Chapter 12

The dense forest had plunged into complete darkness. The overly thick canopy blocked out every last ray of light.

“…”

Ode froze in place for a second before silently stepping back, his back bumping into Cavendish.

“?”

Cavendish turned slightly, glancing behind him. “Are you scared?”

“Let’s just say… I’m not a fan of horror movies.” Ode hemmed and hawed, his left hand groping backward until it clamped tightly around Cavendish’s arm. He dragged the man closer to the charred corpse nestled among the tree roots.

Cavendish played along quite cooperatively, perhaps finding it amusing. “You’re afraid of pain, afraid of ghosts… You don’t seem as fearless as I first thought. You’re strange—afraid of pain yet plunging headfirst into this perilous forest, afraid of ghosts yet with no intention of turning back. Your actions always seem to run counter to your survival instincts.”

“Do you have to philosophize with me in a place like this?” Ode crouched by the charred corpse, his voice unconsciously dropping to a whisper, his throat tightening. “Look here… This person was burned to a crisp, but his camera is completely intact.”

Ode carefully raised his hand, avoiding the corpse’s upraised arm, and pinched the strap of the camera bag hanging around the dead man’s neck. He unhooked it—

Whoosh…

Without warning, the charred corpse collapsed like a fragile pile of ash, disintegrating under the slight force Ode had applied.

“…”

Ode, still clutching the camera bag, paused for a second, momentarily unsure if he should apologize. But business came first. He quickly got moving again, flipping open the bag. “Weird. The body is so brittle—how did the camera stay slung around his neck?”

It couldn’t have been hanging there when the fire started, right? And the camera shows no scorch marks at all. Could it be… that the fire only affects living things and spares the inanimate?

Inside the bag, along with the camera, was a stack of photographs.

Ode pulled them out and examined them one by one. The first one made him freeze. “…Damn. He seems to have captured that poor bastard the waiter mentioned getting attacked by the monster!”

In the photo, a lanky figure was fleeing into the forest in a pitiful state. His attire matched the style of the scholars from the inn.

Ode narrowed his eyes, searching the image for any trace of the monster, but he couldn’t spot so much as a single hair.

The second photo showed a broad-foreheaded man dressed in a black fur coat, his hands covered in gemstone rings. One look at the outfit and distinctive features, and Ode was certain this was the husband of the Lady in Black Fur Coat from the inn.

“What are you thinking?” Cavendish meticulously smoothed out the collar Ode had rumpled earlier, refusing to squat down beside him in such an undignified manner—even in an empty forest.

Ode rolled his eyes silently, inwardly cursing the man’s pretentiousness. “I’m wondering why the monster didn’t turn around and eat the photographer instead.”

He quickly flipped through the rest of the photos—meaningless landscapes—and stood up from the pile of ash. “These shots are perfectly clear, which means the photographer didn’t move while taking them; he was standing stock-still. There’s no rice stalks or grass at the bottom of the frame, so he wasn’t hiding in the straw—he was out in the open with no cover. And look at the image: he was close to the chase… A sitting duck right there within easy reach, and yet the monster still pursued the harder prey?”

“What do you think?” Cavendish asked, intrigued.

“…”

Considering Cavendish was currently the prime suspect as the mastermind behind all this, Ode couldn’t shake the feeling that the question was like, “I’ve created a masterpiece—let’s see if you’ve fully grasped it.”

He had many virtues, but satisfying the enemy wasn’t one of them. “I think these photos have nothing to do with finding Lola. Someone who stands around snapping pictures all day couldn’t have kidnapped her from school. So—”

Ode patted Cavendish’s shoulder with feigned sincerity, rubbing the corpse ash onto the fine wool fabric. “Let’s go. Head toward the direction of that tree-cracking sound we heard earlier. The monster should be there—these photos are just a detour we stumbled on. Not important.”

He grabbed Cavendish’s wrist and turned, striding deep into the forest—

He didn’t get far.

Ode, feeling like he was dragging a lead weight: “…”

…What now, my precious Pea Prince?

Cavendish stood rooted like a boulder. “I want to hear your thoughts.”

“…I want to find Lola right now!” Ode whipped around, glaring at Cavendish. Under the man’s stubborn, uncooperative expression, he forced himself to calm his breathing and flashed a gritted-teeth smile. “I think either that beast is an experimental subject loosed by the Soap Company, or the photographer had some way to evade the beast’s senses. Can we go now?”

Cavendish didn’t budge. “I don’t believe that’s all you’re thinking.”

“Are you trying to—” Ode was starting to think playing dumb with someone pretending not to understand wasn’t a great strategy. If he weren’t lacking a surefire way to win, and if Lola weren’t waiting to be rescued, he’d have settled things with Cavendish in a fight to the death. “…Fine. I do have another theory—I think maybe the pursued prey had some special trait that made the beast prefer chasing them over the stationary photographer nearby.”

He paused, irritated. “Can we go now?”

Cavendish finally stepped forward languidly. “I sincerely hope that next time I have a similar question, Mr. Ode, you’ll be generous enough to answer. You know I’m blind, so the silent treatment makes me very uneasy.”

“…” Ode sucked in a breath and slowly closed his eyes. God knew how badly he wanted to club the man with his gun.

He couldn’t hold back. “Maybe in Mr. Cavendish’s eyes, I’m still too perfect. The silent treatment makes you uneasy, but gunshots don’t make me uneasy.”

Cavendish halted abruptly again, his tone earnest. “Please, just call me Cavendish. I don’t want such a formal ‘mister’ between us.”

“…………” Ode felt dizzy, irritation crawling over his skin like ants. “Fine, I’m begging you—talk less. I don’t think this kind of conversation belongs between two adult British men in 1888.”

Cavendish: “Wh—”

Thud!

Ode pinned Cavendish’s throat against a nearby massive tree trunk with his forearm.

“I swear…” he hissed through clenched teeth, “if you keep picking fights like this, I’ll let go right now. I don’t care why you latched onto me. To kill me? Or some other purpose. But I guarantee, once I do, you won’t get a second chance to find me.”

Cavendish shut his mouth: “…”

Ode: “Clear enough?”

Cavendish pondered for a moment, then nodded.

“Good.” Ode stepped back, releasing his arm, his tone cooling to calm. “Now, if we’ve agreed to a mutual step-back, raise your right hand.”

“Why does this feel like taming a—” Cavendish barely remembered he’d just pissed Ode off and swallowed the “dog” just in time. He considered for another moment, then obediently lifted his right arm.

“Good boy.” Ode grabbed Cavendish’s arm again and led him briskly toward the earlier sound of snapping trees. “As long as you don’t deliberately hold us back anymore, I’ll answer—”

Boom…

The sound of a tree toppling echoed from nearby.

“To the north!” Ode’s head snapped up sharply. He yanked Cavendish and bolted through the tangled roots. “Sounds weaker than before—not many trees fully snapped—!”

Perhaps from overexerting himself all day, Ode’s legs were starting to give out. Focused on keeping the “blind” man from tripping, he stubbed his own foot on a root and pitched forward.

Ode’s reflexes kicked in; he tightened his grip on Cavendish’s wrist and hauled himself upright, dragging the once-again speechless Cavendish—who was being treated like a pull-up bar—to the source. With a sliding crouch, he ducked behind a thick cluster of roots and peeked out.

“…”

Cavendish stayed quiet for a few seconds before whispering, “As long as I don’t deliberately hold us back, what will you answer?”

“Quiet!” Ode whispered harshly. “Is this the time?”

He unslung the shotgun from his back. As he chambered a round, a primal sense of danger hit him. He turned to see Cavendish’s form rising slowly from behind the roots. “—! What the hell are you… Get down! —Fine, fine! As long as you don’t hold us back, I’ll answer your million questions!”

Cavendish settled back down gracefully. Under Ode’s dagger-like glare, he tilted his head slightly. “Sounds like we’ve found not the monster, but old acquaintances we’ve crossed paths with.”

In the center of the clearing, five or six of the unnaturally dense giant trees lay toppled. The ground looked like it had just been drenched in some highly corrosive substance, leaving a pit nearly two meters deep and ten meters wide.

Hiss…

Sand swirled at the pit’s bottom like smoke, coiling meekly yet damply around the ankles of the scholars they’d encountered at the inn, like venomous snakes. They were slowly lowering their hands in unison, their movements precise and silent.

“Cough…!” At the pit’s bottom, the dust-covered Lady in Black Fur Coat, blood streaking her face, spat out a mouthful of blood. She pushed herself up unsteadily with one hand. “How dare you… I spared your lives!”

“Who’s the rabid dog chasing us into the forest to attack? Is it us?”

The Gray-Haired Scholar, leading them, spoke coldly.

A complex bloody mark was carved into the back of his left hand, dangling at his side. Blood dripped steadily from his slender fingers to the ground. Yet he seemed utterly unconcerned by the pain or the blood loss.

“Isn’t that… the Emblem of the Church of the Children of Dust?” Ode was somewhat shocked. “These scholars—they’re the Children of the Dust summoned by Quachil Uttaus? That explains why they’re not afraid of the forest’s anomalies…”

From the diary they’d found in the basement earlier, it was easy to infer that the Children of the Dust were mystics who studied occult knowledge and wielded it for power and immortality. Self-preservation in the forest made sense for them.

The only odd thing was: “Why are they hanging around the forest day and night? What task did Quachil Uttaus give them to complete here?”

What gave Ode pause even more was: Should he intervene?

“This isn’t the first time you’ve obstructed our mission, you wretched half-breed. We won’t always be so merciful.” The Gray-Haired Scholar’s tone carried impatience. “I’ve clarified it countless times—your husband’s death has nothing to do with us—”

“I don’t believe you.” The Lady in Black Fur Coat bared her mouth in a grin. Her teeth were surprisingly sharp, interlocking in jagged rows like a piranha’s, with blood and saliva dripping together from the gaps down her chin. “I only trust my own conclusions… And even if I’m wrong, so what? Use your blood as an offering for my husband… Someone has to die for this!!”

The tall woman threw her head back and unleashed a shriek utterly inhuman. In the next instant, propelled by her sheer brute strength, she counterattacked the crowd across from her, her roar thundering like lightning: “You… all of you… are going to die!!”

“Yar……ahor ah’ehye fahf ehye!”

Every member of the Children of the Dust raised their hands as one, chanting the same syllables in a bizarre rhythm.

The sand coiled around their ankles suddenly reared up like cobras, shooting toward the oncoming foe. The Lady in Black Fur Coat tore two of the sand serpents apart with brute force, but the rest of the dust nimbly wrapped around her legs and left arm, yanking her down hard.

Boom…

Dust billowed into the air. Ode even felt the ground beneath him shudder.

He swallowed hard, clutched the rifle he’d just set aside back against his chest, gave Cavendish beside him a shove, and hissed, “Move.”

“?” Cavendish seemed utterly surprised. “I thought you’d step in.”

“What? Why?” Ode had no idea what kind of person Cavendish took him for. “Do I look like the type who butts into every fight?”

“I figured you’d see letting them tear each other apart as… a violation of basic humanity.” Cavendish retreated with Ode’s urging, choosing his words with care.

“My sense of morality only goes so far, okay?” Ode ducked even lower to stay out of sight from the brawling factions behind them. “Cults, killers—they’re not on my list for empathy. We’ll skirt around them. Their squabble has nothing to do with Lola. Let’s keep hunting the mon—”

Thud—

One of the Children of the Dust was yanked from the dirt pit by the rampaging Lady in Black Fur Coat. She hurled him away like a discus thrower. His scrawny frame hurtled through the air with such force that it snapped two or three trees before he rolled to a stop, vomiting a mouthful of black blood. As he propped himself up on the ground, his gaze locked with that of the still-crouching Ode: “…”

Ode: “…………”

What a sturdy frame! Ode didn’t hesitate. He smashed the rifle butt into the man’s forehead, seized Cavendish by the arm, scrambled halfway to his feet, and bolted.

“Urgh…” A chunk of the Child of the Dust’s forehead caved in from the blow, yet he groaned, clutched his head, rolled over, and grabbed Ode’s ankle. “There’s—”

He never finished.

All the strangeness that followed unfolded in a single instant.

First came Cavendish, who at this critical juncture suddenly lifted his head and stared toward the northern woods: “Something’s coming.”

Then Ode felt a blast of hot wind hit his face.

Whoosh…

Flames.

Flames that seemed to shimmer with variegated luster—yet perhaps weren’t flames with color at all—swept from the northern edge of the dense woods to the southern in a mere half-second, engulfing the area around Ode and the others in a sea of strangely hued fire.

Every sound vanished, including the Children of the Dust’s cries.

Ode barely registered the Lady in Black Fur Coat shrieking from afar about “The Colour Out of Space!! How can there be so much Colour Out of Space?!” before her piercing scream drowned in silence.

The temperature grew impossible to gauge, with blistering heat and freezing cold searing his skin at once.

Ode felt his strength rapidly ebbing from his body.

He watched the Child of the Dust clutching his ankle howl in torment amid the flames until its features warped, its flesh shriveling and contracting in the blink of an eye. It became a charred husk identical to the photographer at the forest’s edge—and to the victims in the photos Faust had shown Ode.

—It was it!

Ode knew instinctively that the flames responsible for the town’s destruction on June 2nd were this very substance the Lady in Black Fur Coat called “the Colour Out of Space.” But—why had it come so soon?

And—where was Cavendish?

Had he summoned this “Colour Out of Space”?

In the flames, something formless climbed and coiled around Ode’s calf, snaking upward before forcibly hoisting him into the air and whisking him swiftly toward the direction the felled giant trees pointed.

“Wait… guh!” Ode struggled, but the moment his mouth opened, the scorching formless thing jammed inside, forcing his head back. The choking pressure in his throat made him squeeze his eyes shut in misery, tears of pure reflex gathering at the corners.

Yet at the same time, his limp arm dangling at his side spasmed.

His fingers jerked, curling until the tips brushed the cold metal trigger.

—Bang!

The Alchemy Array searing the rifle’s chamber flared from trigger to muzzle.

Life condensed into a bullet that rocketed from the barrel with the shot, ripping a passageway through the firestorm like a gale shredding thick fog.

The thing binding Ode flinched as if startled and tried to withdraw, but as strength flooded back into him, Ode lunged and seized the red-hot lump of Colour Out of Space, heedless of his sizzling flesh: “Where do you think you’re running?”

“Not burning me alive, but jamming desperately into my mouth… Doesn’t that mean you like me?”

His voice came out muffled as he bit clean through the formless tendril shoved into his mouth.

His instincts screamed in revulsion—disgusting, don’t eat it, what if you mutate—but reason asked coolly:

Your strength’s being siphoned away. Don’t eat it, and you die right here. Want that?

Don’t forget Lola.

Don’t forget that dog-forsaken fate.

Don’t forget Grandfather’s corpse, still rotting on the morgue slab, waiting for you to take it back to the grave.

“…” Ode let out a derisive chuckle. Fine, he’d die mutated if he had to—he still had unfinished business.

He began to chew the formless mass in his mouth slowly. It wasn’t difficult at all. In fact, it was exquisite.

His taste buds danced like withered grass leaves meeting life-giving rain. A profound satiation, a shiver-inducing ecstasy, erupted from his stuffed belly and coursed through his veins to every limb and fiber, power surging from every nourished cell.

When he stopped chewing, he scanned the firestorm around him—it blazed fiercely yet quivered faintly—and his lips, newly tinged with blood, curved in a ghost of a smile: “You’re scared.”

“Scared of what? Scared that I’m a monster too?”

“I’m scared myself.”

“Come on, then. Tell me—how much do you crave this flesh of mine?”

Ode’s green eyes gleamed an intoxicating honey-gold in the firelight, his gaze pouring from behind the iron sights. He leveled the shotgun, its golden barrel runes blazing fully to life:

“Is it enough to make you die for it?”