PROLOGUE

SMILE JUNKIE

1711 On the Atlantic Ocean The Advena Avis

“Dammit! Wake up! Wake uuuup! Everyone’s gonna die! We’ll all be killed— Aah! AAAAAAAAAAAaAka-ka-kaaaAAAAh! AAAAAaaaah! AaaAaaah! Aaah! Aaah…”

An uproar engulfed the ship.

In the darkness…all they heard were screams.

The alchemists had left their homelands and were bound for the New World.

And on that ship, at long last, they’d successfully summoned a demon.

With that, they’d achieved what was generally considered one of alchemy’s ultimate goals: immortality.

However, that immortality had a troublesome restriction…

There was one way for them to die: Find another immortal and have that person place a hand upon their head. Then the other simply had to think, forcefully, I want to eat. By doing this, they could give all their knowledge, memories, and experiences—and sometimes even their personality—to the other. They could deal death to themselves and allow the other to inherit all the accomplishments of the life they’d left behind.

However, naturally, some of them had thought about this from the other direction. In fact, the restriction made more sense when considered in that light.

One could inherit all the others’ experiences and become an immortal king.

On the next night after the demon had been summoned, a man plunged down that road toward everlasting solitude.

He ate the companions who’d studied alchemy alongside him, throwing the ship into infernal pandemonium.

The man’s name was

“It’s Szilard! The filthy old bastard—he’s betrayed us!”

“That wretch… Stop him! Somebody stop him! No, I don’t care who does it—eat him!”

“Where did he go?! He must still be on the ship!”

“Careful! He’s already eaten more than five of us! He won’t move the way he did before!”

As angry roars filled the ship, one shadow was attempting to hide in the hold.

She was a bespectacled girl with silver hair, sixteen or seventeen years old. She seemed clearly out of place, and…

Scared, I’m scared. Hide—I have to hide somewhere.

Him too… I know he’s hiding somewhere, too. I have to find him—

Panicked by the abrupt crisis in the dead of night, she simply fled from the noise without any sort of plan. She’d meant to go down into the ship’s hold and hide until the situation had resolved itself, but—

The instant she reached the bottom of the stairs into the depths of the hull, a wrinkled hand covered her head.

Her eyes went wide with terror. Reflected in them was the grim smile of the old man who was the cause of the uproar.

“To think I’d get to eat a young woman in a place like this. My carnal impulses died long ago, but despite my years, I’m excited.”

Then the right hand he’d set on her head tensed.

…But nothing happened.

The eyes of the old man—Szilard Quates—widened slightly. His expression suggested he couldn’t understand the situation, but after a moment, realization dawned.

“Sylvie, you witch… You didn’t drink it, did you?”

“……Ah…… Aaaah…”

Pinned by Szilard’s coldly gleaming eyes, the girl he’d called Sylvie was petrified, unable to answer.

He’ll kill me.

In the instant that certainty hit her, Szilard’s right arm abruptly left her head—and fell to the floor with a thump. The old man’s arm had been severed partway down, and blood pulsed vigorously from the cut surface.

The blood splattered on Sylvie as well, but each drop immediately began trembling, then gathering like a swarm of small insects, and then each was drawn back into Szilard’s arm of its own accord. The severed surfaces were joined together. As if the blood between them had been changed into rubber, they writhed toward one another, attempting to regenerate.

“Gkh… UoooOooogh!”

“Apparently we feel pain, even if we are immortal. I am pleased I was able to experiment on you.”

The two heard an arrogant voice from beside Szilard as he desperately bore the agony.

When Sylvie searched for the source, she found a brown-skinned young man. His right hand held a blade that looked like a Chinese cleaver, and his face was suffused with a quiet rage.

“Nile… You cur!”

“I am incredibly angry at the moment, but allow me to express this thought: I will kill you.”

Szilard’s arm had completely regenerated, and the man called Nile raised his knife.

“While there is absolutely no need to say it, let me inform you: Die.”

The thick blade bore down on him with enough force to cleave his skull. Evading it by a hair, Szilard slipped past Nile and dashed toward the stairs leading upward on the opposite side.