1
Tap, tap.
In the construction of a splendid manner, did they even take into mind the sound made when knocking on its doors? A comfortable noise resounded as if hit out of a keyed instrument.
“Wait, please wait a second.”
While knowing it was futile, the lord of the room raised a hurried voice in reply. As expected, the door was swung open regardless. A man with posture so splendid it brought to mind a bow whose string had been pulled to its utmost limit briskly infiltrated the room without a single word of warning. This was a man as if fearlessness itself had put on a suit to go for a stroll. Yet his eyes bordered by glasses emitted a neurotic, cold glimmer. The room’s owner- Cleo Grant- felt his spine freeze over on that look.
“Umm…”
“You’re keeping everyone on the first floor waiting. You haven’t finished preparing yet?”
The man shifted his eyes to glare at the rucksack with its mouth slovenly left open atop the bed. From the opening, he caught a glimpse of a sketchbook and a case of watercolor paint. In an attempt to hide the bag, the buy hastily placed himself between the man and the bed, but it was already too late.
The man’s name was Marcus, he worked as a butler to the house. Looking down over Cleo, who had jerked his head up at a forty-five degree angle to look at him, he exhaled a sigh from his nose.
“When you’re taking on a life-or-death trial, you take along your art supplies? You must be quite confident in yourself.”
Marcus said with no attempt to conceal the thorn in his words. If it was the usual sarcasm, Cleo would have silently hung his head as per usual. But now that his paintings were involved, Cleo’s timid, drooping eyes blurred with a very faint shade of anger.
“… Are you going to tell father…?”
For just a moment, Marcus curved the corners of his mouth into the face of someone who had been privy to a terrible joke. He immediately returned to his usual expressionlessness.
“My job is not to keep watch over you. No matter what mental state you take on the ‘Blue Rose Trial’ with, it is of no consequence to me. Please do as you will.”
While this man was a butler, he took on an impolite attitude unbecoming of one employed by the Grant House. But Cleo wasn’t surprised. Ever since the day Marcus first came to the mansion five years prior, he had never once paid respect to the Grant House’s eldest son.
This was a fact evidenced in the way he tapped at Cleo’s door. After so long, it was unthinkable he remained oblivious that two knocks was to check for a vacant bathroom.
He bowed and spoke formally, but the lack of any resemblance of heart behind it was something even- then ten year old- Cleo could understand. Cleo was fifteen now, there was still little he could do.
Let’s say he tried raising up Marcus’ discourtesy and ice-cold attitude to his father, the head of the Grant House. In most cases, it wouldn’t be strange for Marcus’ dismissal to come as a result. That being the case, his father valued proficiency over anything else, and Marcus was a man whose proficiency far exceeded his father’s expectations.
(On top of that, I was never proficient. I could never exceed a single one of father’s expectations…)
So Cleo silently endured. Between himself and Marcus, whose side would his father take? He didn’t even need to test. In these past few years, Cleo’s father had never once been the one to strike up a conversation with him. Cleo knew no hopes had been placed on his shoulders.
He did feel some loneliness from that fact, once upon a time. But now Cleo was glad that was the case.
His father would no longer scream, “And you call yourself the successor to the Grant House!?”
The home tutors who would mercilessly smack him with words and real whips were not visions of the past, whose names he could no longer recall. Now, without anyone raising a complaint, he spend his days painting whatever he wanted. Are you satisfied with your current self? The question was a difficult one, but at the very least, Cleo accepted his life as it was. I guess this is about right, he thought.
And yet, why must he take on a life-or-death trial?
Cleo had a naturally weak body and was prone to illness. His mother Rosaria shared the sane constitution, she died young of disease. Surely that’s how I’ll go too, he’d often tell himself. And yet why wouldn’t they simply let him be? Why would they pull him from his comfortable room, put a sword and shield in his feeble hands, and send him into a dangerous forest where the beasts ran rampant?
Putting in just a sliver of discontent and resentment- for that was the most Cleo could muster- he stared up at Marcus. Marcus rung his nose anew, sending Cleo’s gaze barreling elsewhere.
“Whatever the case, please hurry with your preparations. Your time of departure cannot be changed. Everyone has set aside their busy schedules to gather.”
With those words, he turned right around and left the room with the same force he entered with. Stricken by a sense of defeat words fail to describe, Cleo sluggishly closed the mouth of his rucksack. He sent a glance to the window. On the bay windowsill grew a potted plant that sprouted countless thorns. It was a plant called a cactus. He could only hope that someone would properly look after it in his absence. With such musings, he slung the rucksack over his back.
Erk…!?
With weight he had never experienced in his fifteen years of life digging into his shoulders, he found himself leaking a groan. If he let his guard down for just a minute, it felt a s if his whole body would be sent toppling backwards. The bag contained a sleeping bag, his art supplies, a raincoat to shelter from the rain, a canteen. If that was all, it wouldn’t be so heavy, but because a shield called a buckler he was made to carry for self-defense was strung on, the load became something incredible. To add to that, he would be given a sword and made to wander the forest for days. This was torture. Cleo felt his mind grow distant.
Exiting to the corridor with heavy, hazardous steps, he totteringly staggered forward. Time and again driven by an impulse to turn back, he eventually found himself before the second-floor door leading to the entrance hall. With a crack of the door, the heat and vibrant voices of people surged the gap like a flash flood. It was almost as if he had wandered his way onto the grounds of a party.
Cleo rounded the door. The entrance hall was an atrium, and through the handrail, he peeked in at the state of the first floor. A look down confirmed all the dignitaries of the Grant House had gathered. The red carpet spread out from the door to the grand stairwell in the center of the room divided the gathering in two.
Facing the stairwell, at the head of the party to the right, a group of familiar men were having a friendly chat with his stepmother Audrey. Beside them, her son about to turn three Laurence- Cleo’s stepbrother- gripped his mother’s skirt with a bored look on his face.
Meanwhile, at the head of the left side, his father’s younger sister and her spouse- meaning his aunt and uncle- fidgeted, looking around restlessly. When their faces grew close, they would whisper something into the other’s ear.
While everyone seemed to be having an enjoyable chat, there was no exchange of words between the l eft and right fathering. Like two parties of customers forced to share a table at a restaurant, the prevalent attitude was as if there was no one at all across the carpet.
From what he could tell at a glance, there were a little less than double the amount of people in the right hand gathering. And right in the center of the two rows, directly in front of the grand stairwell, Cleo’s father, the one who stood at the summit of the family, Foster Grant closed his eyes as if meditating, awaiting his son’s arrival.
When he thought of how so many people were waiting for him, he grew a little fearful. His desire to turn back had reached the climax, but the wrinkle chiseled into his father’s brow told a tale, “How long will Cleo keep me waiting”. Cleo shivered as he recalled the sound of his father’s whip. His feet began to move on their own, starting off slowly towards the stairs. Those that noticed him raised cheers. As he heard their voices, he felt like a slave warrior heading off to the arena.
2
To those gathered, Marcus once again gave an explanation of the ‘Blue Rose Trial’ Cleo was to undertake. Cleo gazed on, feeling like he was day dreaming.
In the forest where the blue roses grow, there is a possibility of encountering dangerous beasts… one swordsman will accompany and cooperate… when he finds the blue rose, and safely returns with it by sunset ten days from today, Cleo-sama will be recognized as the official successor of… if he doesn’t make it in time, or returns without the blue rose, the rights to succession will automatically pass to his younger brother Laurence… that is all, does anyone have any questions…
By the time he noticed it, a tall man clad in leather armor was standing before Cleo. That man who could be made out as an adventurer as a glance presented out the rugged palm of his hand, large enough to grab Cleo’s head whole and hoist it up.
“My name is Greg Lee. It’s a pleasure to work with you. No matter what happens, I’ll guarantee your safety, so just know you stand on steady footing.”
As Cleo timidly reached out Greg firmly grasped his hand and gave a refreshing laugh. Scattered claps and cheers. Within all of that, from the depths of the crowd, his aunt and uncle raced over, somewhat excited.
“The future of the Grant House depends on you. Break a leg!”
“For my late sister-in-law as well, you must find the blue rose at all costs!”
Cleo answered their abnormally heated encouragement with a cold look.
(Mother’s sake…? Would mother really be happy if I succeeded the Grant House?)
He drudged up some old memories. The painful ones came back the most vivid.
When he was around six or seven, his father personally trained him on how to ride a horse. After falling again and again, “Why can’t you follow a simple direction!?” came the whip. Two hours into training, Cleo fell unconscious. When he came to, he was in his room’s bed. His body was wrapped in bandages. His mother was by his side, “I’m sorry…” she said.
His mother’s eyes were red. Why w as she apologizing? The young Cleo couldn’t tell. But he was excessively saddened, he burrowed into the bed, and shook as he wept. Across the cover, he couls hear the sound of his mother’s sobs, and the bruises all over his body throbbing I n pain. That pain was something he could recall clearly, as if those wounds still remained fresh.
(Did mother wish for me to succeed the Grant House…)
He couldn’t understand what w as going on among the adults, but it did seem the Grant Family was divided between those who wanted Cleo to succeed the main house, and those who wanted to make his little brother Laurence the heir. Perhaps his aunt and uncle represented the former.
(Father likely intends to make Laurence the heir. At the very least, he hasn’t any intention to have me succeed him.)
In the first place, the ‘Blue Rose Trial’ was apparently a Grant House tradition carried out whenever opinions were split on who would succeed the house. Meaning this aunt of his had voiced complaints at his father’s attempts to make Laurence the heir.
(I never asked for it…)
The manufactured smile reeking of falsehoods spread across his aunt’s face only served to rub his nerves the wrong way. So, “It’s not for mother’s sake, but for yours, is it not?” he felt he was almost about to say.
Just a little more—but in the end, Cleo swallowed his words. If he said such a thing without bearing the mood in mind, he would slather mud on his father’s face. He didn’t have the courage for that. Diverting the words he would spit to the depth of his stomach, his mood worsened as if they had raised up heartburn.
At that moment, Cleo’s gaze coincidentally caught it.
His stepmother Audrey took a look at his aunt and uncle returning to their place, for just a moment—the corners of her mouth lifted in a scoff.
With a thunder of applause and support left and right, Cleo proceeded down the red carpet. The servants opened the door. Far, far beyond it, a different set of servants were swiftly opening the iron gates around twice the height of an adult. To him, it felt almost as if they were trying to tell him, “Just hurry and leave”.
He passed through the door, took a step out o f the manor. It was hot. Narrowing his eyes to the summer sun so bright it might be out of spite,
(Perhaps I won’t be passing through this entranceway again…)
He thought.
3
Cleo left the estate and boarded the carriage that had been prepared. The sun had set by the time they reached a village called Clamberra. The mere sway of the carriage had worn him limp, and in the sole run-down inn in town, on an unbelievable hard bed, he fell asleep in an instant.
The next morning, coinciding with Cleo’s waking came a slightly-late departure. Scorched by the midsummer sun, a walk of less than an hour finally led them to the forest they were looking f or.
“Uu… whoa…!”
Cleo was overwhelmed by the scenery he took in for the first time. The large trunks he had to look up to see, expanded without end or exhaustion. In his head, the sheer mass before him was large enough to swallow up a single country whole.
“Have you readied your heart? Then let’s be off.”
Entering the forest on Greg’s urging, in an instant, the air had changed.
(It’s cool… as if it’s another world…)
The gentle breeze that had coiled tepidly around his skin outside the forest had become a comfortably cool one here. His beads of sweat vaporized, swiftly cooling down the heat remaining in his body.
(And… what a beautiful light.)
Where trees sprouted plentifully was a forest. Cleo was by no means unaware of this. Looking at the trees growing in the yard, he had imagined what it would look like for there to be droves of them. But now, a real forest entering his eyes, he learned what he had imagined had surely been lacking. The light filtering in through the trees.
Of course, light filtered through the yard’s tree. Something was different. The forest was a majority, a world cloaked in shadow. The shadows associated with anxiety. And onto those shadows, passing through the gap between tree and tree, a meager light illuminated the space. With nothing but trees as the backdrop, the grass and moss coating the ground shone as radiant as a gemstone.
The overwhelming shadow offered support to a single strand of light. What a peculiar sight.
(So this is the beauty of the forest…)
He found himself leaking a breath of admiration. By the time he noticed it, Greg was peering fixatedly into his face.
“Ah… m-my apologies. This is the first time I’ve ever seen a forest…”
Greg blinked his eyes.
“The first? You’ve never played out in the woods or something like that before?”
“N… no, well…”
“Hmmm. I guess that’s how it works for the young m aster of a distinguished house. They really are different from us.”
His tone had grown a little more lax than when the first exchanged words of greeting the day before. Cleo had never come to a forest before, because in his youth, studies occupied his every day, and he was rarely e very taken out anywhere. While his days of study ended with the birth of Laurence, even still, Cleo was restricted from freely walking outside. In Marcus’ words, ‘It would be a considerable hassle if you went out and got injured or sick’.
Therefore, to Cleo, the grounds of the Grant House alone were the world.
Without any motivation to purposefully explain all those details to Greg, he simply plaid it off with an ambiguous smile. He wouldn’t reveal his own miserable past to put a damper on his own excitement at his first forest.
Perhaps picking up his sentiment- or having intended that as trifling banter- Greg didn’t touch o n the topic again. He slowly produced a small, round case from his bosom.
“This is a ‘charmed compass’ that points towards Clamberra village. The one you’ve got should point to the blue rose, right? I’m counting on you to lead the way.”
“Ah, yes…!”
When Cleo tugged at t he string around his neck, a similar charmed compass popped out from inside his fest. The two of them each held out their compasses and compared them. Had its own direction to point to.
A charmed compass was used in correlation to a black ore called a guide stone. Where a normal compass pointed north, a charmed compass would always indicate the direction of its stone. Inside the forest, the magnetic field was thrown off, and there were times when a normal compass would be of no use, but irrelevant to disturbances in magnetism, a charmed compass would always move its needle to point in the direction of its guide stone. A single compass formed a pair with a single stone, each pair being registered and managed with its own identification number. Even if there were multiple guide stones around the compass, the charmed compass was made to only react to the stone that shared its identification number.
The guide stone of Greg’s pair was buried on the outskirts of Clamberra village. In regards to Cleo’s compass, it was said that the founder of the Grant House buried the guide stone where the blue roses bloomed around two hundred years ago, or perhaps the old Grant received ‘The compass that shows the path to the blue rose’ from a certain adventurer for a large sum of money. Accounts varied on the matter.
“Umm, our family’s compass is pointing in that direction.”
“Sure enough… hmm, got it.”
Greg took a look into the forest depths Cleo pointed at and nodded.
“What do you wanna do? Shal we get some rest in before we go? It was quite tiring just to walk here, wasn’t it?”
“You’re right… but I can still manage.”
Thanks to Cleo’s oversleeping that morning, they were a little late to leave the inn. Over a cup of coffee, “I don’t mind,” Greg had laughed it off, but it weighed on Cleo’s mind. He wanted to regain the difference.
“You’re better off not pushing yourself. Trudging through a forest will be more grueling than what we’ve been through thus far.”
Greg peered into Cleo’s face with the look of a doctor performing an examination. Cleo said he was alright, he s took out his chest.
“… Very well. Then at the very least, let me carry your shield. It’s heavy, isn’t it?”
Greg pointed at the shield fastened onto Cleo’s rucksack.
“Eh… but…”
He recalled Marcus’ words. ‘In the forest where the blue roses grow, there is a possiblity of encountering dangerous beasts’. In times to come, the shield may prove necessary. That’s precisely why he grit his teeth, and endured the weight biting down on shoulders.
“But you see, Mr. Cleo, pardon the question, but do you even know how to use a shield?”
Cleo had to shake his head to that one. For both the shield and the sword, yesterday had been the first time in his life he’d ever held them. I knew it, Greg continued on.
“A shield you can’t use is just a burden. For the amount it slows your movements, the road will be even more perilous. Needlessly expended stamina will hinder the search to come.”
Greg was a professional adventurer. His words held too much weight to refute.
“But… will you be alright?”
Greg used a two-handed longsword, so a shield was unnecessary. It should be an unneeded burden to him as well. When Cleo looked at him with upturned, apologetic eyes and asked, Greg bared his teeth in a laugh.
“This much weight is nothing. And I’ll serve as your shield, so don’t worry about it.”
He proclaimed so easily it really did sound like nothing at all. Those words shook Cleo’s eardrums, they jolted his brain. Hiding his flushed, hanging head, he spoke back incoherently.
“Aah… uu… umm… it’s a pleasure to… work with you…”
Feeling that words alone wouldn’t suffice, he deeply lowered his head. Greg gave a bitter smile, “Hey, that’s my job. Now let’s get going,” Cleo heard him say.
His head still hung, Cleo followed along diagonally behind the man. Making sure he wasn’t noticed, he quietly wiped the corners of his eyes. It felt as if it had been quite some time since someone had been so kind to him.
4
While noon gave way to a beautiful forest, an excellent piece of fine art no matter where one directed their eye, as the sun lurched, and the crowns of the trees offered only the faintest illumination, the scenery suddenly changed face.
A stinging, bizarre tension loomed over the area. Even for one who wasn’t a professional adventurer like Greg, Cleo was able to pick up a clear something. As if there was something lurking in the shadows of each tree and thicket, stifling its breath to observe them.
An indescribable anxiety welled up to throw his pulse into disarray. If he hadn’t been afforded a fellow traveler on this ‘Blue Rose Trial’, if he was by his lonesome self in the thickening darkness of the forest, the mere thought sent something cold running down his spine. On his slight shiver, Greg raised a surprised voice.
“Huh? Don’t tell me you’re cold?”
Cleo gave a vague laugh, “The forest gets a bit creepy when the sun goes down,” was all he said.
In the end, the day’s search ended there. In the meager remaining light, they needed to set up camp.
“This… is delicious!”
Around the crackling bonfire, the two ate their dinner. Theirs’ was a simple menu of skewered animals caught in the forest toasted over the fire.
“We’re really in luck today. The red tree crabs are tasty, but they’re few in numbers, and you rarely ever meet them. You can find plenty of blue tree crabs by the river beds and marshes, but they reek of mud and taste nasty.”
Greg was in high spirits from an unexpected catch. When it hadn’t been asked of him, he began running his mouth, mixing in some bragging about his past tales of adventure. Cleo was so entranced he thought he might forget to blink.
“… If my sword was just a centimeter shorter, I’d be in the other world by now. Ever since then, I got to trusting the length of my sword more than my shield. By the way… ”
Greg took a greedy glance at Cleo’s baggage.
“That sword of yours… could I see it for a moment?”
“Mn? Yeah, of course. Go ahead.”
“No, my apologize. Truth is, it’s been on my mind since yesterday. I guess this is what you call an occupational disease… hmhmm.”
Reverently holding out the short sword Cleo handed over, he drew it from its sheath. In contrast to its beautifully ornamented scabbard, the blade and the hilt were the sort of plain piece you might fine anywhere. But after a grunt from Greg, he gazed silently at the sword as if possessed by something.
“How does it look? To a layman like me, it just looks like a normal sword…”
Greg didn’t answer. It did seem he had completely forgotten about Cleo. The honed edge and Greg’s eyes glowed red as they caught the flickering light of the writhing flames. After some light practice swings, and balancing its guard on his finger—
“Pardon me,”
He said, and suddenly thrust the tip of the sword into the bonfire.
The heated tip sucked in the wavering cusp of the flames, giving off a red glimmer like a ruby. Cleo lost his words in his surprise. Greg muttered, making the face of someone who couldn’t believe his eyes.
“It’s the first time… I’ve ever seen adamantite…!”
“Adamantite…? W-what’s that?”
Without turning an eye to Cleo, Greg spoke as if talking to the sword itself.
“Have you ever heard of the ship, the Queen Grizelda, Mr. Cleo?”
“Mm… no… I don’t know it.”
“It’s a ship that sunk hundreds of years ago, but the rig was salvaged a round thirty years back. It was a nobleman’s ship, loaded with all sorts of treasures, but a majority of those were corroded by the seawater, becoming little more than garbage.”
Of course, they still had enough historical value- he added on, before continuing.
“Among them, they found a single sword that shone as if it had been made only yesterday. When it wasn’t made of gold or anything, I hear it didn’t have the slightest touch of rust. That sword was an adamantite sword. Mr. Cleo, how long has this sword been at the Grant House?”
“Eh? Er… I don’t know…”
“This just might be that very same sword. That’s just how rare adamantite is. And its other characteristic–”
The sword glowed again, its transparent edge emitted light from within.
“It absorbs fire and glows. In order to temper adamantite, you need to keep heating until it glows so bright you have no choice but to shut your eyes. The smith needs to be skilled enough to hammer out a sword blindfolded. There are only a few people in the world capable of such a feat.”
The light of the sword resided in the eyes of Greg gazing at it as well. With the hollow light in his eyes, he voluminously unfurled his words as if possessed.
“Even so, a sword made of Adamantite is brittle, it shatters too easily. They’re not suited for real combat. They’re an ornament piece, or a magician might use one for self-defense, that’s mainly where you’ll find them. Well, a common adventurer would never even be able to hold or swing one like this. I really am in luck…”
Eventually, the light subsided, returning to a dull, silver shine. Greg made a face like a child after the fireworks had burned out, letting out a pitiful sigh. He timidly poked at the blade.
“It’s not hot”
Is the heat all converted to light and dispersed…? He muttered to himself. A while later, he noticed Cleo staring intently at him.
“… Ah, AAH! No, my apologies for that. You have my thanks, and take it back.”
Returning the sword to Cleo, he let his awkward gaze wander.
“Now then, it’s about time we get some rest in. We’ll have to watch the fire on rotation… Cleo-san, you go to sleep first. In two… no, three hours, I’ll wake you up.”
The conversation was cut off somewhat forcefully. Cleo wanted to here more about adamantite, but even if the weight of his heavy shield had been taken on, the fatigue of walking through a forest all day had definitely accumulated. This would go on for perhaps another week. If he dragged his fatigue onto t he next day, he would end up causing trouble to Greg. Cleo obediently prepared to sleep.
When he tried removing the sleeping b ag from his rucksack, the boy of paint supplies entered his eyes.
(I’d like to find time to paint at least one.)
Pulling off his boots, he entered a sleeping bag.
A first forest, a first taste, a first sleeping bag. His heart soared, giving him difficulty in falling asleep. When he mused over how nice it must be to have a sleeping bag, his face went lax on its own.
Even so, given ten minutes, Cleo was raising a sleeper’s breath.
Greg looked into the distance, as if recalling the glimmer of adamantite from before, looking up at the slight slimmer of stars through the gaps in the leaves and branches.
Exactly one hour after Cleo raised a sleeper’s breath.
Disguising himself with the crackling of the fire, Greg quietly collected his belongings. Cleo’s sleeping face popping out from the sleeping b ag was more tranquil than anything.
“Cya, young master.”
Leaving behind a practically inaudible whisper, he produced his charmed compass from his bosom, confirming the direction its needle pointed. Alright. But that did leave one problem.
(The adamantite sword called a dream. That’s a piece that’ll likely never enter my eyes a second time. Should I nab it, or leave it… what do I do?)
Greg’s material desire throbbed vehemently. I want it. I want to make it mine. Or perhaps I can sell it off for a fortune. But in the end, he gave up. It was dangerous to take back what would leave a trace.
(If I wait in Elkada Village, that second wife’s envoy—Marcus was it—will bring over the contingency fee. Five hundred thousand gelt. That’s enough for me.)
Driving his thoughts towards the sum he would eventually lay hands on regardless, he made a grin and bounded into the shadows of the thicket.
5
A while later, the roaring shriek of a beast rended the forest’s still. But such noises were transient, and soon the only sound came as the leaves being swayed by a gentle breeze.
6
A dreary world as if dust had settled on an oil painting in the storeroom.
A Cleo of young countenance was sitting before the flower bed in the yard and sketching.
He was finally allowed to paint. No, even when he did paint, no one scolded him anymore. The whip was gone too. When he should have been delighted, it wasn’t any fun. Perhaps it had been too long, he couldn’t draw as he wanted.
(Dammit…!)
Gripping the pencil in his palm, He scribbled out nonsensical line after line on the drawing paper. As if expressing the negative emotions he was in no deficit of, the paper slathering black before his very eyes.
At that moment, a voice suddenly called from behind. A voice he knew well.
“It’s been a while since I last saw the young master paint. Did they finally give permission?”
Cleo turned only his torso to look around. There, was—
Cleo blankly opened his eyes.
In his vision, the branches spread out to cover the night sky, as if a tree monster was trying to give him a start. Where was this?
(… That’s right, I’m in the middle of the ‘Blue Rose Trial’.)
Good grief, he sighed.
(How long have I been asleep? Greg said he’d wake me up after three hours…)
As if turning over in his sleep, he looked in Greg’s direction… but he was nowhere to b e seen.
Huh?
Changing his facing direction, he looked the other way. But no luck there either.
He undid his sleeping bag’s fastener and raised his body. He turned in a circle to look around.
There really was no one. Only the bonfire whose flame had weakened somewhat in force raised a crackling sound.
(…… Huh…?)
Terrifying scenarios swept over his brain all at once.
“… Mr. Greg…?”
No response.
He tried raising the volume of his voice a bit and calling out again. No matter how long he waited, all that returned was the sound of the fire, and the gentle wind racing across the forest. His unease welled up.
Greg was gone. Where did he go?
(The bathroom? No… that’s unlikely.)
He could simply take care of business in a nearby thicket. He had no need to go somewhere he couldn’t respond.
(Then why… where could he have gone off to…?)
Thinking didn’t produce an answer. “No matter what happens, I’ll guarantee your safety,” he had said. Then what sort of reason would have him leave Cleo behind and leave?
It was there Cleo noticed. His baggage was gone.
A scenario that grazed his head snuck its way in once more. In the blink of an eye, it inflated like a balloon, and he could no longer play the fool.
(Mr. Greg… didn’t go off just anywhere… he went home…)
His heart acted up, badum, badum. It acted up as it to tear a hole through his chest. His breath was rough. The interior of his tight-clenched fist oozed with sweat. Why? What for?
Cleo couldn’t tell. In the first place, he was unable to think rationally.
In the first place, that wasn’t the most important thing at the moment. If Greg truly did go back—(I… have to escape from this forest on my own…)
Was he even capable of the feat?
7
Using the position of the constellations, taking the season into consideration to presume the current time was a skill he did not have. But equivocally looking up at the sky, it wasn’t hard to guess that the night wouldn’t break sometime soon.
He waited around an hour. While he didn’t have a watch, it was presumably an hour. But no matter how he waited, Greg didn’t come back after all. Cleo felt as if he was watching a dream, sitting in front of the flame raising smoke into the sky.
Snapping a branch of dry wood in two, he tossed it in.
The bonfire blazed in a dug-out put around fifteen centimeters deep. To the s ide of the hole, was the pile of dirt dug out of it.
“If you dig a hole and light a fire inside it, you don’t have to worry about the ashes spreading. When cleaning up, you just have to bury it with the dirt you dug out. To top it all off, when grilling, the height of the fire is just right, it’s real convenient. Truly three birds with one stone.”
Greg had explained to him with a smile. He was a world apart from those home tutors who brandished their whips as if training a beast, and never smiled no matter what he accomplished.
(Did Mr. Greg… really abandon me and go back…?)
Can someone really show such kindness towards someone they plan o n betraying? Various people came and went from the Grant House estate. Those folks would never extinguish their smiles. But over fifteen years, Cleo had grown to notice a majority of their smiles were false.
Was Greg of the same sort? Deceiving Cleo with false kindness, sticking his tongue out in his heard? Cleo couldn’t believe it.
He gave a big sigh.
(What… am I going to do now.)
The ‘Blue Rose Trial’ was the least of his worries. That being the case, even if he wanted to turn back, without Greg’s charmed compass, there was no way of knowing the direction of the closest village of Clamberra.
No food stock. Greg had taken off with all the dried meat and preserves.
If he wandered the forest without knowing the direction he was headed, it was likely a death by starvation that awaited him.
No, perhaps he wouldn’t even be afforded that.
For example, once the bonfire died out, at that instant, the beasts that thirsted as if they were waiting for it might come at him.
The sensation of being observed by something in the darkness. When he didn’t even want to recall them, Marcus’ words came back again. ‘In the forest where the blue roses grow, there is a possiblity of encountering dangerous beasts’.
Dangerous beasts…!
While Cleo’s sword was apparently a valuable, noteworthy piece, that fact held no meaning with a complete novice as its wielder. Naturally imagining himself being devoured alive, the insides of his body froze up
Ever since his mother died by disease, Cleo had thrown his life aside. It’s not like I’ll live a long life, he was sure. However, that didn’t mean he didn’t mind having his rawhide stripped life, his flesh gnawed at, spending his final moments in unbelievable pain.
If that’s the case—he drew the adamantite sword behind him from its scabbard and touched the metal to his neck. With a prickling pain, the tip dug into the skin.
At that moment, the sensation of, ‘At this moment, I am on the verge of death,’ exploded in his head. The contrary states of life and death could be switched out oh so easily in just a number of centimeters. His a rms shook, he got the feeling he might really stick it in.
And then what would happen?
A geyser of blood would flow out. There’s no way it would be painless. He wouldn’t be able to breathe. There’s no way it would be easy. He would surely go through a hellish pain. Until the moment he stopped drawing breath.
“… uuWAAAhh!”
As if brushing off a snake coiling around his hand, he tossed the adamantite sword aside. A disgusting unease spread bit by bit across his spine. Holding his ceaselessly shaking hands to his body, he crouched down as if collapsing.
(No… I don’t want to die like this…!)
His tears spilled out onto the ground.
So opened a night non-permitting a wink of sleep.
The forest the morning sun couldn’t reach was still dim. Yet this was no longer the sort of darkness with something secretly lurking. A faint heat could even be felt from the shadows in the vegetation.
The bonfire had just barely held out. Cleo gazed fixatedly at the flickering red ash with bloodshot eyes. Fatigue and drowsiness made his head somewhat haze. Even so, he had somehow arrived at his answer. He had hardened his resolve.
He was going to walk.
If we simply walked straight, he would eventually exit the forest without fail. He had made it all the way here in a day, so with good luck, he might be able to leave it in one.
Of course, Cleo was aware it wasn’t something so easily. But saying it was impossible and giving up wouldn’t grant him an easy death. That was far too terrifying, so Cleo decided to proceed blindly. Whatever the case, now that he had decided, he was best off acting on it quickly. If he didn’t make it as far as he could in a day, he wouldn’t be able to light a fire at night. The matches had gone off with Greg.
He shook his canteen to confirm his remaining water, moistening his throat with only one swig. Covering up the burnt ash with dirt, he strung his rucksack over his shoulder.
8
A few hours from a resolved departure. It was likely a little passed midday.
Walking straight was more troubling than he could have imagined. No matter how thick the thicket grew, he would have to plunge straight through it. For the steep slopes that were practically cliffs, he would cling to the plant life, sliding down bit by bit with due caution. Naturally, during that time, he would confirm which way was ‘straight’ again and again to ensure he didn’t lost his direction.
The rate he progressed was likely less than half of the day before. Even so, it strikingly depleted his will and stamina. A forced march far too harsh to challenge sleep-deprived. He had gradually grown unsympathetic to the adamantite sword clanging loudly against his thigh, and unable to put up with it any longer, he stuck it into his bag.
As he gradually lost his breath, his legs growing heavier,
(Am I really walking straight…?)
An anxiety hazily spread through him. His morning resolve was already wavering.
To add insult to injury, an empty stomach spurred on his spirit’s breakdown. Thinking of nothing but the red tree crab he had eaten the night before, he walked while dragging his feet. When his entire field of vision was covered in trees, for some reason, he couldn’t catch sight of a single one that bore fruit. Had he possibly gone out of his way to chose a route that avoided all the fruit bearing trees? Such misgivings welled in his chest.
(How many more hours will I be walking with no food…)
It was still faint, but he was catching sight of the limit to his stamina.
When he was walking because he didn’t want to die, the more he walked, the closer he seemed to death. He felt the contradiction of his actions. Wouldn’t it just be easier for some carnivorous beast to make short work of me when I’m out cold from the fatigue of walking—he noticed he had begun to think and learned that his spirit was reaching its limit as well.
It could be god, or the devil, or even Marcus. Cleo sought salvation, he made an earnest entreaty in his heart. But,
(If Marcus was here right now, there’s no way he would save me…)
He thought, a self-depreciating laugh bursting from the depths of his stomach.
“Ff… haha… khahahah….”
The laugh showed no signs of stopping. Even when he lost sight of what was supposed to be funny, Cleo continued to laugh. Surely something bust be wrong with me, he thought. A while later, when he had finally contained his laughter, large years were falling from his eyes.
Crumbling at the knees, he collapsed onto the ground. By the time he noticed it, Cleo was sobbing convulsively.
(Someone… someone… )
“Save me…” he heard a voice.
Cleo’s shaking breath came to a sudden stop.
His moist eyes opened wide. At first, he thought the voice in his heart had unconsciously opened its mouth. But now in his head, he tried to reflect once more on the faint voice that plunged into his ear. It wasn’t his own voice he had learned over the course of fifteen years.
He blankly surveyed the area.
No one, nothing around.
Surely it was his imagination. Or perhaps the cry of some bird. Come to think of it, while he was walking, there was a monkey-like lifeform at the top of the trees, staring curiously at him. Perhaps he had mistaken the cry of some forest lifeform for human words.
He waited motionlessly a while to see what would happen, but nothing came of it. He really was just imagining things, or so the moment he accepted it,
“Save me…”
It was faint, but he certainly heard it. Undoubtedly a human voice. What’s more, judging by its pitch,
(A girl…? Why…)
A young girl wandering around the forest prowled by dangerous beasts. He couldn’t help but feel something was off. But they did say there were a few young women among the ranks of adventurers, so it wasn’t an impossible tale.
Cleo concentrated every nerve in his body to his ears. Even killing his own breath, he patiently waited until,
“Someone, save me…”
This time, he could confirm the direction it came from. He quickly got to his feet, and made for it nimbly as his body would allow. The hope swelling in his chest gave him a strong push on the back. As if his raggedness from a moment before had been a lie, his feet moved. He pushed his way through the fierce thicket.
(Whether it’s a little girl or some female swordsman, the fact they’re in the forest means there’s a high possibility they have a charmed compass.)
And more than that, having a person nearby would free him from the anxiety of loneliness. Even if they didn’t have a compass on their person, if he had a comrade he could exchange encouragement and cooperation with, he got the feeling that alone would greatly increase his probability of returning alive.
“Please, someone save me…”
It was much clearer this time. And close.
He could see a bright spot in the depths of the frontward thicket. That must be it!
It happened when he sprinted forward at full speed. The corpse of a small animal had fallen under the clump of grass under his feat, causing him to slip. The moment he realized his situation, his body was in the air.
Rolling alongside a scream, he pierced headfirst into the thicket, to find himself in a slight clearing. The midsummer afternoon sun poured onto the ground without interruption.
“Owww… tsss…”
As luck would have it, thanks to the sleeping bag in his rucksack acting as a cushion, he got off with just a scrape. That being the case, the inside of his head was still swirling in circles.
Cleo unsteadily raised his body to look around.
There was no one there.
(Huh… this wasn’t the place…?)
He tried waiting a bit, but he could no longer hear that voice from before.
“Heeey, is anyone here?”
He shouted to no response.
(No way, don’t tell me…)
He had definitely heard the voice from this area.
(Don’t tell me…… it was an auditory hallucination…?)
Astonishment ensued. Had his spirit pushed to the brink had fabricated a nonexistent hope? His knees were shaking, he could no longer bear the weight of the bag on his back. Cleo’s bottom his the ground as he hung his head crestfallen.
“…… Ah!”
He raised his face, hurriedly looking around.
When he had worn away his nerves to such an extent, he noticed that he had lost sight of the ‘straight’ direction he had walked for dear life. The blood withdrew from his face.
(The distance I’ve walked for hours just went poof… I’ll have to start from square one.)
The inside of his chest muddled with a black sense of despair.
Am I beyond salvation… he thought.
“… No! That’s wrong! I’m only hopeless if I give up here!”
Cleo turned the gears in his head to an absurd degree. What will giving up get me? Do I accept my fate of being a beast’s meal?
“Hell no! You’ve got to be joking!”
He smacked his power-drained legs a few times to inject them with motivation. In a show of fighting spirit, he stood. If he followed the tread grass and broken branches back to the spot he first heard the voice, he’d be able to get back someway or another. All that was left was to depend on his memory, the same scenery from before- the shape of the trees and grass, their position- he’d have to search for it. If he did, then he’d surely be able to tell where he had walked from, and where he was walking to.
“So there’s no one here! Am I right!?”
He tried one final call. No response.
Alright! He started walking back towards the thicket of tattered twigs he had just broken through.
It happened then. There was a sensation of something touching his ankles.
Oh? The moment he turned his eyes to look at them, the earth and the heavens were swapped.
It happened so suddenly, Cleo was at a loss for words. Right above his head was the ceiling-like ground. The sunlight shone down from his feet. This upside-down scenery was almost like another world. As his rationality gradually returned, he finally comprehended his feet had been tangled in something, and that something was handing him upside-down.
(What… is this…)
He heard a swish in the shadow of a tree with a large trunk and its undergrowth, something was moving. And slowly, it made its way towards him.
(…… Eh…?)
Something tread over the wild plants, as if rising to the surface of a pitch-black bog, it slowly showed its form under the light of the sun.
It was a young girl, exposing her bare skin.
From her back drooped a number of tentacle-like appendages, their tips squirming eerily. And among them, one of them had extended forward to grasp Cleo’s feet.
The girl gave a sweet smile.
“Thank you for coming.”
The same voice as before. In Cleo’s head—how many times had it been—those words resounded.
‘In the forest where the blue roses grow, there is a possibility of encountering dangerous beasts’
The young girl stuck out her dark-red tongue to lick her lips.
1
Tap, tap.
In the construction of a splendid manner, did they even take into mind the sound made when knocking on its doors? A comfortable noise resounded as if hit out of a keyed instrument.
“Wait, please wait a second.”
While knowing it was futile, the lord of the room raised a hurried voice in reply. As expected, the door was swung open regardless. A man with posture so splendid it brought to mind a bow whose string had been pulled to its utmost limit briskly infiltrated the room without a single word of warning. This was a man as if fearlessness itself had put on a suit to go for a stroll. Yet his eyes bordered by glasses emitted a neurotic, cold glimmer. The room’s owner- Cleo Grant- felt his spine freeze over on that look.
“Umm…”
“You’re keeping everyone on the first floor waiting. You haven’t finished preparing yet?”
The man shifted his eyes to glare at the rucksack with its mouth slovenly left open atop the bed. From the opening, he caught a glimpse of a sketchbook and a case of watercolor paint. In an attempt to hide the bag, the buy hastily placed himself between the man and the bed, but it was already too late.
The man’s name was Marcus, he worked as a butler to the house. Looking down over Cleo, who had jerked his head up at a forty-five degree angle to look at him, he exhaled a sigh from his nose.
“When you’re taking on a life-or-death trial, you take along your art supplies? You must be quite confident in yourself.”
Marcus said with no attempt to conceal the thorn in his words. If it was the usual sarcasm, Cleo would have silently hung his head as per usual. But now that his paintings were involved, Cleo’s timid, drooping eyes blurred with a very faint shade of anger.
“… Are you going to tell father…?”
For just a moment, Marcus curved the corners of his mouth into the face of someone who had been privy to a terrible joke. He immediately returned to his usual expressionlessness.
“My job is not to keep watch over you. No matter what mental state you take on the ‘Blue Rose Trial’ with, it is of no consequence to me. Please do as you will.”
While this man was a butler, he took on an impolite attitude unbecoming of one employed by the Grant House. But Cleo wasn’t surprised. Ever since the day Marcus first came to the mansion five years prior, he had never once paid respect to the Grant House’s eldest son.
This was a fact evidenced in the way he tapped at Cleo’s door. After so long, it was unthinkable he remained oblivious that two knocks was to check for a vacant bathroom.
He bowed and spoke formally, but the lack of any resemblance of heart behind it was something even- then ten year old- Cleo could understand. Cleo was fifteen now, there was still little he could do.
Let’s say he tried raising up Marcus’ discourtesy and ice-cold attitude to his father, the head of the Grant House. In most cases, it wouldn’t be strange for Marcus’ dismissal to come as a result. That being the case, his father valued proficiency over anything else, and Marcus was a man whose proficiency far exceeded his father’s expectations.
(On top of that, I was never proficient. I could never exceed a single one of father’s expectations…)
So Cleo silently endured. Between himself and Marcus, whose side would his father take? He didn’t even need to test. In these past few years, Cleo’s father had never once been the one to strike up a conversation with him. Cleo knew no hopes had been placed on his shoulders.
He did feel some loneliness from that fact, once upon a time. But now Cleo was glad that was the case.
His father would no longer scream, “And you call yourself the successor to the Grant House!?”
The home tutors who would mercilessly smack him with words and real whips were not visions of the past, whose names he could no longer recall. Now, without anyone raising a complaint, he spend his days painting whatever he wanted. Are you satisfied with your current self? The question was a difficult one, but at the very least, Cleo accepted his life as it was. I guess this is about right, he thought.
And yet, why must he take on a life-or-death trial?
Cleo had a naturally weak body and was prone to illness. His mother Rosaria shared the sane constitution, she died young of disease. Surely that’s how I’ll go too, he’d often tell himself. And yet why wouldn’t they simply let him be? Why would they pull him from his comfortable room, put a sword and shield in his feeble hands, and send him into a dangerous forest where the beasts ran rampant?
Putting in just a sliver of discontent and resentment- for that was the most Cleo could muster- he stared up at Marcus. Marcus rung his nose anew, sending Cleo’s gaze barreling elsewhere.
“Whatever the case, please hurry with your preparations. Your time of departure cannot be changed. Everyone has set aside their busy schedules to gather.”
With those words, he turned right around and left the room with the same force he entered with. Stricken by a sense of defeat words fail to describe, Cleo sluggishly closed the mouth of his rucksack. He sent a glance to the window. On the bay windowsill grew a potted plant that sprouted countless thorns. It was a plant called a cactus. He could only hope that someone would properly look after it in his absence. With such musings, he slung the rucksack over his back.
Erk…!?
With weight he had never experienced in his fifteen years of life digging into his shoulders, he found himself leaking a groan. If he let his guard down for just a minute, it felt a s if his whole body would be sent toppling backwards. The bag contained a sleeping bag, his art supplies, a raincoat to shelter from the rain, a canteen. If that was all, it wouldn’t be so heavy, but because a shield called a buckler he was made to carry for self-defense was strung on, the load became something incredible. To add to that, he would be given a sword and made to wander the forest for days. This was torture. Cleo felt his mind grow distant.
Exiting to the corridor with heavy, hazardous steps, he totteringly staggered forward. Time and again driven by an impulse to turn back, he eventually found himself before the second-floor door leading to the entrance hall. With a crack of the door, the heat and vibrant voices of people surged the gap like a flash flood. It was almost as if he had wandered his way onto the grounds of a party.
Cleo rounded the door. The entrance hall was an atrium, and through the handrail, he peeked in at the state of the first floor. A look down confirmed all the dignitaries of the Grant House had gathered. The red carpet spread out from the door to the grand stairwell in the center of the room divided the gathering in two.
Facing the stairwell, at the head of the party to the right, a group of familiar men were having a friendly chat with his stepmother Audrey. Beside them, her son about to turn three Laurence- Cleo’s stepbrother- gripped his mother’s skirt with a bored look on his face.
Meanwhile, at the head of the left side, his father’s younger sister and her spouse- meaning his aunt and uncle- fidgeted, looking around restlessly. When their faces grew close, they would whisper something into the other’s ear.
While everyone seemed to be having an enjoyable chat, there was no exchange of words between the l eft and right fathering. Like two parties of customers forced to share a table at a restaurant, the prevalent attitude was as if there was no one at all across the carpet.
From what he could tell at a glance, there were a little less than double the amount of people in the right hand gathering. And right in the center of the two rows, directly in front of the grand stairwell, Cleo’s father, the one who stood at the summit of the family, Foster Grant closed his eyes as if meditating, awaiting his son’s arrival.
When he thought of how so many people were waiting for him, he grew a little fearful. His desire to turn back had reached the climax, but the wrinkle chiseled into his father’s brow told a tale, “How long will Cleo keep me waiting”. Cleo shivered as he recalled the sound of his father’s whip. His feet began to move on their own, starting off slowly towards the stairs. Those that noticed him raised cheers. As he heard their voices, he felt like a slave warrior heading off to the arena.
2
To those gathered, Marcus once again gave an explanation of the ‘Blue Rose Trial’ Cleo was to undertake. Cleo gazed on, feeling like he was day dreaming.
In the forest where the blue roses grow, there is a possibility of encountering dangerous beasts… one swordsman will accompany and cooperate… when he finds the blue rose, and safely returns with it by sunset ten days from today, Cleo-sama will be recognized as the official successor of… if he doesn’t make it in time, or returns without the blue rose, the rights to succession will automatically pass to his younger brother Laurence… that is all, does anyone have any questions…
By the time he noticed it, a tall man clad in leather armor was standing before Cleo. That man who could be made out as an adventurer as a glance presented out the rugged palm of his hand, large enough to grab Cleo’s head whole and hoist it up.
“My name is Greg Lee. It’s a pleasure to work with you. No matter what happens, I’ll guarantee your safety, so just know you stand on steady footing.”
As Cleo timidly reached out Greg firmly grasped his hand and gave a refreshing laugh. Scattered claps and cheers. Within all of that, from the depths of the crowd, his aunt and uncle raced over, somewhat excited.
“The future of the Grant House depends on you. Break a leg!”
“For my late sister-in-law as well, you must find the blue rose at all costs!”
Cleo answered their abnormally heated encouragement with a cold look.
(Mother’s sake…? Would mother really be happy if I succeeded the Grant House?)
He drudged up some old memories. The painful ones came back the most vivid.
When he was around six or seven, his father personally trained him on how to ride a horse. After falling again and again, “Why can’t you follow a simple direction!?” came the whip. Two hours into training, Cleo fell unconscious. When he came to, he was in his room’s bed. His body was wrapped in bandages. His mother was by his side, “I’m sorry…” she said.
His mother’s eyes were red. Why w as she apologizing? The young Cleo couldn’t tell. But he was excessively saddened, he burrowed into the bed, and shook as he wept. Across the cover, he couls hear the sound of his mother’s sobs, and the bruises all over his body throbbing I n pain. That pain was something he could recall clearly, as if those wounds still remained fresh.
(Did mother wish for me to succeed the Grant House…)
He couldn’t understand what w as going on among the adults, but it did seem the Grant Family was divided between those who wanted Cleo to succeed the main house, and those who wanted to make his little brother Laurence the heir. Perhaps his aunt and uncle represented the former.
(Father likely intends to make Laurence the heir. At the very least, he hasn’t any intention to have me succeed him.)
In the first place, the ‘Blue Rose Trial’ was apparently a Grant House tradition carried out whenever opinions were split on who would succeed the house. Meaning this aunt of his had voiced complaints at his father’s attempts to make Laurence the heir.
(I never asked for it…)
The manufactured smile reeking of falsehoods spread across his aunt’s face only served to rub his nerves the wrong way. So, “It’s not for mother’s sake, but for yours, is it not?” he felt he was almost about to say.
Just a little more—but in the end, Cleo swallowed his words. If he said such a thing without bearing the mood in mind, he would slather mud on his father’s face. He didn’t have the courage for that. Diverting the words he would spit to the depth of his stomach, his mood worsened as if they had raised up heartburn.
At that moment, Cleo’s gaze coincidentally caught it.
His stepmother Audrey took a look at his aunt and uncle returning to their place, for just a moment—the corners of her mouth lifted in a scoff.
With a thunder of applause and support left and right, Cleo proceeded down the red carpet. The servants opened the door. Far, far beyond it, a different set of servants were swiftly opening the iron gates around twice the height of an adult. To him, it felt almost as if they were trying to tell him, “Just hurry and leave”.
He passed through the door, took a step out o f the manor. It was hot. Narrowing his eyes to the summer sun so bright it might be out of spite,
(Perhaps I won’t be passing through this entranceway again…)
He thought.
3
Cleo left the estate and boarded the carriage that had been prepared. The sun had set by the time they reached a village called Clamberra. The mere sway of the carriage had worn him limp, and in the sole run-down inn in town, on an unbelievable hard bed, he fell asleep in an instant.
The next morning, coinciding with Cleo’s waking came a slightly-late departure. Scorched by the midsummer sun, a walk of less than an hour finally led them to the forest they were looking f or.
“Uu… whoa…!”
Cleo was overwhelmed by the scenery he took in for the first time. The large trunks he had to look up to see, expanded without end or exhaustion. In his head, the sheer mass before him was large enough to swallow up a single country whole.
“Have you readied your heart? Then let’s be off.”
Entering the forest on Greg’s urging, in an instant, the air had changed.
(It’s cool… as if it’s another world…)
The gentle breeze that had coiled tepidly around his skin outside the forest had become a comfortably cool one here. His beads of sweat vaporized, swiftly cooling down the heat remaining in his body.
(And… what a beautiful light.)
Where trees sprouted plentifully was a forest. Cleo was by no means unaware of this. Looking at the trees growing in the yard, he had imagined what it would look like for there to be droves of them. But now, a real forest entering his eyes, he learned what he had imagined had surely been lacking. The light filtering in through the trees.
Of course, light filtered through the yard’s tree. Something was different. The forest was a majority, a world cloaked in shadow. The shadows associated with anxiety. And onto those shadows, passing through the gap between tree and tree, a meager light illuminated the space. With nothing but trees as the backdrop, the grass and moss coating the ground shone as radiant as a gemstone.
The overwhelming shadow offered support to a single strand of light. What a peculiar sight.
(So this is the beauty of the forest…)
He found himself leaking a breath of admiration. By the time he noticed it, Greg was peering fixatedly into his face.
“Ah… m-my apologies. This is the first time I’ve ever seen a forest…”
Greg blinked his eyes.
“The first? You’ve never played out in the woods or something like that before?”
“N… no, well…”
“Hmmm. I guess that’s how it works for the young m aster of a distinguished house. They really are different from us.”
His tone had grown a little more lax than when the first exchanged words of greeting the day before. Cleo had never come to a forest before, because in his youth, studies occupied his every day, and he was rarely e very taken out anywhere. While his days of study ended with the birth of Laurence, even still, Cleo was restricted from freely walking outside. In Marcus’ words, ‘It would be a considerable hassle if you went out and got injured or sick’.
Therefore, to Cleo, the grounds of the Grant House alone were the world.
Without any motivation to purposefully explain all those details to Greg, he simply plaid it off with an ambiguous smile. He wouldn’t reveal his own miserable past to put a damper on his own excitement at his first forest.
Perhaps picking up his sentiment- or having intended that as trifling banter- Greg didn’t touch o n the topic again. He slowly produced a small, round case from his bosom.
“This is a ‘charmed compass’ that points towards Clamberra village. The one you’ve got should point to the blue rose, right? I’m counting on you to lead the way.”
“Ah, yes…!”
When Cleo tugged at t he string around his neck, a similar charmed compass popped out from inside his fest. The two of them each held out their compasses and compared them. Had its own direction to point to.
A charmed compass was used in correlation to a black ore called a guide stone. Where a normal compass pointed north, a charmed compass would always indicate the direction of its stone. Inside the forest, the magnetic field was thrown off, and there were times when a normal compass would be of no use, but irrelevant to disturbances in magnetism, a charmed compass would always move its needle to point in the direction of its guide stone. A single compass formed a pair with a single stone, each pair being registered and managed with its own identification number. Even if there were multiple guide stones around the compass, the charmed compass was made to only react to the stone that shared its identification number.
The guide stone of Greg’s pair was buried on the outskirts of Clamberra village. In regards to Cleo’s compass, it was said that the founder of the Grant House buried the guide stone where the blue roses bloomed around two hundred years ago, or perhaps the old Grant received ‘The compass that shows the path to the blue rose’ from a certain adventurer for a large sum of money. Accounts varied on the matter.
“Umm, our family’s compass is pointing in that direction.”
“Sure enough… hmm, got it.”
Greg took a look into the forest depths Cleo pointed at and nodded.
“What do you wanna do? Shal we get some rest in before we go? It was quite tiring just to walk here, wasn’t it?”
“You’re right… but I can still manage.”
Thanks to Cleo’s oversleeping that morning, they were a little late to leave the inn. Over a cup of coffee, “I don’t mind,” Greg had laughed it off, but it weighed on Cleo’s mind. He wanted to regain the difference.
“You’re better off not pushing yourself. Trudging through a forest will be more grueling than what we’ve been through thus far.”
Greg peered into Cleo’s face with the look of a doctor performing an examination. Cleo said he was alright, he s took out his chest.
“… Very well. Then at the very least, let me carry your shield. It’s heavy, isn’t it?”
Greg pointed at the shield fastened onto Cleo’s rucksack.
“Eh… but…”
He recalled Marcus’ words. ‘In the forest where the blue roses grow, there is a possiblity of encountering dangerous beasts’. In times to come, the shield may prove necessary. That’s precisely why he grit his teeth, and endured the weight biting down on shoulders.
“But you see, Mr. Cleo, pardon the question, but do you even know how to use a shield?”
Cleo had to shake his head to that one. For both the shield and the sword, yesterday had been the first time in his life he’d ever held them. I knew it, Greg continued on.
“A shield you can’t use is just a burden. For the amount it slows your movements, the road will be even more perilous. Needlessly expended stamina will hinder the search to come.”
Greg was a professional adventurer. His words held too much weight to refute.
“But… will you be alright?”
Greg used a two-handed longsword, so a shield was unnecessary. It should be an unneeded burden to him as well. When Cleo looked at him with upturned, apologetic eyes and asked, Greg bared his teeth in a laugh.
“This much weight is nothing. And I’ll serve as your shield, so don’t worry about it.”
He proclaimed so easily it really did sound like nothing at all. Those words shook Cleo’s eardrums, they jolted his brain. Hiding his flushed, hanging head, he spoke back incoherently.
“Aah… uu… umm… it’s a pleasure to… work with you…”
Feeling that words alone wouldn’t suffice, he deeply lowered his head. Greg gave a bitter smile, “Hey, that’s my job. Now let’s get going,” Cleo heard him say.
His head still hung, Cleo followed along diagonally behind the man. Making sure he wasn’t noticed, he quietly wiped the corners of his eyes. It felt as if it had been quite some time since someone had been so kind to him.
4
While noon gave way to a beautiful forest, an excellent piece of fine art no matter where one directed their eye, as the sun lurched, and the crowns of the trees offered only the faintest illumination, the scenery suddenly changed face.
A stinging, bizarre tension loomed over the area. Even for one who wasn’t a professional adventurer like Greg, Cleo was able to pick up a clear something. As if there was something lurking in the shadows of each tree and thicket, stifling its breath to observe them.
An indescribable anxiety welled up to throw his pulse into disarray. If he hadn’t been afforded a fellow traveler on this ‘Blue Rose Trial’, if he was by his lonesome self in the thickening darkness of the forest, the mere thought sent something cold running down his spine. On his slight shiver, Greg raised a surprised voice.
“Huh? Don’t tell me you’re cold?”
Cleo gave a vague laugh, “The forest gets a bit creepy when the sun goes down,” was all he said.
In the end, the day’s search ended there. In the meager remaining light, they needed to set up camp.
“This… is delicious!”
Around the crackling bonfire, the two ate their dinner. Theirs’ was a simple menu of skewered animals caught in the forest toasted over the fire.
“We’re really in luck today. The red tree crabs are tasty, but they’re few in numbers, and you rarely ever meet them. You can find plenty of blue tree crabs by the river beds and marshes, but they reek of mud and taste nasty.”
Greg was in high spirits from an unexpected catch. When it hadn’t been asked of him, he began running his mouth, mixing in some bragging about his past tales of adventure. Cleo was so entranced he thought he might forget to blink.
“… If my sword was just a centimeter shorter, I’d be in the other world by now. Ever since then, I got to trusting the length of my sword more than my shield. By the way… ”
Greg took a greedy glance at Cleo’s baggage.
“That sword of yours… could I see it for a moment?”
“Mn? Yeah, of course. Go ahead.”
“No, my apologize. Truth is, it’s been on my mind since yesterday. I guess this is what you call an occupational disease… hmhmm.”
Reverently holding out the short sword Cleo handed over, he drew it from its sheath. In contrast to its beautifully ornamented scabbard, the blade and the hilt were the sort of plain piece you might fine anywhere. But after a grunt from Greg, he gazed silently at the sword as if possessed by something.
“How does it look? To a layman like me, it just looks like a normal sword…”
Greg didn’t answer. It did seem he had completely forgotten about Cleo. The honed edge and Greg’s eyes glowed red as they caught the flickering light of the writhing flames. After some light practice swings, and balancing its guard on his finger—
“Pardon me,”
He said, and suddenly thrust the tip of the sword into the bonfire.
The heated tip sucked in the wavering cusp of the flames, giving off a red glimmer like a ruby. Cleo lost his words in his surprise. Greg muttered, making the face of someone who couldn’t believe his eyes.
“It’s the first time… I’ve ever seen adamantite…!”
“Adamantite…? W-what’s that?”
Without turning an eye to Cleo, Greg spoke as if talking to the sword itself.
“Have you ever heard of the ship, the Queen Grizelda, Mr. Cleo?”
“Mm… no… I don’t know it.”
“It’s a ship that sunk hundreds of years ago, but the rig was salvaged a round thirty years back. It was a nobleman’s ship, loaded with all sorts of treasures, but a majority of those were corroded by the seawater, becoming little more than garbage.”
Of course, they still had enough historical value- he added on, before continuing.
“Among them, they found a single sword that shone as if it had been made only yesterday. When it wasn’t made of gold or anything, I hear it didn’t have the slightest touch of rust. That sword was an adamantite sword. Mr. Cleo, how long has this sword been at the Grant House?”
“Eh? Er… I don’t know…”
“This just might be that very same sword. That’s just how rare adamantite is. And its other characteristic–”
The sword glowed again, its transparent edge emitted light from within.
“It absorbs fire and glows. In order to temper adamantite, you need to keep heating until it glows so bright you have no choice but to shut your eyes. The smith needs to be skilled enough to hammer out a sword blindfolded. There are only a few people in the world capable of such a feat.”
The light of the sword resided in the eyes of Greg gazing at it as well. With the hollow light in his eyes, he voluminously unfurled his words as if possessed.
“Even so, a sword made of Adamantite is brittle, it shatters too easily. They’re not suited for real combat. They’re an ornament piece, or a magician might use one for self-defense, that’s mainly where you’ll find them. Well, a common adventurer would never even be able to hold or swing one like this. I really am in luck…”
Eventually, the light subsided, returning to a dull, silver shine. Greg made a face like a child after the fireworks had burned out, letting out a pitiful sigh. He timidly poked at the blade.
“It’s not hot”
Is the heat all converted to light and dispersed…? He muttered to himself. A while later, he noticed Cleo staring intently at him.
“… Ah, AAH! No, my apologies for that. You have my thanks, and take it back.”
Returning the sword to Cleo, he let his awkward gaze wander.
“Now then, it’s about time we get some rest in. We’ll have to watch the fire on rotation… Cleo-san, you go to sleep first. In two… no, three hours, I’ll wake you up.”
The conversation was cut off somewhat forcefully. Cleo wanted to here more about adamantite, but even if the weight of his heavy shield had been taken on, the fatigue of walking through a forest all day had definitely accumulated. This would go on for perhaps another week. If he dragged his fatigue onto t he next day, he would end up causing trouble to Greg. Cleo obediently prepared to sleep.
When he tried removing the sleeping b ag from his rucksack, the boy of paint supplies entered his eyes.
(I’d like to find time to paint at least one.)
Pulling off his boots, he entered a sleeping bag.
A first forest, a first taste, a first sleeping bag. His heart soared, giving him difficulty in falling asleep. When he mused over how nice it must be to have a sleeping bag, his face went lax on its own.
Even so, given ten minutes, Cleo was raising a sleeper’s breath.
Greg looked into the distance, as if recalling the glimmer of adamantite from before, looking up at the slight slimmer of stars through the gaps in the leaves and branches.
Exactly one hour after Cleo raised a sleeper’s breath.
Disguising himself with the crackling of the fire, Greg quietly collected his belongings. Cleo’s sleeping face popping out from the sleeping b ag was more tranquil than anything.
“Cya, young master.”
Leaving behind a practically inaudible whisper, he produced his charmed compass from his bosom, confirming the direction its needle pointed. Alright. But that did leave one problem.
(The adamantite sword called a dream. That’s a piece that’ll likely never enter my eyes a second time. Should I nab it, or leave it… what do I do?)
Greg’s material desire throbbed vehemently. I want it. I want to make it mine. Or perhaps I can sell it off for a fortune. But in the end, he gave up. It was dangerous to take back what would leave a trace.
(If I wait in Elkada Village, that second wife’s envoy—Marcus was it—will bring over the contingency fee. Five hundred thousand gelt. That’s enough for me.)
Driving his thoughts towards the sum he would eventually lay hands on regardless, he made a grin and bounded into the shadows of the thicket.
5
A while later, the roaring shriek of a beast rended the forest’s still. But such noises were transient, and soon the only sound came as the leaves being swayed by a gentle breeze.
6
A dreary world as if dust had settled on an oil painting in the storeroom.
A Cleo of young countenance was sitting before the flower bed in the yard and sketching.
He was finally allowed to paint. No, even when he did paint, no one scolded him anymore. The whip was gone too. When he should have been delighted, it wasn’t any fun. Perhaps it had been too long, he couldn’t draw as he wanted.
(Dammit…!)
Gripping the pencil in his palm, He scribbled out nonsensical line after line on the drawing paper. As if expressing the negative emotions he was in no deficit of, the paper slathering black before his very eyes.
At that moment, a voice suddenly called from behind. A voice he knew well.
“It’s been a while since I last saw the young master paint. Did they finally give permission?”
Cleo turned only his torso to look around. There, was—
Cleo blankly opened his eyes.
In his vision, the branches spread out to cover the night sky, as if a tree monster was trying to give him a start. Where was this?
(… That’s right, I’m in the middle of the ‘Blue Rose Trial’.)
Good grief, he sighed.
(How long have I been asleep? Greg said he’d wake me up after three hours…)
As if turning over in his sleep, he looked in Greg’s direction… but he was nowhere to b e seen.
Huh?
Changing his facing direction, he looked the other way. But no luck there either.
He undid his sleeping bag’s fastener and raised his body. He turned in a circle to look around.
There really was no one. Only the bonfire whose flame had weakened somewhat in force raised a crackling sound.
(…… Huh…?)
Terrifying scenarios swept over his brain all at once.
“… Mr. Greg…?”
No response.
He tried raising the volume of his voice a bit and calling out again. No matter how long he waited, all that returned was the sound of the fire, and the gentle wind racing across the forest. His unease welled up.
Greg was gone. Where did he go?
(The bathroom? No… that’s unlikely.)
He could simply take care of business in a nearby thicket. He had no need to go somewhere he couldn’t respond.
(Then why… where could he have gone off to…?)
Thinking didn’t produce an answer. “No matter what happens, I’ll guarantee your safety,” he had said. Then what sort of reason would have him leave Cleo behind and leave?
It was there Cleo noticed. His baggage was gone.
A scenario that grazed his head snuck its way in once more. In the blink of an eye, it inflated like a balloon, and he could no longer play the fool.
(Mr. Greg… didn’t go off just anywhere… he went home…)
His heart acted up, badum, badum. It acted up as it to tear a hole through his chest. His breath was rough. The interior of his tight-clenched fist oozed with sweat. Why? What for?
Cleo couldn’t tell. In the first place, he was unable to think rationally.
In the first place, that wasn’t the most important thing at the moment. If Greg truly did go back—(I… have to escape from this forest on my own…)
Was he even capable of the feat?
7
Using the position of the constellations, taking the season into consideration to presume the current time was a skill he did not have. But equivocally looking up at the sky, it wasn’t hard to guess that the night wouldn’t break sometime soon.
He waited around an hour. While he didn’t have a watch, it was presumably an hour. But no matter how he waited, Greg didn’t come back after all. Cleo felt as if he was watching a dream, sitting in front of the flame raising smoke into the sky.
Snapping a branch of dry wood in two, he tossed it in.
The bonfire blazed in a dug-out put around fifteen centimeters deep. To the s ide of the hole, was the pile of dirt dug out of it.
“If you dig a hole and light a fire inside it, you don’t have to worry about the ashes spreading. When cleaning up, you just have to bury it with the dirt you dug out. To top it all off, when grilling, the height of the fire is just right, it’s real convenient. Truly three birds with one stone.”
Greg had explained to him with a smile. He was a world apart from those home tutors who brandished their whips as if training a beast, and never smiled no matter what he accomplished.
(Did Mr. Greg… really abandon me and go back…?)
Can someone really show such kindness towards someone they plan o n betraying? Various people came and went from the Grant House estate. Those folks would never extinguish their smiles. But over fifteen years, Cleo had grown to notice a majority of their smiles were false.
Was Greg of the same sort? Deceiving Cleo with false kindness, sticking his tongue out in his heard? Cleo couldn’t believe it.
He gave a big sigh.
(What… am I going to do now.)
The ‘Blue Rose Trial’ was the least of his worries. That being the case, even if he wanted to turn back, without Greg’s charmed compass, there was no way of knowing the direction of the closest village of Clamberra.
No food stock. Greg had taken off with all the dried meat and preserves.
If he wandered the forest without knowing the direction he was headed, it was likely a death by starvation that awaited him.
No, perhaps he wouldn’t even be afforded that.
For example, once the bonfire died out, at that instant, the beasts that thirsted as if they were waiting for it might come at him.
The sensation of being observed by something in the darkness. When he didn’t even want to recall them, Marcus’ words came back again. ‘In the forest where the blue roses grow, there is a possiblity of encountering dangerous beasts’.
Dangerous beasts…!
While Cleo’s sword was apparently a valuable, noteworthy piece, that fact held no meaning with a complete novice as its wielder. Naturally imagining himself being devoured alive, the insides of his body froze up
Ever since his mother died by disease, Cleo had thrown his life aside. It’s not like I’ll live a long life, he was sure. However, that didn’t mean he didn’t mind having his rawhide stripped life, his flesh gnawed at, spending his final moments in unbelievable pain.
If that’s the case—he drew the adamantite sword behind him from its scabbard and touched the metal to his neck. With a prickling pain, the tip dug into the skin.
At that moment, the sensation of, ‘At this moment, I am on the verge of death,’ exploded in his head. The contrary states of life and death could be switched out oh so easily in just a number of centimeters. His a rms shook, he got the feeling he might really stick it in.
And then what would happen?
A geyser of blood would flow out. There’s no way it would be painless. He wouldn’t be able to breathe. There’s no way it would be easy. He would surely go through a hellish pain. Until the moment he stopped drawing breath.
“… uuWAAAhh!”
As if brushing off a snake coiling around his hand, he tossed the adamantite sword aside. A disgusting unease spread bit by bit across his spine. Holding his ceaselessly shaking hands to his body, he crouched down as if collapsing.
(No… I don’t want to die like this…!)
His tears spilled out onto the ground.
So opened a night non-permitting a wink of sleep.
The forest the morning sun couldn’t reach was still dim. Yet this was no longer the sort of darkness with something secretly lurking. A faint heat could even be felt from the shadows in the vegetation.
The bonfire had just barely held out. Cleo gazed fixatedly at the flickering red ash with bloodshot eyes. Fatigue and drowsiness made his head somewhat haze. Even so, he had somehow arrived at his answer. He had hardened his resolve.
He was going to walk.
If we simply walked straight, he would eventually exit the forest without fail. He had made it all the way here in a day, so with good luck, he might be able to leave it in one.
Of course, Cleo was aware it wasn’t something so easily. But saying it was impossible and giving up wouldn’t grant him an easy death. That was far too terrifying, so Cleo decided to proceed blindly. Whatever the case, now that he had decided, he was best off acting on it quickly. If he didn’t make it as far as he could in a day, he wouldn’t be able to light a fire at night. The matches had gone off with Greg.
He shook his canteen to confirm his remaining water, moistening his throat with only one swig. Covering up the burnt ash with dirt, he strung his rucksack over his shoulder.
8
A few hours from a resolved departure. It was likely a little passed midday.
Walking straight was more troubling than he could have imagined. No matter how thick the thicket grew, he would have to plunge straight through it. For the steep slopes that were practically cliffs, he would cling to the plant life, sliding down bit by bit with due caution. Naturally, during that time, he would confirm which way was ‘straight’ again and again to ensure he didn’t lost his direction.
The rate he progressed was likely less than half of the day before. Even so, it strikingly depleted his will and stamina. A forced march far too harsh to challenge sleep-deprived. He had gradually grown unsympathetic to the adamantite sword clanging loudly against his thigh, and unable to put up with it any longer, he stuck it into his bag.
As he gradually lost his breath, his legs growing heavier,
(Am I really walking straight…?)
An anxiety hazily spread through him. His morning resolve was already wavering.
To add insult to injury, an empty stomach spurred on his spirit’s breakdown. Thinking of nothing but the red tree crab he had eaten the night before, he walked while dragging his feet. When his entire field of vision was covered in trees, for some reason, he couldn’t catch sight of a single one that bore fruit. Had he possibly gone out of his way to chose a route that avoided all the fruit bearing trees? Such misgivings welled in his chest.
(How many more hours will I be walking with no food…)
It was still faint, but he was catching sight of the limit to his stamina.
When he was walking because he didn’t want to die, the more he walked, the closer he seemed to death. He felt the contradiction of his actions. Wouldn’t it just be easier for some carnivorous beast to make short work of me when I’m out cold from the fatigue of walking—he noticed he had begun to think and learned that his spirit was reaching its limit as well.
It could be god, or the devil, or even Marcus. Cleo sought salvation, he made an earnest entreaty in his heart. But,
(If Marcus was here right now, there’s no way he would save me…)
He thought, a self-depreciating laugh bursting from the depths of his stomach.
“Ff… haha… khahahah….”
The laugh showed no signs of stopping. Even when he lost sight of what was supposed to be funny, Cleo continued to laugh. Surely something bust be wrong with me, he thought. A while later, when he had finally contained his laughter, large years were falling from his eyes.
Crumbling at the knees, he collapsed onto the ground. By the time he noticed it, Cleo was sobbing convulsively.
(Someone… someone… )
“Save me…” he heard a voice.
Cleo’s shaking breath came to a sudden stop.
His moist eyes opened wide. At first, he thought the voice in his heart had unconsciously opened its mouth. But now in his head, he tried to reflect once more on the faint voice that plunged into his ear. It wasn’t his own voice he had learned over the course of fifteen years.
He blankly surveyed the area.
No one, nothing around.
Surely it was his imagination. Or perhaps the cry of some bird. Come to think of it, while he was walking, there was a monkey-like lifeform at the top of the trees, staring curiously at him. Perhaps he had mistaken the cry of some forest lifeform for human words.
He waited motionlessly a while to see what would happen, but nothing came of it. He really was just imagining things, or so the moment he accepted it,
“Save me…”
It was faint, but he certainly heard it. Undoubtedly a human voice. What’s more, judging by its pitch,
(A girl…? Why…)
A young girl wandering around the forest prowled by dangerous beasts. He couldn’t help but feel something was off. But they did say there were a few young women among the ranks of adventurers, so it wasn’t an impossible tale.
Cleo concentrated every nerve in his body to his ears. Even killing his own breath, he patiently waited until,
“Someone, save me…”
This time, he could confirm the direction it came from. He quickly got to his feet, and made for it nimbly as his body would allow. The hope swelling in his chest gave him a strong push on the back. As if his raggedness from a moment before had been a lie, his feet moved. He pushed his way through the fierce thicket.
(Whether it’s a little girl or some female swordsman, the fact they’re in the forest means there’s a high possibility they have a charmed compass.)
And more than that, having a person nearby would free him from the anxiety of loneliness. Even if they didn’t have a compass on their person, if he had a comrade he could exchange encouragement and cooperation with, he got the feeling that alone would greatly increase his probability of returning alive.
“Please, someone save me…”
It was much clearer this time. And close.
He could see a bright spot in the depths of the frontward thicket. That must be it!
It happened when he sprinted forward at full speed. The corpse of a small animal had fallen under the clump of grass under his feat, causing him to slip. The moment he realized his situation, his body was in the air.
Rolling alongside a scream, he pierced headfirst into the thicket, to find himself in a slight clearing. The midsummer afternoon sun poured onto the ground without interruption.
“Owww… tsss…”
As luck would have it, thanks to the sleeping bag in his rucksack acting as a cushion, he got off with just a scrape. That being the case, the inside of his head was still swirling in circles.
Cleo unsteadily raised his body to look around.
There was no one there.
(Huh… this wasn’t the place…?)
He tried waiting a bit, but he could no longer hear that voice from before.
“Heeey, is anyone here?”
He shouted to no response.
(No way, don’t tell me…)
He had definitely heard the voice from this area.
(Don’t tell me…… it was an auditory hallucination…?)
Astonishment ensued. Had his spirit pushed to the brink had fabricated a nonexistent hope? His knees were shaking, he could no longer bear the weight of the bag on his back. Cleo’s bottom his the ground as he hung his head crestfallen.
“…… Ah!”
He raised his face, hurriedly looking around.
When he had worn away his nerves to such an extent, he noticed that he had lost sight of the ‘straight’ direction he had walked for dear life. The blood withdrew from his face.
(The distance I’ve walked for hours just went poof… I’ll have to start from square one.)
The inside of his chest muddled with a black sense of despair.
Am I beyond salvation… he thought.
“… No! That’s wrong! I’m only hopeless if I give up here!”
Cleo turned the gears in his head to an absurd degree. What will giving up get me? Do I accept my fate of being a beast’s meal?
“Hell no! You’ve got to be joking!”
He smacked his power-drained legs a few times to inject them with motivation. In a show of fighting spirit, he stood. If he followed the tread grass and broken branches back to the spot he first heard the voice, he’d be able to get back someway or another. All that was left was to depend on his memory, the same scenery from before- the shape of the trees and grass, their position- he’d have to search for it. If he did, then he’d surely be able to tell where he had walked from, and where he was walking to.
“So there’s no one here! Am I right!?”
He tried one final call. No response.
Alright! He started walking back towards the thicket of tattered twigs he had just broken through.
It happened then. There was a sensation of something touching his ankles.
Oh? The moment he turned his eyes to look at them, the earth and the heavens were swapped.
It happened so suddenly, Cleo was at a loss for words. Right above his head was the ceiling-like ground. The sunlight shone down from his feet. This upside-down scenery was almost like another world. As his rationality gradually returned, he finally comprehended his feet had been tangled in something, and that something was handing him upside-down.
(What… is this…)
He heard a swish in the shadow of a tree with a large trunk and its undergrowth, something was moving. And slowly, it made its way towards him.
(…… Eh…?)
Something tread over the wild plants, as if rising to the surface of a pitch-black bog, it slowly showed its form under the light of the sun.
It was a young girl, exposing her bare skin.
From her back drooped a number of tentacle-like appendages, their tips squirming eerily. And among them, one of them had extended forward to grasp Cleo’s feet.
The girl gave a sweet smile.
“Thank you for coming.”
The same voice as before. In Cleo’s head—how many times had it been—those words resounded.
‘In the forest where the blue roses grow, there is a possibility of encountering dangerous beasts’
The young girl stuck out her dark-red tongue to lick her lips.
