SHADOW OF THE SACRED ANCESTOR

CHAPTER 2

I

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D lowered his eyes as if the woman didn’t interest him at all. Not an ugly hag like you.

Perhaps this was how Madame Laurencin took it, because her demeanor changed. Her long pipe turned toward D, and then a cloud of purplish smoke whooshed from it. In a matter of seconds it became a white fog that spread about six feet from D, engulfing the rider and his steed. The cloud was dense, more like smoke than fog. Only someone with D’s eyes would’ve caught the glittering specks of light dancing within it as it drew closer.

“Needles!” the Hunter’s left hand said in a tense tone, but D had already leapt from the saddle.

Behind him, his horse whinnied. Though the body of the steed actually looked rather beautiful flecked with the glittering particles, their gleam turned to crimson and the horse cried out once before falling on its side. Its artificial hide lost its color, wrinkles covered it, and it was ultimately fated to shrivel up like a mummy. The swarm of minute needles had drained the cyborg horse of its fluids like a school of piranhas.

The purplish smoke and needles pursued D.

D put his left hand against the door to the inner courtyard.

“That door won’t open for anyone but the general,” Madame Laurencin jeered from overhead. “And I’ll have you know that all the technology in his castle was the Sacred Ancestor’s very own—oh!”

Letting out a gasp of astonishment, the Noblewoman launched herself into the air. She was a lovely white blossom in human form. As Madame Laurencin landed, she watched the deadly smoke and needles disappear through the doorway.

Turning, she called out a command: “My carriage!”

From a nearby stand of trees there appeared a white carriage shaped like a swan, and it halted beside the Noblewoman. It was drawn by a team of four black horses. Their manes glistened in the midday sun.

“Does he think I’d let him get away? This man has got the better of my deadly smoke and loving needles—but I’ll see to it he dies by my hand.”

“Take your hand, milady?”

After clinging to the white-gloved hand the driver extended and climbing into her seat, the beautiful demoness suddenly took the long needle she held in her right hand and drove it through the base of the driver’s skull. There was no reason for it—it merely served to vent some of her frustration. The man went into convulsions before he could utter a word, but as she kicked him from the driver’s seat and took up the reins, the face she wore was that of the devil himself.

One lash of the reins. The black horses dashed down the cobblestone path. Up ahead, the door was closing.

“Of all the nerve!”

A plume of purple smoke stretched from her pipe, and when it struck the door, it became like mummified wood, collapsing at the mere tremors from the iron-shod hooves. Bursting through the dust that hung there like a cloudbank, Madame Laurencin entered the inner courtyard.

At the center of this vast if somewhat parched area was a plaza where combat units and weapons might be mustered, while off to the right was a verdant section adorned with lush plants. That’s what D now faced.

“So, in keeping with your looks, you’ve come to pick flowers? I can’t allow that!”

As if the Noblewoman’s tenacity had been conveyed to them, the horses galloped down the stone-paved path toward D. Their iron shoes sent sparks flying.

Thirty yards . . . Twenty . . .

The darkness spun. When the carriage closed to within ten yards, D turned around. Both hands hung easily by his sides, as if he were receiving a visit from a friend, yet a chill went down the spine of the fiendish Madame Laurencin.

A semitransparent cover shielded both the driver’s seat and the area for passengers. A force field.

D didn’t move. He was a gorgeous statue, black and mysterious. The black horses surged forward like dark, angry waves—and ahead of them, D crouched down.

What Madame Laurencin saw was a momentary flash. The two lead animals went down abruptly. With no time to apply the emergency brake, the second pair of horses collided with the first, tripping and sending the carriage sailing into the air. A split second before the horses’ hooves could fall on him, D had leapt to the left. And in the process, he’d struck out with his sword. The blade had done a splendid job of severing the forelegs of the first two cyborg horses at the knees.

Ignoring the cries rising from the horses in their death throes, D looked up at the sky. Madame Laurencin’s laughter rained down from a height of some fifteen feet.

“It was said that making oneself stroll across the sky was something only country bumpkins did,” the Noblewoman said, closing her eyes absentmindedly. Reminiscence leant her elegant visage a vague wistfulness. “But I loved it so. Rivers flowing in the moonlight, strolling lovers, the rhythm of the waltzes, and dance parties that could go on forever—it was a good time.”

The thread of murderous intent that linked the two of them went slack for an instant. Suddenly, a soft voice spoke clear words in Madame Laurencin’s ear.

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Knowing neither life nor death

Therefore, I call thee by this name

Thou art the Distant One

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Eyes open wide with surprise reflected D’s face. High in the air, the Noblewoman who should’ve been sneering at him was thrown off balance.

“That song . . . It was performed only for a chosen few among the Nobility at the Sacred Ancestor’s manse—and it was written by someone not even we ever saw . . . one who they say was his wife. How could you know it?”

Madame Laurencin closed her eyes. Even with them shut, the unearthly beauty of D’s countenance was burned into her retinas. Somewhere in the chaos that was her memory a tiny light sparked. The light grew no brighter, but the Noblewoman let what it’d revealed fall from her lips.

“Those eyes, that nose, those handsome features . . . You . . . Your highness is . . .”

D was right before her eyes. Neither the Noblewoman’s reminiscences nor the troubling mental state that caused her to call him “your highness” meant anything to the Hunter in black. Bringing his blade down from the high position as he bounded, he split Madame Laurencin lengthwise, then brought his sword around again to pierce her through the heart. Her golden hair and her dress soon turned to gray dust that crumbled in midair, but by then D had landed and was headed once again toward an area by the stand of trees.

“Ah, a medicinal herb garden,” the hoarse voice remarked, sounding impressed.

That section of the inner courtyard was in fact a vast expanse of trees and plants stretching so far in every direction that all of it couldn’t be taken in at the same time, with the blooms arranged into red, blue, yellow, purple, and white in a dazzling display that was both splendid and sweet.

“That’s jupon de la neel—a flower so poisonous it kills any creature that comes within three feet of it. Oh, are those bones I see scattered all around it? Over there’s what they call gatgaya cherian, a kind of luring herb with a scent that controls the minds of living creatures. I hear it played quite a large role in the battle with the Capital. And across from that—”

Paying no attention, D stepped into the center of the flower garden, entered a part where the dense green growth was nearly knee high, and after looking around pulled up a few of the plants at his feet.

“That’s the stuff!” the hoarse voice said with apparent satisfaction.

As D put them in one of his coat’s inner pockets, the voice continued, “At any rate, you’ve got what you came for. Now you just have to rescue Rosaria, so—”

D turned around.

Blurs of silver came to an unexpected stop—one in each of his eyes. They were glittering silver roses. In a heartbeat they were batted down, shattering into countless silver needles when they struck the ground.

Though not even D had taken notice, Madame Laurencin’s ashes had risen on the wind, eddying in midair to form a pair of roses. Perhaps they were a manifestation of the Noblewoman’s last bit of will, for they drifted through the air, closing to within an inch or two of D.

He covered both eyes with one hand. From between his fingers, streams of blood appeared.

“Did she get your eyes?” the hoarse voice inquired, and it was little wonder it couldn’t disguise how surprised and shaken it was. After all, the handsome Vampire Hunter had been robbed of his vision just as he was about to embark on the most difficult of rescues.

“I’ll get rid of the poison. But as for your sight—that’ll take three whole days to fix even using the purifying flame. No choice in this situation but to fall back.”

This seemed the appropriate course of action.

D said, “I was hired to do a job.”

“That you were,” the voice agreed easily.

D’s character didn’t drive him to do it—it was debatable whether D’s character ever moved him at all. But he’d taken a job. Whether he could see or not, he’d get it done. And his left hand was merely acknowledging his cold code of ethics as a professional.

“Then, shall we go? Just be real damn careful not to let me get lopped off.”

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“Duke of Xenon.”

On hearing his name called, the Nobleman turned his eyes to the high ceiling.

“It is I, Gaskell. Madame Laurencin has been slain,” the voice quickly continued.

“I see,” replied a man who was naked aside from a pair of white briefs. He’d been standing by the window for some time with arms and legs outstretched, basking in the sunlight—since just after daybreak. Though he’d come to the castle the previous evening, he’d essentially spent the entire night awaiting the dawn, then disrobed.

True to the manner in which the general had addressed him, his name was Roland, Duke of Xenon. He appeared to be thirty-four or thirty-five years old, but his actual age was in excess of three thousand years.

While toying with his golden chest hair, he said, “That old bag was defeated by this man called D—it seems he’s not a Hunter in name alone. So, what do you want?”

By all appearances, this was a man not prone to nervousness. In fact, for a Noble, his lack of refinement was a far cry from both the elegance of the Capital and the dauntlessness of the Frontier, as was manifest by his sagging belly and his demeanor toward the general. Seeing that he was a sunbathing Noble, there really could be no mistake.

“Well, I must choose who will go next, and I should like to ask you to do it, sir.”

Gaskell’s words came less as a request and more as pure coercion, yet the Duke of Xenon scratched his head and asked, “Does it really have to be me?”

He didn’t seem to be taking this very seriously.

“No, there’s no special reason why it must be you, sir,” the general said, bewilderment in his voice. Apparently the great general found this middle-aged Nobleman difficult to manage.

“Then could you maybe have one of the others do it instead? As you can see, I’m really enjoying myself in this stuff they call ‘sunlight.’ My, but it feels wonderful. Indeed, I wish to thank you, my good general, for so graciously making this opportunity possible.”

“That is all well and good, but if you decline the request, sir, I shall be forced to send someone else. For instance, the holy knight Lady Ann.”

There must’ve been something crafty about the general’s tone as he said that name, for his voice had a despicable ring to it, and sure enough the duke, in nothing save his briefs, sat right up.

“That won’t do—that won’t do at all, General! Oh, this is a dirty trick. Very well, if you would send that child into battle, then I shall go.”

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“You did an excellent job of convincing him, General.”

When Baron Schuma said this from where he lay on a nearby couch, General Gaskell let his distaste show on his face. No matter how urbane the speech of these Nobles was, each and every word bristled with venomous barbs. Those he’d assembled had proven themselves exceptional individuals in the past—each with the kind of power that might be found in perhaps one out of ten thousand—yet it appeared they didn’t care a whit about Gaskell. Though they didn’t commit any overtly hostile acts, the looks they gave him, the way they addressed him, and their overall bearing had given Gaskell a glimpse of them in two short days that drove him mad with rage, but also left him rather melancholy.

In the past—actually, even at present—the mere perception of derision or provocation directed at him would’ve been enough to make him tear the perpetrator limb from limb on the very spot. Although it might not prove so easy as doing so to his own vassals, Gaskell was confident that he could indeed manage. However, this time things just weren’t going right. More accurately, he simply couldn’t do it. And he knew the reason why. The only power that could force him to do anything was at work. But toward what end?

At the sight of Gaskell about to plunge into an uncharacteristic confusion, Baron Schuma donned a malicious grin, but as if just making sure, he asked, “Incidentally, you do intend to use the holy knight, don’t you?”

Warped with suffering as it was, Gaskell’s face formed a devilish smile. Finally he had returned to his old self—a fiend who feasted on the pain of others and delighted in screams for mercy more than the most heavenly music.

“That goes without saying,” the general replied, giving a stately bow entirely in keeping with his infamous, bloodcurdling tone of voice.

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II

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Going from the inner courtyard to the tower where Rosaria was imprisoned was simple enough, as there weren’t any soldiers or other obstacles.

At this show of complete indifference the left hand cursed, saying, “He’s a cunning bastard.”

Along the way, a tiny mouth in the Hunter’s left hand had sucked in air and drunk D’s blood. And each time it consumed one of those elements, a pale blue flame blazed deep in its maw. With the energy it received, it replenished D’s stamina and set about healing his wounds—at present, it was working on his eyes. However, the poison the millennia-spanning sorceress Madame Laurencin had used was indeed virulent beyond all compare, and it would take extended care to undo the damage. For three more days, D would be forced to meet the foes descending on him in his blinded state, with nothing to rely on but his left hand and his own instincts.

“You know, this is just too easy. It has to be a trap!”

D had begun to ascend a spiraling stone staircase. Climbing to a height of roughly fifty yards, he reached the highest floor . . . but there wasn’t even a guard posted. On one wall was a crude circular window, and across from it was a stone wall with a door in it. D effortlessly tore off its old-fashioned but sturdy lock. Although all attacks by electronic devices and automated security systems could be averted—and there were few of them to begin with—old-fashioned trapdoors or dropping ceilings were still a concern as D quietly opened the door.

Though as much could be told from outside, the room was fairly spacious. Light streamed in through a small window in the wall and a skylight in the ceiling, announcing that it was nearly dusk. Rosaria lay on a bed in the center of the room. This was not the time for her to sleep.

“Rosaria,” D called to her, but still she didn’t move a muscle. Some spell or drug had put her to sleep.

From around the bed came the sound of running water. It coursed through a channel about six feet wide. It was more like a small river than a ditch.

“Oh, my,” the left hand groaned. “It figures a Greater Noble would use a handy trick like this.”

The fact that vampires couldn’t cross running water was common knowledge, passed down since time immemorial. There were examples of drunken Nobles falling into rivers where children could play in safety and subsequently drowning in the knee-deep water. One of the simplest ways to keep the Nobility away, it was utilized far and wide across the Frontier, but up until now there’d been no known case of a Noble using it in his own home. For that alone, General Gaskell could be said to possess a bold and frightening vision.

Halting at the door, D turned his face toward the circulating water, quickly extended his right hand, and rubbed his thumb against the first joint of his index finger. Perhaps due to the strength of his nails, the skin broke on his index finger and fresh blood instantly welled to the surface. He swung the finger.

The drop of blood didn’t leave a trail behind it as it fell into the center of the flow. The instant it made contact, the water’s surface seemed to boil and a number of what looked to be two-and-a-half-foot-thick eels raised their black, snakelike heads. Their mouths couldn’t be discerned, but near the end of heads that tapered seamlessly back into their bodies were a pair of gleams—apparently their eyes, shining like twin lights. Seemingly possessed of the ability to catch the scent of blood in the air, they turned in unison toward the Hunter. In the depths of those gleaming eyes a fiercer spark was born, flickering restlessly. The eyes had originally served to lure prey to them in the lightless depths of the water, but it seemed they’d undergone certain modifications, as the left hand promptly said, “Oh, so they can use hypnotism, can they?”

D had already stepped forward. With a quiet gait he headed toward the flowing water.

The glowing, blinking eyes awaited him—waiting for the arrival of their mesmerized prey. When D’s feet came within a yard of the water’s edge, the faces of the black pseudo-eels split lengthwise, revealing pink maws and tiny white fangs. Already three feet out of the water, the heads rose higher and higher. At a height of fifteen feet, they halted. Did the saliva drip from their mouths due to hunger, or did they comprehend D’s beauty?

A heartbeat later, they hissed like snakes and struck down at him from above. Their mouths appeared to tear into D’s face, head, shoulders, and abdomen—but at that moment a silvery glint flashed out. The sight of the eels sinking their fangs into D’s body had been nothing more than an illusion. Every one of their heads passed through D’s form or missed him entirely, hitting the floor still poised to attack. Following this, bright blood fell like rain.

D had moved by them at an unbelievable speed. Now the headless bodies twisted weakly, and then quickly grew motionless. Though creatures of this ilk usually lasted quite a long time even after being fatally wounded, the blind D’s swordplay didn’t allow for that.

The running water had already been stained red, but it seemed that no other guardians remained there.

D reached the water’s edge. Since starting his advance, he hadn’t paused for a second. What’s more, in severing over a dozen heads, he hadn’t been hit by even a drop of their blood. In light of the fact that he was currently blind, it was a hint of how utterly fearsome this young man was.

He plunged the blade in his right hand into the flow.

“Thirty feet deep,” his left hand said. “Swimming it’d be tough. Jump it.”

Before it had even finished speaking, D’s body was sailing through the air. Although he’d undoubtedly kicked off the floor, no sound had rung out, and he’d showed no signs of bending his knees before making what could be described as an unholy leap.

A distance of six or so feet was nothing to him. However, right over the center of the flow, something went wrong. The hem of his coat and the brim of his traveler’s hat turned down rapidly. The running water was refusing to allow a Noble to pass. His graceful arc and great speed were thrown into disarray, but half of D’s boots narrowly managed to land on the far side as he stood once more on the floor.

Approaching the sleeping Rosaria, D quickly put his left hand against her brow.

“Well, I’ll be—she’s under a powerful spell. And drugs, to boot,” the hoarse voice groaned. “But luckily, that kind of drug can be treated with the same herb we just got for the antidote. Should I fix her up here?”

“No,” D said, putting Rosaria over his shoulder. In light of the deadly battles that might take place during their escape, having her asleep would keep her from getting in the way.

On this side there was a collapsible metal gangway for crossing the flow. It was set up so it could be triggered by remote control from the opposite bank. Laying it across the water with what seemed like an easy one-handed toss, D made his escape from the tower less than a minute later.

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Though the thunder had subsided, the wind had grown stronger, and the air itself seemed to have taken on more of a chill. Juke’s condition was only deteriorating, with his breathing more labored and his body burning hot as a flame.

“Where the hell has he got to?” Gordo cursed, though it wasn’t D he was referring to, but rather Sergei.

He wasn’t sure exactly when his other companion had disappeared, but he hadn’t seen any sign of him for over three hours. The man had been pretty scrawny for a transporter from the start, but he hadn’t struck him as being irresponsible enough to take off at a time like this, and only a true idiot would run around these parts all alone. At any rate, Gordo couldn’t leave his post now since he had to watch both Juke and their cargo all by himself, but it would be evening soon.

“Shit!”

He was just smacking his fist into the opposite hand when off to his left he heard the pattering of something walking closer through the grass.

“Sergei?” Gordo inquired, his six-shooter already raised.

The footsteps halted for a moment, then quickly drew nearer.

“Answer me. Is that you, Sergei?”

It couldn’t be D. There would’ve been the sound of the Hunter’s horse. If it wasn’t Sergei, then it was likely some kind of demon or monster. Juke had been moved into the cargo wagon, but that wouldn’t withstand more than one blow from a monster’s fangs or claws, and there were also spirits that could pass right through high-polymer steel. No matter what the case, Gordo would have to deal with it alone.

“Suit yourself then,” he said, ready to do whatever was necessary. In case of emergency, he’d given Juke an incendiary grenade. It went without saying that it wasn’t intended for self-defense.

When a human form appeared from a stand of trees, he pulled his six-shooter’s hammer back almost all the way.

“Huh?”

Stiff with tension, Gordo’s expression suddenly softened.

Trampling a path through the grass was a girl who looked like she couldn’t have been a day over ten, her golden hair in braids. With clear blue eyes, she wore a neat pink dress of a kind that only suited small girls, and the legs protruding from its knee-length skirt wore gray knee socks and white shoes. A gold bracelet studded with red and blue gems adorned the arm carrying a gray flower basket chock full of blossoms. Even Gordo, who’d been so tense he was ready to explode, got the impression that the whole area around the little girl had suddenly been transformed into a splendorous flower garden.

While the man remained silent, the girl said softly, “Move and I’ll shoot,” then halted and raised both hands of her own volition. Her tone and her gestures were terribly endearing.

The muzzle of Gordo’s weapon gradually dropped.

“Don’t move, missy,” Gordo ordered her.

He didn’t know why he didn’t shoot. There was no way any decent young lady would be out in a place like this.

Arms still raised to the sky, the girl stared at him blankly.

“What’s your name?” Gordo asked.

“In a situation like this, it’s customary to give your own name first,” she said, little angelic lips releasing an equally angelic tone.

Gordo suddenly felt much calmer.

“You’ll have to pardon me. The name’s Gordo. I’m a transporter, you see.”

“I am Lady Ann.”

“I see. Well, you certainly are a little lady. But what are you doing out here?”

“Picking flowers,” she replied matter-of-factly.

“Where’s your home?”

The girl smiled thinly. It gave Gordo the creeps.

“That castle!” she said, her voice changed now. White teeth peeked from between ruby red lips. They were tapered like an awl.

“Shiiiit!”

Don’t let appearances deceive you—that was an ironclad rule for survival on the Frontier.

Gordo pulled the trigger, and his six-shooter howled. Six thunder balls knocked the girl backward. Black earth kicked up from the ground behind her.

Her pink dress torn to rags, the girl lay there motionless.

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III

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Despite the fact that, in an objective sense, Gordo had just dealt with her in a horrible fashion, he didn’t lower the muzzle of his weapon. The greatest tension rolled over him in a wave. He’d shot an innocent little girl. Even knowing that he was dealing with a monster, her outward appearance left him with unavoidable feelings of remorse and self-reproach. Nonetheless, the instant a great hollowness filled his heart, the monster would strike back at him. That was the wisdom of the Frontier, gained from the deaths of tens of thousands.

“What happened, Gordo?” Juke called out from the cargo wagon in a thread-thin voice. Standing there on the narrow line between life and death, the other man didn’t even notice.

Ten seconds . . . Nothing yet . . .

Twenty . . . Still nothing . . .

Thirty seconds . . .

Forty . . .

The hem of Lady Ann’s skirt rustled faintly, but on realizing that this was the wind’s doing, Gordo lowered his weapon. Sweat soaked every inch of his body and his breathing was ragged. Still, he’d recovered enough presence of mind to turn around and shout, “I shot someone. Don’t come out here.”

Wiping off his sweat, he raised his six-shooter again and walked over to the corpse. On reaching her tattered feet, Gordo gasped.

“A doll?”

Hair so golden you could practically smell it, clear blue eyes, plump arms and legs—all of them were fake. The hair was metallic fiber, the eyes glass beads, and the face was made of wood. So how had she seemed so full of life a minute ago? Even the demonic expression she’d worn when she bared her fangs had been that of a living creature.

As Gordo stood stock still, feeling like someone had just removed his brain, an innocent chime rang in his ears—a singing voice like golden blossoms raining down from the heavens.

You shot Lady Ann, the voice told him. But you can’t crush me. Please, hurry and save me.

The way the girl’s voice made the blood in Gordo’s veins run cold, it was as if all his will and his life were sending a message from his brain to his body, and he grew tense. Like his body, his eyes had frozen in place on a single spot, so the sight of that hole-riddled doll rising spryly burned itself into his retinas. The right eye had been blown out of the doll’s face, but the innocent face of the girl was superimposed on it, becoming the doll’s, then the girl’s, by turns.

“I’ll give you a flower—leech grass freshly picked from Lady Ann’s own flower garden.”

A childishly plump hand took a pure white blossom from the basket of flowers hanging from the opposite arm and hurled it at Gordo’s chest. In the blink of an eye, the white blossom was stained a vivid vermilion, and Gordo bent backward in hellish agony. His six-shooter barked off in completely the wrong direction as he sprawled on the ground with arms and legs spread. The now-crimson blossom was sending roots deep into his body. That much he was certain he could feel.

“What a powerful specimen you are,” Lady Ann said with glee from beside his head. “So full of blood. You’re ready for a second one, aren’t you?”

The grim reaper’s hand reached into her deadly flower basket. And as it took hold of another lovely white bloom, someone called out from behind her, “Lady Ann.”

Whoever said this had undoubtedly made their throw before she could turn. The instant her blue irises reflected Sergei, a white flower pierced her right between the eyes—a blossom of leech grass just like the one the girl held.

“Ah!” Lady Ann cried out, backing away. As she’d prepared to throw the flower she held at her new foe, the white bloom against her brow had swiftly turned red. The figure that staggered and fell was beyond a doubt the real Lady Ann.

Racing over, Sergei bound her with the rope every good transporter wore on his belt, then went over to Gordo and reached for the flower stuck in his chest. The bloom looked to have swollen to twice its previous size. In his hand, it felt like a damp sponge—when he tightened his grip on it, there was a squeak. The flower had squealed. On drinking Gordo’s blood, it’d been transformed into a different form of life.

“Damn it!” Sergei cursed, giving it a hard pull. Loosing a shriek, it came out of Gordo, its roots still embedded. Getting to his feet, Sergei yanked. Dripping lifeblood like mud, the roots came out. They were a good fifteen feet long.

Discarding the plant, Sergei turned his gaze back to Gordo’s pale-as-a-sheet face and grumbled, “Damn, you’re gonna need a transfusion, aren’t you?”

But where was the blood for that? And did he even have the necessary apparatus?

Nevertheless, Sergei turned around—looking back the way he’d come—and struck his chest in a confident manner, saying, “You’re a lucky man, Gordo. You should thank me.”

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“There’s something funny about this,” the hoarse voice said in a tone no one save D could hear. He was in the inner courtyard with Rosaria on his back.

“This has all been too easy. That just doesn’t seem right in the castle of a man like Gaskell. There’s definitely a trap of some kind.”

“Know what it is?” D asked.

Going straight through the courtyard, they would cross the forecourt and go out through the gates—retracing the exact same course by which they’d entered.

“No, at the moment I don’t have a clue,” the hoarse voice replied. Every time the tiny lips opened, pale blue flames danced in the depths of its throat. It burned with energy for healing D’s eyes. For earth it’d eaten the soil from the flowerbeds, and there was wind as well. The water was D’s blood. They lacked fire, but then that might’ve been asking too much.

The sky was a dusky blue–the creatures of the night would soon be awakening. Or in the case of this castle, perhaps it would’ve been better to say they’d be reclaiming their old lives. Nevertheless, there was no way Gaskell hadn’t long since noticed D’s intrusion and Rosaria’s rescue, though it was strange that there hadn’t been any further obstacles.

D suddenly broke into a run.

“You seriously thinking of charging right down the middle? This should be fun.”

Common sense dictated that if you knew your presence had been detected and you had to cross such a large area, you’d creep along the edges, using trees and buildings for cover as you went. But running straight down the middle of the courtyard—while in keeping with D’s character, it could also be described as the epitome of recklessness. Considering that he had Rosaria on his back, it was particularly rash of him. If someone had accused him of using her as a shield against bullets and arrows, he wouldn’t have been able to protest.

But did D know what was going to happen? That was precisely how it seemed. For he cut across the courtyard, through the forecourt, and escaped the castle without any harm befalling him.

“Funny,” the hoarse voice muttered, but D seemed to pay it no mind as he raced down the road. “Did you know you weren’t gonna be attacked?”

“If any attacks were going to happen, they’d have come before I reached the tower,” D said, offering a rare explanation.

“Is Gaskell soft in the head? No, there’s no way that could be the case with a man known as such a great general. Which means—”

“He’s being stopped—”

“What?”

“Most likely.”

“Who’d stop Gaskell?” the hoarse voice said, its tone making it clear it was already looking within itself for the answer. The wait wasn’t terribly long.

“There’s no point giving it much thought. There’s only one person it could be. But why would he do that?”

There was no answer.

As the vast blue twilight spread, D dashed off down the steep incline. Thanks to his ungodly skill, Rosaria wasn’t jarred in the least.

He was halfway down the slope when a voice called from far off in the distance, “Heeeey!”

Why did D halt when there was still so much space between them?

An instant later—and not ten feet in front of him—there was a vicious crash as a purplish figure dropped from the sky. In the several seconds it took for the ground to finish quaking, D sensed that it was a person garbed in something like an enormous chitinous exoskeleton—or rather, that it really was an exoskeleton. It definitely wasn’t a traditional suit of armor. Standing ten feet tall, with arms and torso swollen to grotesque proportions, the rough design was far different from the elegant work the Nobility had produced in their later years. It may have even dated back to the chaotic times of territorial disputes between different Noble factions and fighting off extraterrestrial invaders. But rough though it might have been, the one within it had come to the castle to serve the general, and the knight’s exoskeleton didn’t have so much as a crack in it when he got up without a single mechanical sound.

“Were you a bit surprised?” the man quickly inquired in a deep, rich tone. This alone would be enough to make many a young lady’s heart beat faster. “When I called out just now, I purposely made it sound like I was much further away. And then, all of a sudden, here I am right in front of you. How was that?”

His tone was extremely earnest. He seriously wanted to know the answer.

“You’re a Noble, aren’t you?” D said.

“No, no!” the man replied, waving his right hand as if his suit were out of control. Being a device made by the Nobility, its movements were every bit as smooth as a human being’s. “It’s more correct to say I was originally a Noble. You see, I was banished by the Sacred Ancestor.”

The armored figure guffawed.

“The fact of the matter is, I womanized a little too much, to the point where I even worked my way through all the court ladies assembled in the Capital. But as it happened, one of them was the apple of the Sacred Ancestor’s eye—on account of which I wound up sealed away in a coffin for more than two millennia. My brain was set so that all I could do was remain conscious, and let me tell you, that was hard. I was so bored I thought I’d lose my mind! If my daughter hadn’t saved me, right now I’d—well, I shudder just thinking about it. At any rate, while I was buried deep in the earth, I was stripped of my Noble standing. Now I’m just a plain-old man of leisure. My original name was Roland, Duke of Xenon.”

“The Duke of Xenon?” a surprised tone called out from the vicinity of D’s left fist. “Roland? That bastard Gaskell’s called in a heavy hitter.”

“Why are you here?” D inquired.

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging his armored shoulders. When executed by a ten-foot-tall robotic figure, the act was simply humorous. “If I thought about it for a while, I might remember. Come to mention it, I get the feeling there was a reason, but it’s all in a fog now. But as a soldier from the Capital, I fought against General Gaskell to a deadlock. And now I take orders from him. It seems even Gaskell himself doesn’t know the reason. Yeah, it’s pretty interesting.”

“Madame Laurencin; Roland, the Duke of Xenon—he’s collected the Nobility’s greatest warriors. Wonder who else he’s got?”

The muttering from the Hunter’s left hand made the armored form stand up a little straighter.

“Oh, your left hand talks?” he asked with admiration. “I hear that’s the source of your life, and I can’t say I’m not tempted to cut it off and find out. Now, don’t get worked up into a murderous rage. Even through this exoskeleton your aura gives me goose bumps. You’re no average Hunter. You’re not even like ordinary dhampirs.”

“Have you said your piece?” D asked him. Anyone who heard this would know it was a quiet declaration of war. Suddenly, even the wind died down.

“No, not yet. However, I have to slay you. If I don’t, my dear daughter will be put in harm’s way. Lady Ann’s her name—do you know her? Hmm, don’t suppose you would. Though I have nothing against you, I’ll slay you for my daughter’s sake. Forgive me!”

And as he spoke, his right fist assailed the Hunter. A punch moving in excess of Mach 1 blistered through the air, and the smell of ozone immediately prickled in D’s nose.

D narrowly dodged the blow by a fist twice the size of the average person’s face. As he leapt back fifteen feet, his sword glittered in his right hand.

The armored fist spouted blue fire. It was the work of the blow D’s sword had dealt it while the Hunter was on the move.