, without too much emphasis on the covert. They wanted somewhere close by, somewhere they could trade with and not be noticed by the capital; ideally, somewhere richer in crops and livestock than Friedland was.

“You have to cross a mountain range to get there. If you go by horse along the main road, I hear it only takes half a day, but if you’re going to walk, I’d assume two days at least.” Fiona ran her finger horizontally along the map until she stopped at a certain point. “Rostruch is supposed to be right around here. The shortest route is through these mountains, but it’s a dangerous trip, so apparently most people go around, like th—”

“Fiona?” Yukinari cut her off. “I’m hearing an awful lot of ‘supposed to’ and ‘apparently.’ It sounds like hearsay.”

“That’s because it is.” Fiona shrugged. “Almost no one—in fact, no one at all—from Friedland has ever been to Rostruch, or vice versa. The town hardly does any trade. Apparently, it’s surrounded by plains, but those plains are surrounded by mountains, and there’s a swamp on the way, too. It’s supposed to be an awful lot of trouble to get there. To tell the truth, I didn’t even know it existed until I went to the capital.”

“So you’re saying it doesn’t really have relations with the surrounding areas. Maybe they’re isolationists, or like to keep to themselves. I mean, maybe Rostruch just doesn’t want to trade with anyone else?”

“I’ve never heard anyone say anything like that...”

At least, the merchants that periodically visited Friedland seemed to stop by Rostruch, too. It seemed a richer place for business than Friedland, although the merchants apparently visited only once in every several journeys.

The area of Rostruch seemed to produce quite enough for itself, and might never have had to seriously contemplate trade with the rest of the world. That meant, of course, that it wouldn’t get word of cultural or technological developments, but insofar as they had no word from the outside world, the people there wouldn’t know what they were missing.

“It’s no island, but it’s a lot like Japan when it cut itself off from the world in the seventeenth century...”

Fiona was quick to notice the unfamiliar word. “Ja...pan...? Is that the name of a town somewhere?”

“Yeah, sort of.” Trying to explain that it was in another world would only invite trouble, so Yukinari left it at that. Instead, he went back to the business at hand: “Okay, for starters we want to work on establishing regular trade relations with this Rostruch place. If it goes well, it might even lead to new opportunities. Maybe we should go out and see the place ourselves. I wonder what we can bring from Friedland that they’d like...”

It was a question of value. The same object might be worth different amounts in different places. The best-case scenario was that Friedland would have something considered unusual in Rostruch. But if not, Yukinari could always use his powers as an “angel” to make something. It was certainly more efficient than just producing a food supply.

But then Fiona spoke up, a shocked look on her face. “Yukinari? You can’t possibly mean to go yourself?”

“Well, yeah, that’s what I was thinking...” He could send a representative, but it would be so much quicker to do it himself.

“Rostruch—I’ve heard that area has its own erdgod. I don’t know the specifics, but he’s supposed to be pretty powerful. If you, another god, show up there, what do you think’s going to happen?”

“What do you mean? You think he would just assume I was an enemy and attack me?”

“A new erdgod—usually a former demigod—takes over when the old one is killed.” An erdgod, spiritually bound to the land, was typically immortal. Left alone, its sense of self would gradually weaken, until it became part of the very earth—essentially a natural phenomenon. But in any event, it wouldn’t grow old and die the way mortal creatures did. That was why demigods who sought divine status frequently attacked existing erdgods.

“But I’m not a demigod,” Yukinari said. The Friedlanders called him a god for convenience, but he was something different from either the demigods or the erdgods of this world.

“But demigods do come after you just like any other erdgod, right?” Fiona said.

“Well... true.” Yukinari frowned as he remembered the birdlike creature from earlier. “I wonder what makes them think of me that way.”

“Probably... the strength of your... spiritual power.” It was Dasa who now entered the conversation. “Yours is... great enough to be called... a god, Yuki.”

“Spiritual power, huh? Gotta admit, I’ve never really understood that.”

Yukinari’s powers of physical reconstitution, as well as the erdgods’ ability to control the environment, were supposed to be products of this spiritual power. It was also what was supposed to be stored up in the holy oil that made the Harris Church’s guardian saint statue move. But Yukinari had never directly perceived this power with his own senses. Heat and electricity, for example, were things a person could sense and understand, but spiritual power was not. That was why being told that he had great spiritual power didn’t quite sit right with him.

“Anyway... We’ll figure out some way to throw them off about that.” For that matter, Yukinari could probably just fell the other erdgod. But to do so would be to eliminate the power of that same god, the power that supported Rostruch. The town would decline into poverty; in a word, it would run directly counter to his goals.

Even in Friedland, the erdgod hadn’t had much to do with people’s daily lives. It would appear just once every several years for the ritual of the sacrifice, and otherwise wouldn’t be seen. Apparently, this sort of behavior was quite common. Yukinari was assuming there was a possibility they could conduct trade without ever encountering the local deity.

“But Yukinari.” Fiona narrowed her eyes and glanced at Berta. The other girl had been staring into space for some time now, perhaps unable to follow the conversation. “Most erdgods want sacrifices. You killed ours when you happened across the sacrificial ritual, right?”

It was true that Yukinari had killed Friedland’s erdgod in an attempt to rescue Berta, who was supposed to be sacrificed to it.

“Well... We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. If we come to it.” Yukinari sighed. “It won’t help us to sit here imagining all the bad things that could happen. We have to go and try to get a feel for the area—and for Rostruch. I’ll try my best not to be noticed by the erdgod.”

“...All right.” Fiona gave a sigh of her own, perhaps realizing there was no way to stop Yukinari from going. She backed off.

“For this first trip, just Dasa and I will go. Fiona, I want you to focus on the work here in town. Berta, help her however you can. And... Well, what could be a better chance for some ambitious demigod than while I’m away? If some upwardly mobile pseudo-deity does show up, just leave him alone and try not to antagonize him.”

It was said that forming the spiritual bond with the land that was necessary for a demigod to become an erdgod took several days in which they were not interrupted.

“Just for safety’s sake, I’ll make three Durandalls and leave them here. If anything comes up, you can use them.”

With a gun, it wasn’t impossible for a human to kill a demigod or even an erdgod. Sharpshooting practice was necessary, of course, but a demigod large enough to challenge for the position of erdgod would be no fool. If the humans were armed with powerful weapons, it would be smart enough to think twice before attacking them. From that perspective, firearms with their great explosions were a nice, easy form of intimidation.

“Okay,” Fiona said. “And I’ll write you a letter of introduction to the mayor of Rostruch. I don’t know how much help it’ll be, but I don’t think it could hurt.”

“That’d be great.” Yukinari nodded, starting to roll up the map. Dasa helped him.

“It’s been... a while since it was just the... two of us,” she whispered.

“Did you say something?” he asked, not quite catching the words.

For a second, Dasa pursed her lips as if she were going to pout. But then she said, “Nothing,” and shook her head.

●

The Great Cathedral overflowed with people of every type: old and young, men and women. Passion rippled through the air from the solemn sound of a pipe organ and the swelling harmonies of the believers’ hymns. The place was packed with more people than it had been built to hold. They were crammed in, in the hopes that everyone who wanted to attend could do so.

But they were not only there because they desired to worship. There was also the expectation on the part of those holding the service that all the hot air the believers expelled would begin to dull their senses.

Humans are group creatures. Put them in a small space together, and they begin to lose their individuality. It becomes easier to just go along, and to be roped into the opinions of those one is sharing the space with.

The prayers from the lips of all the people swirled through the Cathedral, on and on.

“Mm.”

From the second-floor terrace, someone looked down over all this and made a satisfied sound. It was a man just entering old age. He had narrow features and looked like the fastidious type. He wore white vestments over his slender frame, and on top of those, a cape embroidered to show his rank. It showed that he stood at the apex of this Cathedral—indeed, of the whole Harris Church.

Justin Chambers. Current Dominus Doctrinae of the True Church of Harris and the man who had single-handedly planned the conversion of the remote regions during his time as Cardinal. He had earned great acclaim for spreading the church’s teachings all the way to the frontier in a single swoop, and after the previous Dominus died, Chambers defeated a number of challengers to emerge as the new leader.

At the upper levels of the Church hierarchy, he was regarded as harboring unparalleled ambition, and some even suggested that in spite of his studious exterior, he was in favor of armed violence. It was true that many of the plans he had advanced, including expanding the Civilizing Expedition and ensuring that all of the brigades of the Missionary Order were fully armed and outfitted, to say nothing of the Inquisition, had more than a whiff of blood about them.

“That’s right. Pray. Prayer is strength.” Casting his eyes over all the fervently supplicating faithful, Justin smiled in a way that could almost have been called gentle. “And strength gives rise to miracles.” There was no one else on the terrace to hear him speak. Justin turned on his heel and began the long, long walk down the corridor alone.

This place was attached to the Great Cathedral, but regular believers were not allowed inside. A great many facts that the unwashed masses had no need to know were hidden here. Even priests below a certain rank were not permitted to enter. And there...

“Your Holiness, Dominus Doctrinae.”

A young woman was suddenly alongside Justin as he walked slowly down the hall. She was perhaps a little over twenty years old. Her long red hair was tied and draped over her left shoulder. Her clothes were mostly black, but revealed a great deal of her chest, giving her the air of a street worker. She seemed entirely out of place. On one hand she wore a white glove that reached to her elbow, and on the back was some kind of circle, along with some letters and a complicated design.

Her sharp features were heavily made up, making her appear glamorous—even bewitching. And yet a certain gloom could be detected in the woman’s expression.

“Jaroslava...” Justin spared a glance for the woman beside him.

Jaroslava Vernak. That was her name, but few spoke it. She was someone who was not supposed to exist within the Church, and many priests and acolytes, should they spot her, would act as if there were no one there. Everyone in the upper levels of the Church knew that if they attracted the attention of the Dominus Doctrinae by speaking out, they could lose not only their positions, but even their lives.

So they would say nothing. Not even if an alchemist, who embraced heresy, walked openly in the Church. Even if she was, for all intents and purposes, His Holiness’s lover.

“The result?”

“Perfect. As usual.”

An alchemist and the head of the Harris Church, talking as they walked down the hall. The ignorant average believer would no doubt have goggled to see it.

“And the device to circulate holy oil? No irregularities?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Excellent. Keep bringing me news like this.”

They began to descend a long staircase at the end of the hall. They went past the ground floor, then lower, into a basement. At the end of the stairs, the path was blocked by a thick iron door. It could only be opened by entering thirteen numbers, numbers only Justin and Jaroslava now knew. One other man had known them, but he was dead—Justin’s predecessor.

Wordlessly, they unlocked the door and pushed it open.

A bizarre scene greeted them. Those without the proper knowledge and education would no doubt have been at a complete loss to say what the place was for. Even those who knew something about the world might simply have taken it for a massive alcohol distillery.

Dozens of pipes crawled across the walls. They connected machines studded with more metal tubes. Valve levers and oversized pumps were conspicuous, along with a gigantic cylindrical filter.

“How is our honored ‘founder’?”

“No concerns, of course. With my abilities, there will never be any problems with that thing.” Jaroslava smiled.

“Please don’t refer to him as ‘that thing.’ What would you do if he heard you?” Justin narrowed his eyes. “That is no ordinary angel. He is our venerated founder.”

“...Yes. Certainly. My mistake.”

The two of them walked past the forest of pipes and tubes to stand before a massive glass cylinder positioned deep in the room. All of the tubes crossed ceiling and walls and floor to reach it.

A person floated inside. The cylinder was full of red holy oil, so it was impossible to make out the details of the figure within. But it was clearly a small person—a man, to judge by the features that could be glimpsed through the liquid. But it was impossible to say any more.

Justin gazed at the person floating in the blood-red stuff. “You have my thanks, Jaroslava. The former Dominus and all those close to him died so suddenly... There were rumors of the ‘founder,’ but not a single written reference. I could never have handled his sacred coffin with my knowledge and skills alone. And of course, I could hardly conduct an open search through the Church and beyond hoping to find someone with the right qualifications.”

“Of course. Absolutely.” She gave a modest smile.

“Can you imagine what would happen if I made public, or even thought of making public, that the source of all our miracles, the source of the power of the True Church of Harris, was this homunculus? An artificial life whose origins no one knows? The first time I saw him, even I was shocked.”

Jaroslava licked her lips alluringly. “There was a great deal to be learned about alchemy from examining this coffin and your ‘founder.’ Truly incredible. I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

Justin looked from the floating figure to Jaroslava. “And someday I’ll let you. I have high expectations of you—make sure you see to the sacred coffin.”

“Yes... As you command, Your Holiness.” Jaroslava bowed her head reverently, first to Justin, and then to the person floating in the glass tank.

●

They’d left Friedland half a day before. Yukinari and Dasa wanted to escape the confusing mountain byways and reached the area around Rostruch as soon as possible.

“Look at you go,” Yukinari said, patting the vehicle that rumbled under him. It was an iron horse—the closest word in Yukinari’s vocabulary would probably be motorcycle. There were actually two wheels in both front and back, to help with stability, so in that sense it might have more correctly been called a buggy. But the sleek construction gave it the profile of a motorcycle.

Yukinari named it Sleipnir, after the divine horse of Norse legend. The overall construction was rather rough, just a machine with four wheels, so perhaps it was the awesome name that accounted for how it had brought Yukinari and Dasa so far and with such power in just half a day. There was just one hitch.

“I feel... sick...” Dasa groaned from behind, where she was keeping a tight hold on Yukinari.

“Yeah, sorry,” Yukinari said, bringing Sleipnir to a stop. “That off-road excursion was a bit sudden. I should have put a little more thought into the suspension.”

Yukinari climbed off, then offered Dasa his hand so she could get down. He seated her on the root of a nearby tree and began running his hand over her back. Dasa never had very strong color, but now she looked even more pale than usual. He wouldn’t have been surprised if she had vomited right then and there.

“I’ll be a little more careful next time.”

“Next time...?” Dasa slumped over as if Yukinari had sentenced her to death.

Sleipnir was built of parts salvaged from the statue of the guardian saint, the alleged ultimate weapon the Harris Church missionaries had brought with them. Yukinari just stuck some wheels on. The statue in question was essentially a giant robot for use in battle, but any machine as complicated as that required an engine to move. Yukinari had suspected there might also be a motor inside—or perhaps several—and an investigation of the statue, which lay abandoned near town, had proven him correct.

Hence, Yukinari had taken two rear wheels and the salvaged pieces, holding them together with a chain he made himself, along with brakes and handlebars—the minimum necessary equipment. For fuel, if it could be called that, he of course used the same holy oil that had powered the statue.

Holy oil was a liquid that could be induced to expand or contract via the vibrations from a tuning fork. An engine that used holy oil required that occasional stimulus be applied with a tuning fork in order to keep running, but unlike the engines Yukinari was used to, it didn’t produce any sounds of combustion. The sensation was almost like running an electric motorbike.

By the way, he had modeled the brakes and handlebars on the bicycle he had ridden in his previous world, so they didn’t quite fit the appearance of a motor vehicle. Their overall function—the niceties of control and turning radius, for example—might leave something to be desired. The less-than-perfect suspension was what prompted Dasa’s car sickness. She had never been much of a complainer, so she hadn’t said anything for quite a while—but Yukinari had noticed much earlier that she’d seemed out of sorts.

In spite of all this, they were happy enough to have nearly halved their transit time.

“Still,” Yukinari said, “no attacks by any demigods or xenobeasts. I’d say it’s been a pretty easy trip overall...”

Dasa shot him a venomous look over the top of her glasses, which had slid down her nose.

“...or not. Sorry.” Yukinari sat down next to Dasa and started rubbing her back again. But Dasa gave a nauseated groan, holding her arms to her chest.

“Does it hurt? What do you want to do? Should I loosen your collar?”

“Yes... please,” she said.

With her blessing, Yukinari reached for the collar of Dasa’s shirt. Her clothes were covered with leather, and could be tightened down more than they first appeared. Even just loosening her neckline should make things considerably easier on her.

“......Mn.” Dasa gave a short grunt. The way she had contorted her body with her nausea made her clothing look somehow ill-fitting—no, rumpled—now that the collar was loose. Her collarbone and the pale skin of her neck were visible, and Yukinari couldn’t quite shake a sense of guilt, as if he were doing something wrong.

“Oh...” Keeping his eyes pointedly on the horizon, Yukinari resumed running his hand over Dasa’s back. For a while she simply sat there, but then, silently, she snuggled up against his arm and leaned into his chest.

“Dasa...?”

“Let me... stay like this for a... while,” she whispered, her head on his shoulder. “...May I?”

“Uh, I mean, sure...” Yukinari scratched his cheek with a finger of his left hand.

“...It’s been a while...”

“Huh? What has?”

“Since... it was just the two of us, Yuki. Since... we did this.” He couldn’t see her face, but he had the sudden sense that Dasa was smiling.

“Oh...”

When they had been traveling together, they had often had to camp out. They had slept next to each other like this many nights in order to keep Dasa warm, so she wouldn’t catch cold. They hadn’t slept in each other’s arms since they took up residence in Friedland. However hastily their hut may have been built, it still had four walls and a roof, and they could cover themselves with blankets while they slept.

But... I don’t know...

Before, when they had squeezed together this way, he hadn’t given it much thought. It was just to keep Dasa warm; there was nothing else to it. But now he found himself strangely agitated; his pulse had quickened. And it seemed to be the same with Dasa. He could feel her heartbeat against his own chest, despite the intervening layers of bone and muscle. The sensation of her pulse made his own increase, which only caused Dasa’s heart to beat faster in turn. From her, to him, and back, as if their heartbeats were urging each other on, or as if they were connected on some profound level. It was a strange sensation.

My body is artificial, Yukinari thought, but in situations like this it acts just like a real one...

Or perhaps his heightened senses made it that much easier to influence and be influenced by other people’s bodies.

“...Yuki.” Dasa spoke suddenly, as though she had just thought of something.

“What’s up? Still feeling ill?”

“I’m... happy. Really happy.”

Maybe this could be attributed to Dasa’s particular desire to touch other people in order to confirm their existence. Or perhaps it was another feeling altogether. Yukinari couldn’t decide, but he said, “Oh yeah...?”

He was strangely embarrassed. He couldn’t quite figure out where to look, as though he were trying to avoid something.

That was when he noticed it, far off on the horizon.

“Is that it...?”

In the distance, he could see what appeared to be the walls of a town. Given how far away it was, they must have been awfully big. Yukinari narrowed his eyes with a questioning look. It wasn’t so much a wall as a fence. The top wasn’t even; instead, something like pillars poked up at intervals. But each of the pillars was remarkably large.

Almost as if the barrier were made of trees, giant trees well over a hundred years old.

“Yuki...?” Dasa pulled her head off his chest and gave him a quizzical look. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing... I can see something that might be Rostruch.”

Dasa followed Yukinari’s gaze, not saying anything.

“What do you want to do? Want to rest here a bit longer? Or should we get to town and then take a break?”

“...Mn.” Dasa tightened her collar again. “I’m fine now.”

“Don’t overstress yourself, okay?”

On this trip, a matter of minutes would make no difference. It would be perfectly reasonable to rest until she was feeling completely restored. But Dasa said, “It’s... all right. I’ll manage,” and then mounted Sleipnir again.

Yukinari climbed down in front of her, and she wrapped her arms around him, holding tight to his back.

“I don’t want to be... a burden, Yuki,” she said.

“What’re you talking—” he began, but then stopped. Instead he said, “Thanks.”

He could feel the warmth of her against his back. And with that word of gratitude, he brought Sleipnir to life once more.

●

By all accounts, Rostruch was something of an island, with minimal contact with the outside world. So Yukinari’s biggest concern in going there, especially so suddenly, was whether they would even let him in when he arrived. He had Fiona’s letter of introduction, but there was a perfectly good chance they wouldn’t recognize her name, although they might know of Friedland itself.

Well, the first step was a good offense. Yukinari arrived at the gate into Rostruch. But...

“Look at this thing...” He stared openmouthed at the wall—no, the fence—that stretched out from either side of the gate.

It was a forest.

A row of trees, dozens if not hundreds of years old to judge by the size, were lined up at incredibly even intervals. Countless branches spread out left and right; it was clearly impossible to slip in between the trees. Where the roots were exposed, it was obvious just how tangled together they were; there was hardly any space between them.

What in the world was this? Even a master gardener, bent on creating a wall of trees for his city, couldn’t have done this.

The gate at least was man-made, built of logs. And at that moment, it was opening outward. Apparently, the inhabitants of Rostruch were aware of Yukinari and Dasa’s arrival, but it wasn’t immediately clear how. Yukinari was just mulling it over when—

“...Yuki.” Dasa called out; she had noticed something.

He looked where she was pointing and saw a strange line stretching out. It was a parade of people—men and women, old and young, wearing clothing of all sorts—and each of them held something that looked like a tree branch with leaves at the end. They were walking around, waving the branches from side to side in a set pattern. It almost looked like some sort of religious observance.

“What’s that? A ritual?”

“...Probably.” There was a shadow of doubt in Dasa’s reply. A new area meant a new erdgod. It wouldn’t be surprising if devotion to the deity took a different form here than it did in Friedland.

“Erdgod here’s a bit of a glutton, huh?” Yukinari narrowed his eyes, watching the procession as it came out through the gate and passed right in front of them. The people proceeded silently as they pulled a large shrine float along with them. The people riding on it were presumably the offerings to the erdgod. In other words, the sacrifices. He couldn’t shake the sense that there were... well, a lot of them.

From what he and Dasa could see from where they stood, there were at least five people on the float. All of them appeared to be asleep, face up. There might even have been more people in the shadows. In Friedland, there had only been one sacrifice every several years, a single young woman. But here...

“The elderly...?” Dasa muttered. Most of the sleeping people had white hair. Four of the five that Yukinari could see were aged; the other appeared to be a young boy.

“How do they decide?” He and Dasa watched the procession pass by, with scant notion of what was going on. Then one of the people in the parade seemed to notice them. He stopped waving his branch and came over.

“Who are you two?” The speaker was a youth of about twenty years. “You’re not from Rostruch.”

“...That’s right.” Yukinari nodded, watching the man’s reaction closely. “I’m sorry to just show up like this. We’re from the town of Friedland, and we’ve come to Rostruch on business.”

The young man looked suspicious for a moment, but soon smiled. “Friedland... Ah, Friedland!” he said with a nod. “I’ve heard that name. Friedland. My apologies, we don’t hear much from the outside world.” Perhaps he offered the apology because he hadn’t recognized the town’s name immediately.

In a place that made minimal contact with the outside world, it wouldn’t be surprising to have some trouble recalling even the name of the next town over. But apparently, for as isolated as it was, Rostruch had no special impulse to shut out strangers.

Wow. This place really is wealthy.

The young man’s clothes and his healthy complexion were evidence enough of that. He didn’t seem terribly guarded, even with a stranger he was meeting for the first time, and perhaps that spoke to the peace Rostruch enjoyed. Poverty and insecurity usually had devastating effects: the fear of starvation drove people to regard others first and foremost as enemies who might steal their food.

But... it looks like maybe they don’t have metallurgy?

The shrine float was made entirely of wood, largely from timbers lashed together. Yukinari didn’t see any nails. And the young man in front of him didn’t seem to be wearing any metal ornaments. Or, for that matter, any buttons.

It’s almost like traditional Japanese clothing...

The details were different, but the lack of buttons and the use of a belt to hold everything in place was very similar to traditional Japanese clothing as Yukinari remembered it.

Come to think of it, Fiona said there was a swamp near Rostruch.

Japan had more swamps than average for its land area. Perhaps geographic and climatic similarities to Japan had produced a similar style of dress.

“My apologies, Friedlandian visitors, but you’ve come just as we’re celebrating a very important ritual to our erdgod, Yggdra.” The young man turned back to the procession.

“Yeah, we figured as much,” Yukinari said. “Don’t mind us.” He shared a look with Dasa, then went on. “Those people on the float... Are they sacrifices? It seems like a lot of them are older...”

It could have been considered a provocative question. With no idea how the young man would react, Yukinari prepared to grab Durandall as he spoke.

“Sacrifices? Oh! Well, I suppose you could call them that,” the man said with an exaggerated nod. “It’s true we are offering those people to Lord Yggdra. You’re surprised by the number of elderly... Does Friedland offer the young instead?”

“Well... kind of, yeah.” Yukinari nodded, thinking of Berta. Apparently, the former erdgod had considered young girls the tastiest, so she and girls like her had been sent as sacrifices.

“In Rostruch, age doesn’t matter. I guess there are a lot of older people, but it only makes sense. Their bodies are weak, after all.” The young man wore a cheerful smile as he spoke. “Those are their families pulling the float.”

Yukinari and Dasa looked at each other, shocked. Had these families volunteered their elders as sacrifices? Yukinari took another look at the people pulling the shrine float, but there was no sign of grief on their faces. Perhaps their sense of guilt was simply dead, as it had been in Friedland’s priests.

“I must excuse myself. If you would kindly wait here in town? The mayor lives in the large building to the north, so if you have business, please...”

“Sorry, can I ask one more thing?” Yukinari said, looking at the float. “These sacrifices—any chance you choose them based on who’s closest to death? The very old, the incurably ill, the gravely wounded, that sort of thing?”

The young man nodded evenly. “Yes, of course.”

●

They made it to the mayor’s house easily. They left Sleipnir by the town gate and walked down the street the young man had indicated, heading more or less north. The streets were laid out in a neat grid, so there was little chance of getting lost.

Along the way, Yukinari took in the town. He was especially interested in what made it different from Friedland, and in that respect the first thing he noticed was how much water there was. Several small streams flowed through the city, each clear and clean, with plants growing and fish swimming in them. Several bridges spanned the streams, another unique element of Rostruch’s scenery. The bridges were made of wood, generally rough-hewn. Presumably the tools used to cut and fashion the wood were metal, but in the whole town Yukinari saw nothing actually made of it.

If he could figure out what this town needed, it might be possible to establish trade that was beneficial to both Friedland and Rostruch. If this place wanted metal products, Yukinari could produce them himself, so long as they weren’t too complicated.

And then they arrived at the mayor’s house. They asked the servant who emerged from within to kindly announce them, and then they set to waiting.

The servant reemerged a moment later. “The chief will see you. But... Truth be told, some other visitors arrived just before you. If you would be so kind as to wait for a while...”

“Sure. As long as you need.”

The servant bowed and ushered Yukinari and Dasa into the house. The mayor’s home was a single-story building that somehow gave the distinct impression of being Japanese. Yukinari didn’t see any sliding paper doors, but there didn’t seem to be an excessive number of doors at all, or walls either. It looked like the place was probably best with the windows open and a breeze blowing through it.

“Gosh. It’s all so familiar...”

“It is?” Leave it to Dasa to pick up on his quiet murmur. She gave him a questioning look as they walked side by side together.

“Yeah. There were a lot of houses like this in my previous world. Well, not a lot, I guess, but I’ve definitely seen places built like this one.” Japan in the twenty-first century had far fewer of these simple, single-story homes than it used to, especially in the cities.

“This way, please,” the servant said, leading them along. The area they were shown to was partitioned off by screens. It seemed they were to wait just past one of them. Yukinari and Dasa came around the screen to find two chairs seemingly made out of wicker and a single small desk. As Japanese as the place felt, apparently they still didn’t sit on cushions around here.

Yukinari let out a breath and sat in one of the chairs. Dasa seated herself across from him. She watched his face for a moment, then said, “Yuki.” She sounded somehow as if she had made up her mind about something. “Earlier... The erdgod’s—”

“I know.” He interrupted her with a frown. “Fiona told me there was probably an erdgod here, but I didn’t expect to run into a ritual the minute we showed up.”

Dasa was probably disturbed that Yukinari had seen the procession earlier and hadn’t done anything about it. After all, when he had stumbled across Friedland’s sacrifice—i.e., Berta—he had put a stop to it through sheer physical force. He felt more than a little resentment toward the townspeople and priests who were angry that he had interfered with their sacrifice.

Yukinari hated the entire system of living sacrifices. Granted, what happened with Berta had come about almost by accident, but Dasa probably believed that if Yukinari were to encounter another sacrifice, he would similarly fight to protect the victims. And she may have been concerned that he would interrupt the ceremony in Rostruch when they encountered it.

But of course, if he simply barged in and upset the ceremony, the same thing could happen in Rostruch as had in Friedland. Perhaps he could kill the erdgod and stop the sacrifices, but ultimately that would only leave Rostruch in the same place as Friedland. Yukinari had come here in hopes of improving the situation in his village, and murdering another god would not advance that agenda.

Still... Yukinari hadn’t done anything at all about the procession they saw leaving the gate. He had simply watched. And why was this situation, in Rostruch, different from that in Friedland? All this was probably on Dasa’s mind.

“Look, Dasa... Have you ever heard of Mt. Obasute?”

“Mount... what?”

“Uh, never mind. There’s no way you could know it.” Yukinari offered an ambivalent smile and shook his head. “I guess hospitals have replaced that mountain, anyway.”

Dasa gave him a blank look.

“It’s something from my previous world. Mt. Obasute—the name actually means ‘abandoning the elderly.’ Supposedly, when people got old and weak, they would be left on that mountain. Families were so poor they could barely afford to feed themselves, let alone someone who couldn’t contribute anything. Try to support your elderly family member, and you’d just end up dying yourself.”

“Yuki, did... Did you go... to abandon someone... too?” She blinked, perhaps from surprise.

“Huh? Oh, no, no, I’m just saying it was supposedly an old custom. By the time I was born, that was decades or even centuries in the past.”

Yes: in Yukinari’s mind, that story belonged to the past. But in this world—in Rostruch—it seemed to be alive and well, and perfectly accepted. The young man who had explained the procession to Yukinari and Dasa had seemed entirely calm. Perhaps the people of this town were simply thinning the ranks of their elderly under the guise of sacrificing them to the erdgod. So Yukinari thought at first, anyway.

“But then again, this town looks pretty wealthy. Or at least, people seem to have more than they need. It doesn’t seem like straits are dire enough to demand abandoning the elderly.”

“You might be... right.”

“There was one boy on that shrine float, too. And everyone was asleep. So I’m wondering if maybe it’s a form of euthanasia.”

“Euth...anasia?”

“Not that I’m sure being sacrificed to an erdgod is an easy way to go,” Yukinari said, slouching back in his chair. “In my previous world, there were a lot of people who couldn’t even breathe on their own, but machines would breathe for them, keep them alive. There was no way they were going to get better, it was just about extending their physical lives. Nobody benefited from it. So some people... they just stopped the machines. And other people argued about whether it was right to do it.”

“If you stop those machines...”

“The people die, of course. You’re essentially killing them,” Yukinari said bluntly. “But it’s not like you’re cutting them down with a sword or strangling them or something. You’re just letting nature take its course with someone who no longer really has the power to live...”

Dasa blinked repeatedly, not saying a word.

“Other people, they might be sick. They’re hurting, they’re in a lot of pain. But there’s no cure. They’re not going to get better, either. Some people think we should kill people like that, rather than drawing out their suffering. You let them die peacefully instead. That’s euthanasia.”

“And you think that... procession... is... euthanasia?”

“I think it’s possible. And once I had that thought, I couldn’t let it go.” Then he gave a long sigh, pressing his palms against his eyes. People too old, too sick, to have any hope of recovery. Letting them go gently might be the compassionate thing to do, but it put an immense emotional burden on the people who actually had to do it. So instead they let the erdgod handle it, in the form of sacrifices. And in consuming the sacrifices, the erdgod warded off the dissipation of its own sense of self. Essentially, both sides benefited.

Could it really be right, then, for Yukinari to put a stop to that ritual? Friedland, Rostruch, and probably many other towns had forged their connections with their erdgods over hundreds of years. The systems involved were firmly in place. Was it right to destroy such things? Or not?

“...Yuki...” Dasa rose from her seat and went over to him. She took one of the hands he had pressed to his own eyes and put it against her cheek. “Whether you’re right... or... wrong, I’m on your side.”

“Dasa...”

“The logic doesn’t... matter.”

Yukinari didn’t speak.

“If you don’t like... it, destroy it. The sacrifices... The erdgod. I’ll always be on your... side.”

She closed her eyes, as if she were trying to study the feeling of his hand. For a moment, he soaked in the warmth of her cheek, but then—

“I apologize for the wait, Master Yukinari,” a voice said from the other side of the partition. Dasa quickly let go of Yukinari’s hand, and he pulled away from her. The servant poked his head around the blind. “The mayor will see you now. If you’ll follow me?”

A shout went up as Yukinari and Dasa were walking after him.

“You?!”

Yukinari turned to see what the commotion was, and found himself face to face with two familiar-looking knights and two priests in the white garments of Friedland’s clergy. And one of them was...

“Luman?”

The priest from the orphanage.

“Why are you here?!” the priest demanded. The two knights, presumably two of the Harris Church missionaries who had come to Friedland, put their hands on the swords at their hips. With their statue annihilated, they lived in Friedland like defanged animals, but apparently here in Rostruch they had no qualms about showing open hostility toward Yukinari.

“Him! That’s him!” exclaimed the priest next to Luman, pointing at Yukinari. “He is the cursed demon, the Godslayer!”

Yukinari squinted and, without a word, reached back for Durandall. He’d slain a god all right, that was true enough. The question was who that priest was shouting to. Simply telling the people of Rostruch about Yukinari would do no harm to him, and therefore be of no benefit to the priests. If they had come all the way here, it meant they thought something in Rostruch would allow them to oppose him. But what, or how?

“This boy...” Someone appeared behind Luman. “...is the Godslayer you speak of?”

“A girl...?” Dasa whispered.

So it was. It was a girl, or appeared to be. A female child so young that Dasa, just a young woman herself, was justified in using the term “girl.”

She looked normal at first glance. But her hair was green, and she had horns like a stag—no, like the gnarled branches of a tree. It was always possible they were simply a headpiece, or a decoration, but...

She sure doesn’t seem like a regular child to me, Yukinari thought.

She exuded something, something that made her seem utterly other. To Yukinari, she appeared to be a locus of vastly more power than the erdgod he had felled, any of the demigods or xenobeasts he had encountered, or even the statue of the guardian saint. Yukinari was not normally capable of sensing “spiritual power,” but when there was so much of it at once it naturally became an almost physical phenomenon, surrounding her like a shimmering haze.

She was no girl. She wasn’t even human.

“Even he!” Luman shouted, stabbing a finger at Yukinari. “He himself is the monster who killed our god! He is our enemy, and he is your enemy. If you leave him be, you and your familiars will surely pay the price! The very fact that he is here is the proof!”

“Listen to you blather,” Yukinari muttered, drawing Durandall from its holster on his back. “Thought you’d get one of the neighbor gods to punish me, huh?”

“...Yuki...!” Dasa opened her bag and pulled out Red Chili, moving to cover Yukinari’s back. “Behind... us!”

“I know.” An overwhelming sensation pressed in from all sides. The missionary knights and the priests backed off, replaced by several human figures that surrounded Yukinari and Dasa. Some were old and some young, some were men and some women, but all of them exuded the same powerful aura as the girl—and all of them had the same green hair and horns. It seemed none of them were human, either. Most likely...

Luman sounded a cry: “O familiars of Lord Yggdra, and First Familiar Ulrike! Mete out divine punishment upon the accursed Godslayer!”

●

To be a merchant caravan in this area was to risk one’s life for one’s business. Small bands of people separated from the larger settlements as they went somewhere else were ideal prey for demigods and xenobeasts. These monsters were not so much interested in humans proper as they were in their brains, the source of intelligence and spiritual power, which the creatures could consume as the quickest way to increase their own spiritual power level. Most demigods and xenobeasts had originally been wild animals—with all the aggression that entailed.

Of course, the main roads in areas that had some kind of pact with an erdgod were relatively safe—but take one step outside such a place, and the danger increased exponentially. Sometimes an especially powerful demigod might even encroach on an erdgod’s territory.

Hence, merchant parties were always armed. The merchants themselves carried weapons, and many hired mercenaries. Obviously, five or ten armed men would have a hard time fending off a herd of xenobeasts or felling a demigod. The armaments were essentially a way of buying themselves enough time to get back to erdgod-controlled territory, or inside a city. What they carried was chiefly ranged weapons: slingshots, Molotov cocktails, bows and arrows, throwing spears, nets. They were not so foolish as to bring swords or pikes or anything else that might involve going toe to toe with a xenobeast or demigod.

Most of the time, this was enough to allow them to escape.

But by the time they heard the roar of rippling air, it was too late. First, the head of the mercenary leading the expedition from horseback disappeared. It was like a bad joke: one second it was there, then you blinked, and it was gone; not even his helmet was left. Instead there was only a geyser of blood spewing red liquid all over his corpse. Finally, as if it had just now realized it was dead, the body tilted, fell over, and flopped on the ground.

“Wh-What the hell?!” the shaken mercenaries and merchants demanded. They looked left and right, searching desperately for their attacker. But they couldn’t find it. Couldn’t see anything. There were no xenobeasts or demigods anywhere around them. No sign of an animal like a bear or a tiger.

Then one of the merchants made a dumbfounded sound.

“Huh?”

A bloody helmet dropped at his feet, bouncing before it rolled to a stop. It was the one the missing head had been wearing.

“It’s above us?!” The mercenaries finally realized where they should be looking, and craned their necks to peer at the sky. Then they saw it—and it was coming down at them at a fantastic speed, as though falling from the sky. A massive birdlike creature with four wings.

“Run awa—”

The flying demigod hurtled directly into the middle of the merchants and mercenaries. The second one to lose his head was the merchant who had been riding on the driver’s platform of the carriage.

“Grrryyyahhh! Brains!” the monster-bird exclaimed gleefully as it floated above them. It broke open the head it had torn off with its claws and beak, extending its unnaturally long tongue to sip at what was within.

“Brains! Brains! Gray matter! AH, DELICIOUS!”

A maelstrom of confusion and terror gripped the party. Flying demigods were extremely unusual. Both the merchants and the mercenaries were armed exclusively with weapons designed to fight other creatures that stayed on the ground. In fact, even if they knew about the existence of flying demigods, they knew of no way to build a weapon with the range and power to fight something like this.

“Brains, brains! I NEED more braiNSSSSS! Slurp slurp!”

“Hrrrk—?!”

The demigod took advantage of the chaos among the humans to plunge down among them again. What followed was a slaughter. Its beak and claws cut down one mercenary and merchant after another. Some of the hired muscle tried to run, but this only seemed to incense the creature, who would pierce them through the belly with one of its claws before devouring them from the head down.

The birdlike demigod screeched and crowed as it broke open the men’s skulls, greedily drinking what came out. The eyes of the pitiful victims rolled up into their heads and their limbs spasmed, until the demigod took one bite, then two, and then at last swallowed the body of its prey.

“as iF tHe liKEs... liKES.... LiKes of a human cOUld kilL mE. More brAIns... mORe...!”

It howled happily, almost as if it were singing, as it went about feasting on the humans.

It was the demigod Yukinari had failed to kill in the valley near Friedland several days before.

●

Yukinari immediately decided this was a bad place to be.

Dasa had drawn Red Chili, but he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulled her close, and set off running.

“Yuki—?!”

“We’re getting out of here!” he shouted, dashing down the hall of the mayor’s mansion. He kicked out the shutter of a window, then leaped out with Dasa in tow, ignoring the splinters that flew everywhere. He rolled once as he hit the ground, then, not even sparing the time to brush off the dirt and dust, he grabbed Dasa again and kept running.

“Yuki... Why...?”

“That thing’s bad news. There are all kinds of reasons I don’t want to fight it,” he said as he ran. “I know it looks human, but I guarantee we’d be in trouble if we let that trick us into trying to fight it.”

“...He called it a... ‘familiar.’”

“Yeah. Sort of an outward manifestation of the local erdgod, a terminal. It looks like a person, but it’s connected right to the erdgod’s power...!”

In particular, that first familiar to emerge—Ulrike, she’d been called—had been immensely powerful. Normally it wasn’t possible to see spiritual power with the naked eye, but in her it had been so concentrated as to appear like a visible haze. Yukinari didn’t know exactly what form this erdgod Yggdra took, but he was clearly different by an order of magnitude from the erdgod Yukinari had fought in Friedland. It was even possible that the body of the familiar called Ulrike was simultaneously the erdgod’s body.

Not to mention, this erdgod had at least ten other familiars, even if they weren’t as powerful as Ulrike. Numbers alone would have put Yukinari and Dasa at a disadvantage.

“Those familiars must all have started as sacrifices...!” Ulrike was obviously a small girl, but all the other familiars had also appeared to be very old, or very young, or otherwise had given the impression of being weak. Yukinari could only speculate, but it seemed Yggdra used his sacrifices as familiars. They presumably moved and acted as a part of his body.

Whatever the case, the overwhelming appearance of frailty made it very difficult for Yukinari to want to fight them. But his opponents, perhaps taken in by Luman, seemed completely convinced that Yukinari was the “Godslayer”—and they had every intention of destroying him.

He couldn’t fight like this. It would just wind up with him and Dasa being picked off.

Yukinari glanced back. “Of course they’d follow us...”

The familiars were behind them, Ulrike at their head. Some of the familiars even jumped from rooftop to rooftop, like ninja. No matter what they might look like, they apparently had superhuman mobility.

“Yuki, I can run. Put me down.” It wasn’t the first time Dasa had made this request, but Yukinari didn’t listen. He needed to at least get a little more distance, or the familiars would catch them. If they really wanted to punish him specifically for being the Godslayer, it was possible they wouldn’t hurt Dasa at all. But with Luman and his friends on Yggdra’s side, Dasa’s being taken hostage was a very real possibility. That would only make this an even bigger crisis for Yukinari.

“Damn it all! What a pain in the ass!”

Holding Dasa under his left arm, he pulled out Durandall with his right hand and made as if to fire—he worked the lever, chambering the first round. Then he picked a direction and fired a warning shot.

He didn’t hit anything, of course. Even if he had been intending to fire at his pursuers, it would have been extremely hard to do while running with Dasa at his hip.

But then—

“Meet your end, Godslayer.”

With those words, Ulrike leaped upward from her place at the vanguard. Her white robes fluttered in the breeze, and, still in midair, she gave a single wave of the branch in her hand.

With a start, Yukinari collapsed. Something had trapped his leg. What?

He looked around, and was astonished to see what appeared to be a tree root. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, but now it was popping out of the ground and had wrapped itself around Yukinari’s leg. His momentum thwarted, he had no choice but to fall.

Still holding Dasa, he landed smack on his behind. Ulrike brought her branch down as she landed. At first glance, it looked thin enough to break between two fingers, but—

Sitting there on the ground, Yukinari somehow managed to bring Durandall up with his right hand, catching the branch with its blade.

“Hrgh!” The impact that ran down his arm felt as if he had intercepted an iron rod, not a twig. It was so heavy. Much heavier than such a waifish little girl should have been able to hold, much heavier than any branch of that size should have been. It felt as if he had blocked a blow from a powerful xenobeast.

“Yuki...!” Dasa brought up Red Chili and opened fire on Ulrike.

But the shots didn’t hit. In the blink of an eye, trees and branches and vines and ivies sprouted up, weaving themselves together to form an impenetrable wall between the familiar and her quarry. The softer tips on Dasa’s .44 Magnum bullets couldn’t get through the multi-layered defensive wall.

“Aw, that’s not even fair!” Yukinari groaned. He freed his leg from the root, grabbed up Dasa, and resumed running.

Apparently Yggdra—and his familiars—were capable of controlling any kind of plant life around Rostruch. He didn’t know how, but they could make the plants grow with preternatural speed, or move normally immobile branches and vines to form walls or set traps.

Meaning as long as we’re in Rostruch, we’re in the belly of the beast!

Any advantage they might have would be as good as negated by that fact. And what was more...

“What’s going on?”

“Lord Yggdra’s familiars!”

“Hey! Look! It’s Lady Ulrike!”

“Are they chasing that man?”

“Wonder if he did something to earn himself some divine punishment?”

“Hey, you two, wait!”

So far from being afraid of Ulrike and the others, the townspeople seemed to be showing her great respect as she chased Yukinari and Dasa through the city. Then, sporadically, the villagers began standing in front of Yukinari, trying to block his way.

This was bad. He was already at a disadvantage here—if everyone in town decided he was an enemy, he would be completely trapped.

“Yuki... The people here adore... their erdgod...”

“Sure looks that way!”

He kept running, dodging root after root that burst through the ground and threatened to trip him. As an angel, he was endowed with exceptional nimbleness and endurance that allowed him to keep this up, but a normal person would have long ago been captured.

They’re definitely not like the erdgod-worshippers in Friedland.

In his village, there had been profound awe of the local deity, but no sense of closeness. It was only natural. The people were dealing with a creature that may have assured good harvests, but also ate human beings. There was no rat that felt intimacy with any cat.

By contrast, the people of Rostruch apparently felt something like affection for their erdgod, Yggdra. For example, the young man they had talked to at the procession earlier hadn’t shown any terror or disgust at the notion of making these sacrifices to his god.

Which presumably meant...

“Yuki... There aren’t as many familiars chasing us now.”

“Huh...?”

He glanced back, just for a second, and saw Dasa was right: where ten familiars had been after them before, now there were only three. Ulrike was still charging at the front, but...

“If... we’re careful, we might lose... them.”

“Do you figure each familiar has a different level of ability?”

“That’s... certainly possible.”

They might be connected to the erdgod, but if the sacrificed humans’ bodies remained in any capacity, then of course they would eventually reach their physical limit. Hobbling old people and tiny children could still only run so fast or jump so far, even if they shared some of the power of the erdgod.

If we can somehow lose the three that are still chasing us, we might be able to get away...

Yukinari replaced Durandall across his back, instead pulling out the several .44 Magnum bullets he had in his pocket.

“Sorry, Dasa. Gonna have to set you down.”

“I understand.”

He stopped just long enough to put her on her feet, and then the two of them resumed running. Yukinari placed the cartridges between his palms and focused his attention.

It didn’t have to be complicated. And the internals could be recycled. A tube packed with black gunpowder and a detonator, capped with an explosive to start things burning. Around this, a mixture of magnesium and metaldehyde powders, commonly used as a fire-starter at campsites. The fuse could be the same as in a gun. A length of wire could run from the trigger so it wouldn’t go off in his hand.

He could only manage a crude version of the weapon, but it would have to do. With his powers of physical reconstitution, Yukinari produced a metal cylinder just a little bit larger than a 350mL bottle of juice.

“And now...” Yukinari picked a large building nearby and kicked down the door. “Sorry for inviting myself in!” he said as he entered, but there was no response. It looked like he had judged correctly: this wasn’t a house, but a storage space. There were only one or two small windows, probably to help change the air, up near the ceiling; the interior was dark, and there were several piles of wooden chests.

Perfect.

Yukinari looked back—and flung the cylinder he was holding. It tumbled through the air, trailing what looked like a thread, until it was just above Ulrike and the other pursuing familiars.

“Dasa, close your eyes!” Yukinari shouted, and pulled on the thread.

The fuse did its job, and a second later, the flashbang he had created in such a hurry went off.

For an instant, the inside of the storehouse was filled with a light so bright as to blot out everything else. Anyone who looked directly at it would be briefly blinded. And all the worse if your eyes had started to become accustomed to the darkness.

“...All right.”

When he opened his eyes, he found Ulrike and the other two familiars standing there, evidently unable to see. At least, they weren’t running directly toward him and Dasa.

This was his chance. Yukinari made for the nearest wall and slapped his right hand against it.

Physical reconstitution.

In the next instant, there was a bluish-white flash and part of the wall turned to dust, leaving a hole big enough for a person to walk through. When he didn’t have to create anything, but was simply absorbing structural information, he was capable of this sort of tactic.

“Dasa.”

“...Mn.”

He took her under his left arm again. For the moment, when he looked back, he didn’t see any of Yggdra’s familiars.

●

Justin Chambers ordered everyone out of his office, where he proceeded to shut himself in. He allowed only one person to remain: the alchemist—and his rumored lover—Jaroslava Vernak. They had frequently been alone in his rooms together even before he had become Dominus Doctrinae, leaving many to make base insinuations about their relationship.

But if any had had both the opportunity and the audacity to peek into Justin’s chambers at that moment, they would have been disappointed. And then they would have been shocked by what they heard.

Jaroslava sat on the bench facing Justin’s work desk. “About the new angel,” she said. She sounded almost bored. “How’s the Church feeling these days?”

“It’s a touchy subject. There’s been a good deal of resistance to the creation of new angels ever since the incident with the Blue Angel. There are fears that another new one might escape, too. There are even those who believe we should get rid of all of our angels,” Justin said, running his eyes over some papers on his desk.

“They’re afraid.” Jaroslava seemed to be enjoying herself. “They thought those things were nothing but tools. Now they lie awake at night wondering when the next one is going to turn and bite them. It’s adorable. Although it’ll never happen.”

The event had shaken the Church so badly that it had given rise to a number of misunderstandings—specifically, misapprehensions about cause and effect in the case. The “Blue Angel” had killed the previous Dominus, along with five other high-ranking members of the Church and no less than thirty of the knights of the Holy Order who guarded them. But this creature—this “Bluesteel Blasphemer,” as he was also known—was a special case.

Angels were never meant to be self-aware. They were intended to be living dolls. The alchemists used a human “soul”—or something they called by this name—to control the spiritual power that allowed these living alchemical devices to function. But because the Church could hardly abide their tools, the angels, acting of their own accord, everything that might make the creature human was stripped away before an angel was awakened. This was the case with all twelve of the examples created before the Bluesteel Blasphemer.

But for reasons no one could fathom, an alchemist—Jirina Urban was her name—charged with creating the thirteenth angel under the authority of the previous Dominus, failed to remove the sense of self attached to the soul. In other words, she had skipped a step of the process and created an angel with self-consciousness.

She was put to death for that—and it was only upon learning of this that the Bluesteel Blasphemer went insane. Meaning the “Blue Angel” had not run amok for no reason, but had been exacting revenge for the murder of its “mother,” Jirina. The chance of the other angels going berserk was, for all intents and purposes, zero. And yet...

“Even so, I don’t believe their caution is entirely unwarranted.” Finally, Justin looked up at Jaroslava. “You recommended that a fourteenth angel—one with a sense of self, just like the Blasphemer—should be created, yes?”

“I did. And I stand by that.” Jaroslava smiled and nodded. “Tools and puppets are well and good for the missionaries. More than enough to put on a few miracles. But killing your Bluesteel Blasphemer? The angels we have will be less than useless. Puppets are only puppets; they can’t move any faster than the person pulling their strings.” She spoke casually, as if what she was saying was completely obvious. “A puppet that needs precise instructions from its puppeteer has no hope of defeating the Bluesteel Blasphemer. Even just in terms of how quickly it can accomplish physical reconstitution, there will be no contest.”

The incident with the Bluesteel Blasphemer could safely be called the worst in the Church’s history. The public absolutely had to be prevented from learning that one of the angels had gone on a rampage and killed almost forty people, including the leader of the Church and several of his closest associates. If the rank-and-file believers found out, their faith in the Church would be deeply shaken.

Naturally, an event of this magnitude was known to many in the Church. But publicly, they announced that the previous Dominus Doctrinae had been killed when a new church building he was inspecting collapsed. The true details were kept tightly under wraps.

This also meant it was impossible to form a large, and therefore obvious, group to hunt down and destroy the Bluesteel Blasphemer. If they were going to kill it, they would have to do so quietly. They would have to assassinate it.

Even the Bluesteel Blasphemer was not immortal; there had to be a way to kill it. Perhaps several ways. But in a one-on-one fight, it was almost impossible that a human could prevail over this self-aware angel. And while their own angels might have similar abilities, the puppet could never win.

What they needed was a small group of individuals who had the powers of angels and could use them autonomously. The smaller the number of people involved, the better, as it would help prevent the story from becoming public.

Justin drummed his fingers. “I’ll handle the internal opposition somehow.” His fingers tapped the hard surface of his desk, as if he were keeping time or counting something. It was his habit whenever he was considering a problem. “And you, Jaroslava Vernak. The question is whether you can create an angel on a par with that produced by Jirina Urban. I’m given to understand that she was by far the most accomplished among our alchemists who specialize in homunculi.”

Jaroslava shrugged. “I’d like to give you my unqualified reassurance,” she said. “But Jirina Urban was an extremely capable alchemist. She had the accumulated knowledge of generations of the Urban family, and I’m sure she was a better crafter of homunculi than I am. But she left quite a few notes. I doubt it will be that hard to use them to create something that can do battle with the Bluesteel Blasphemer.”

“And the soul for the spiritual-power control apparatus?”

“I have an idea, of course.”

“Very well.” Justin looked back down at his papers. “In that case, I want you to be prepared, so you can create our angel at any time.”

“Yes, Your Holiness.”

“I have no special interest in anything so noble as revenge for my predecessor.” Justin’s fingers started tapping again. “But this is a creature that hates us, whose very existence is a blight upon the Church, and that furthermore is all but invincible in battle. Such a creature’s continued existence can only ever be a threat to us. We must pull this problem out by the roots.”

“As you say, O most holy Dominus Doctrinae.” Jaroslava made a theatrical gesture with one hand, as if she were making a solemn vow—but she almost seemed amused.

●

It would be foolish to go straight back to where Sleipnir was parked. Yukinari didn’t know whether the participants in the procession had seen him and Dasa arrive on the motorized vehicle, but if they had, there could very well be an ambush there. If the townspeople had been mobilized, and the two of them ended up surrounded, there would be no escaping again—or perhaps there would, but it would involve killing some of the people of Rostruch, and certainly the familiar, Ulrike.

Yukinari very much wanted to avoid that if at all possible.

Admittedly, part of him thought the idea was naïve, that it was too late for a peaceful resolution, but—call him a fool for pacifism—he couldn’t shake his revulsion at the thought of shooting women and children. He had died and been reborn in this new world, and he believed the personality that underlay his identity as Yukinari was formed by a system of values he had been able to embrace because of his previous, peaceful life in modern Japan.

“Yuki...”

“Hush.” He put a finger to Dasa’s lips, then crept into the abandoned building he’d spotted. It was made of wood, just like all the others, but it was damaged in places; it didn’t seem anyone had been keeping it up.

He was considering hiding out in it until things with Ulrike had blown over.

“Who are you?”

Yukinari stiffened at the sudden question. This was bad. He had assumed the place was abandoned, but apparently there was someone here. If they shouted, they could easily bring the familiars or the townspeople back down on their heads. Should he run? Try to silence the resident of this house? But even in the instant he was trying to make up his mind –

“Ahh, the looks made you think this place was abandoned, didn’t they? I can’t do any repairs, so it just keeps getting worse. I’m so embarrassed.”

The voice was very thin, but kind; there was no hint of worry. Yukinari and Dasa proceeded cautiously inside, keeping a careful watch on their surroundings. And there, within, sat the owner of the voice. Or maybe sat up would be a more accurate way of putting it.

A man was propped up in bed. He had probably been lying down until a moment earlier. His voice was as frail as an elderly man’s, but his face—especially his eyes—suggested he was still young. But his cheeks were thin, his hands skin and bones. He must be sick. And something serious, in its final stages. You could tell at a glance.

“Sorry,” Yukinari said. “We were kinda being chased...” If the man wasn’t going to shout, then it would certainly be better to deal peacefully with him.

“Chased?”

“Well, uh...”

“There’s no need to stand. Please, have a seat.” The man gestured to Yukinari, showing no sign of suspicion.

Yukinari didn’t respond immediately. He noticed that Dasa had pulled out her “ears” and put them on her head. These were a sound-gathering device shaped like animal ears. She had spent so long unable to see that she could use her ears almost as well as her eyes, and sometimes better, to grasp what was going on around her. This device capitalized on that ability.

Dasa, too, said nothing at first, but she nodded at him. As long as she was listening, the familiars wouldn’t be able to sneak up on them. But then she was already leaning in and whispering to Yukinari:

“Inside. Someone’s breathing.” Apparently the man wasn’t alone in this house.

“Okay, thanks,” Yukinari said, taking a seat on a wooden bench. Dasa sat next to him.

“Mother,” the man said. “Mother, we have visitors.” For some reason, he looked to the ceiling as he spoke.

This house, like the others, was just one story. He couldn’t be calling to the second floor. Which meant...

“They seem like they’re in a bit of trouble. I thought I might let them rest here for a while. Is that okay?”

There was no audible answer. Yukinari and Dasa watched silently. The man gave an awkward smile.

“My mother’s quite old already. And I’m sick, as you can see, and don’t have much longer. Lately I’ve become unable to see.”

“Unable... to... see...?”

That detail got a reaction from Dasa, probably because she herself had been born blind. She sounded nonchalant, but her words contained a note of sympathy—no, empathy. As ever, it was a hint so faint only Yukinari could detect it, but...

“Yes, more or less.” The man who said he was blind seemed to notice it as well. Perhaps, like Dasa, his hearing had improved in order to compensate for his lost vision. A soft smile floated on his face. “I admit it can be inconvenient, but I’m not scared. Because it means soon I can go to be with our Lord Yggdra.”

Dasa looked from the man to Yukinari with a startled expression. Yukinari gave her a slight nod, then asked as gently as he could, “Lord Yggdra... He’s the erdgod of this area, right?”

“Now, this is unusual... Are you strangers?”

“Yes. Uh, travelers.”

“Is that so? What a surprise. Yes, as you say, Lord Yggdra is our erdgod. The Lord is our protector, our mother.”

“Mother...?” Yukinari squinted when this word came up.

“We are born into the land Lord Yggdra rules, suckle at the teat of Lord Yggdra’s blessings, and one day return to the Lord. Some of us, like me and my mother, sooner than others.”

Did that mean becoming a sacrifice? But there was no trace of fear in the boy’s voice. Apparently, people in this town really did see being offered to Yggdra as an easy death. And yet...

“Are you really not afraid at all being sacrificed to the erdgod?” Yukinari asked.

“A sacrifice...?” The man seemed perplexed by the expression. “A sacrifice... Ahh, I see. You mean a living sacrifice. I suppose it sounds scary when you put it that way. But to return to Lord Yggdra is a joy. Especially for the elderly, or for those like me who have no hope of recovering from their illness. To live on as a part of Lord Yggdra—as Lady Ulrike does.”

So the familiar called Ulrike had started out as a sacrifice, too.

“We simply return to Lord Yggdra.”

A sort of return to the womb, huh?

While in their mother’s womb, humans feel no anxiety or fear, surrounded and supported by amniotic fluid. “Returning to Lord Yggdra” represented a longing for that time. Many people feel more calm when they’re somewhere dark and warm, surrounded—in essence, somewhere like a womb or uterus—and architecture that plays on this desire is common in religious buildings.

This is also related to the idea of rebirth, the notion that there is another life on the far side of death. In this understanding, human life begins from the womb and eventually returns to it, over and over, the soul part of an eternal cycle.

“...Yuki.” Dasa gave a tug on Yukinari’s sleeve.

“Yeah. He’s...”

The man’s smile didn’t seem the least bit false or affected. He really believed what he was saying, from the bottom of his heart.

Yukinari had thought at first that the sacrifices to Yggdra were about abandoning the elderly to their fate—small sacrifices to protect against a larger tragedy. At least, that would be what people could say to comfort themselves.

But being offered up to Yggdra was obviously not something this person regarded as a tragedy. It wasn’t even euthanasia. It was practically salvation for those who were too weak to have any other hope.

“Yggdra, huh...”

As he looked at the smiling man, Yukinari became convinced that whatever they did next, it would have to involve meeting—not with Yggdra’s familiars, but with the god itself.