Chapter 168

It was the road at the foot of the Iseuk Mountain Range.

The front end of the wagon procession, where the cargo for this trip had been stacked high.

There, the manager—logbook in hand—was hollering at the back of a short-haired boy.

"Hey! Kid, would you pick up the pace? In the time you take to make two trips, everyone else has done four… no, five! Don't you see that? Ugh, this is killing me!"

Sally had been wiping the sweat off his forehead, but the moment he saw his traveling companion moving along under that earful, he hurried over to the manager, who was thumping his own chest in frustration.

"Hey there. Hey. Mr. Manager."

The manager whipped his head around toward Sally. Sally met the man's burning glare with a smile and spoke in a coaxing tone.

"Cut him some slack just this once. Doesn't look like he's doing it on purpose or anything."

The manager looked Sally up and down, then eased the angle of his raised eyebrows.

"I don't want to be the bad guy here either. Trust me. But I can't exactly give him a pass."

The manager folded his arms. Then he jerked his chin toward the fourth wagon in the line.

"He's forgotten where the boxes go who knows how many times, made me redo the work, and that's the fifth time I've had to shout to keep him from dropping cargo right where he stood. Slow as molasses—drives me up the wall. And on top of that, somehow he figured out the rations rotation and walked off with motion-sickness medicine, of all things. That stuff's expensive!"

"Hah hah."

Sally let out a hearty laugh and waited for the manager's huffing to settle a bit before speaking.

"Take it easy, friend. Better than him getting sick halfway through the trip, isn't it?"

"Tch."

"And I'm sorry for the trouble. I'm the one who brought the young fellow along, so I'll work double to make up for what he can't manage."

"……"

As he said it, Sally hoisted up the crates beside him in one easy lift.

A pretty convincing display. The manager slowly let his raised eyebrows drop.

He let out a breath that came easier than before, scratched the back of his head, and asked Sally.

"You two known each other from before? Or what, are you from the same village? Distant cousins, something like that?"

"Nope. We just met."

"So why are you looking out for him like that?"

"Mm, well…."

Sally drew his brows together and made a thinking sound. Then he gave a small shrug and answered lightly.

"He seems pretty timid, and he mentioned having a sick family member. Felt for him, I suppose."

---

The first crate had been hoisted in the early morning, but the last one wasn't loaded onto the wagon until well into the afternoon.

The wagons began rolling slowly toward the interior of the mountain range.

Clatter.

Mikhail sat inside the fourth cargo wagon.

The interior was fairly spacious, but there were no proper seats or backrests. They would have gotten in the way of moving cargo.

"……"

Mikhail let his shoulders sag as though worn out and lowered his head. Then, once the rustling around him quieted, he slid his eyes around to take stock of the other passengers.

Laborers gulping water or fanning themselves. A few passengers grumbling about how uncomfortable the seating was.

And over on the left side….

"Hmm-hm. Hmm."

The men playing the part of traveling peddlers were settled in.

An orange-haired youth rocking his shoulders and humming a tune, and two brown-haired ones sitting silent with their arms folded.

The one humming. That's the higher-ranked one.

Mikhail lowered the gaze he'd been running over the disguised operatives and sank into thought.

The situation in front of him matched the progression he knew. Even so, a thin layer of unease was forming, like a sheet of ice, and he couldn't quite shake it.

…No. Nothing to be uneasy about. Can't afford to be.

Mikhail shook his head and called up what he knew about the enemy seated across from him.

The world's main threat. A secret organization that sowed chaos across the continent.

The Black Ark.

Terrorists. Fanatics. People who wanted to push their beliefs through by destabilizing the populace and shaking the established order.

Which is why they'd been muscling in on the suppression campaign too, where so many eyes were watching.

But this was different. There was nothing to gain from disrupting an ordinary merchant procession.

If anything, stirring up trouble would only draw unwanted attention.

And separately—the earlier the timeline, the less the story's been bent out of shape, which means now's when I can pick up the most useful intel….

"—Hey, Maxwell. You all right?"

That was when it happened. A voice cut into his thoughts and Mikhail slowly raised his head.

It was Sally. He was leaning in close, his face pinched with obvious concern.

"Sore muscles? Or are your joints aching?"

"Ah… neither."

"Neither? Ah, then…!"

Sally seemed to suddenly remember something and reached into his inner pocket.

What came out was the sandwich he'd packed away that morning.

Mikhail eyed the crumpled napkin, let out a faint smile, and shook his head.

"It's fine. I'm not hungry."

"You don't look like you've got any strength in you, though…."

"—Hah, what a softie."

That was when it happened. The laborer sitting across from them snorted and cut in with a barbed voice.

"He says he's fine, so leave him be. Worry's for people who actually deserve it."

Sally's eyebrows twitched, and he turned toward the laborer.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What's it mean? Slow, dim-witted kid putting on a show now—of course I'm gonna say something. As if he's done enough to be worn out."

"…What? You looking for a fight?"

Sally's face twisted, and he raised his voice another notch.

"Shut your mouth. He's right here. Have some manners!"

"Folks like us never had time to mind manners, did we? I feel rotten, so I say so. What's the problem!"

"Manners? It's basic conversation! You never picked that up in your whole life?"

"That's right! I never did! What're you gonna do about it!"

The laborer roared and shot up from his seat.

Then he looked between Sally and Mikhail and pulled his mouth into a sneer.

"Ah, now I see it—you two are in on it together, aren't you? Doing less than the rest of us and trying to collect two men's worth of pay. Plain as day…."

"Watch what you say, you piece of work!"

Sally shoved himself up too and leveled a blazing glare at the laborer across from him.

In a heartbeat the atmosphere in the wagon turned ugly, as though fists were about to fly.

This isn't good.

Mikhail clicked his tongue inwardly. If a brawl broke out, he'd be thrown off this wagon.

That would make the plan a real headache.

Mikhail glanced sidelong at the peddlers, whose eyes were lit up like they were enjoying the show, and thought about what to do.

He needed to defuse this while still keeping up the slow, hapless impression. In that case….

"Oh, oh, you wanna go? Fine. Come on! Bring it! We'll see whose ugly face hits the dirt first…!"

Veins stood out on the laborer's neck as he raised his fist.

"—I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It's my fault, really!"

It was the instant before they would have come to blows.

Sally and the laborer both froze in place. Then they turned their heads toward the wailing voice.

The boy at the center of all this. He had his head bowed, his hands clasped together, and his shoulders were shaking.

"Don't shout, please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I—it's me. It's all my fault. I'm sorry."

The voice spilling out from beneath the long fringe of hair wavered like a reed in the wind.

"Please… please… don't. Don't shout."

The wheels rolled on noisily. Everyone in the wagon went silent except for the boy's sniffling.

Sally sighed and let his shoulders drop. The laborer also clicked his tongue in irritation and slumped onto the floor.

"…Hell. He's not even six years old, but Christ. Kid's actually slow."

The laborer's grumble was the last word. The tension that had been about to snap dissolved in a moment.

Rustle.

A little while later, Mikhail felt the weight of an outer garment settle over his head, accompanied by a quiet sigh.

It was made from the same rough material as the vest Sally was wearing.

"Rest until you feel better. Sorry for the racket."

---

Clatter. Clatter.

How many hours had passed? The air brushing his cheek had lost every trace of the midday warmth it once held.

Mikhail took in the sound of the wheels turning beneath him and slowly opened his eyes.

…I fell asleep.

After defusing the powder-keg moment, it seemed the tension had drained out of him and he'd nodded off without realizing it.

"So then—well, nothing to be done—"

Mikhail lifted the garment off his head and looked around the wagon.

A lit lamp swung from the ceiling, and the passengers were exchanging conversation.

As it happened, the disguised peddlers were currently chiming in.

"—When you're in this trade, what else is there but money? With them blocking off roads over 'danger' this and 'danger' that, it's gotten hard to earn so much as a coin. Figured we'd take this chance to cross the range and widen our territory a bit."

The one speaking so smoothly was the orange-haired youth from before, the one who'd been humming.

"And going far afield, we'll pick up plenty of juicy stories too. Maybe even score a bottle of the finest liquor from some tavern keeper as a gift. Right?"

Mikhail listened to the easy delivery and let his brow tighten just a fraction.

Traveling peddlers, drifting from place to place, were the sort people often dismissed because of their vague, rootless lives.

What they had over others were the rumors and anecdotes they picked up in their travels.

So most peddlers tended to love spinning tales about whatever they'd seen and heard.

The disguised men would naturally be doing the same—stringing together convincing stories to play the part.

"Haah… well, the way the world is these days, it's no wonder. Plenty of places folks can't get to anymore. Just look at the suppression campaign the other day—everything went sideways when that anomaly cropped up out of nowhere, didn't it?"

"Ah, that's right. From what I've heard going around, something like that did happen."

"Every day there's something new to worry about. Can't catch a break."

Mikhail watched the worried murmuring back and forth.

Then one of the passengers, who had been nodding along to the conversation, leaned forward and spoke to the orange-haired youth.

"Say, about you fellows."

"?"

"I don't see the Blessing of the Creator on you. Don't tell me you dropped it somewhere?"

For an instant, a strange current passed through the air.

The atmosphere had the feel of misaligned gears being forced into place, grinding as they turned.

That's right—they're hostile to the Holy Church and the current kingdom regime.

Mikhail narrowed his eyes and shifted his gaze toward the orange-haired youth.

"Ah. That."

The unease cut off just before it could fully register as wrong. The orange-haired youth flashed a cheerful smile, fished around at his collar, and pulled out a small pendant.

"As if drifters like us would ever lose this. It's the article we entrust our safety to, after all—gift of the merciful Lord God."

The passenger who had posed the question finally relaxed his expression, folded his arms, and nodded.

"Ah, of course. I just got worried, that's all. It's a job that takes you all over the place. If you ran into a magical beast and met a sorry end out there, that'd be a real tragedy, wouldn't it? Wouldn't even have someone to bury you proper."

"Heh. Quite right."

The youth maintained his easy laugh and nodded along.

But before long the laughter slowly drained from his face, and he leaned toward the passenger and spoke.

"Although… I'm hearing something I don't much care for."

"Hm?"

"The way you put it just now—almost sounds like you're hoping something bad happens to us."

"Huh? What…?"

Mikhail noted the side profile of the youth bearing down on the passenger and the voices trying to soothe things over, then turned his eyes away from the scene.

He lifted the oil-treated cloth covering the wagon's exterior and stuck his head out into the night.

Rustle.

He had to stop them. Before their grudge boiled over.