“Uncle Młynar, don’t we need to stock up on supplies or anything?” “…No need to worry.
There are camps out there.
And even if we run short, there’s no shortage of prey in the wilderness.” Clarus finished changing and walked out through the front door.
Młynar silently looked him over.
A windproof hooded jacket, heavy boots, fingerless gloves, a red checkered scarf covering his mouth and nose, and a pair of wind goggles resting on his forehead.
And, of course, a sword—a gleaming longsword.
His jacket looked unusually bulky.
He was probably wearing more than one layer underneath.
“…Keeping warm in the wilderness is a good thing, but if you want to move properly in a fight, it’s better not to dress so heavily.” “Take some of it off.
There’s no need to bundle up that much.
Our constitutions aren’t so weak that we’ll catch a chill that easily.” “Oh, okay.” Clarus took off the fleece he’d been wearing beneath the jacket, leaving only his vest and shirt underneath before putting the large jacket back on.
Cole accepted the fleece Clarus handed back to him.
It would be a lie to say he wasn’t worried.
But he was a man too, and he understood that his son needed an experience like this if he was going to grow.
In the end, all he did was pat Clarus on the shoulder.
“Stay close to your Uncle Młynar.
Watch carefully and learn everything you can.
Your grandparents and I will be waiting for you to come home.” Old Henry handed him a pocket watch.
“I carried this when I went out on campaign in my younger days…
It’s reliable.
Doesn’t break easily.
Bring it back to me in one piece.” “I understand, Grandpa.” Clarus accepted the pocket watch and slipped it into his clothes.
Grandmother Mia pulled Clarus into a hug.
Clarus had grown so tall that Mia now only reached his chin, so he bent down slightly.
“Little Clarus…
take good care of yourself…” Mia placed an oddly shaped charm around his neck, then carefully tucked it beneath his collar.
Wiping away her tears, Mia cupped Clarus’s face in both hands and studied him through watery eyes, as though trying to carve every detail of his face permanently into her memory.
Clarus gave her a genuine smile.
He climbed into the sidecar of Młynar’s motorcycle and waved goodbye to his family until their voices disappeared beyond the horizon of the Grand Knight Territory.
The city’s wind howled past his ears.
Clarus pulled the goggles down from his forehead and casually asked, “Uncle Młynar, what do we do next?” Młynar rode the motorcycle with sidecar through the city’s traffic.
“…You can just call me Uncle, like Margaret and the others do.” “There isn’t really a plan.
Life in the wilderness doesn’t follow a fixed schedule.
At most, you pick up a bounty one day and go handle it the next.” Ever since Młynar had ridden old Henry’s three-wheeled motorcycle, he’d barely touched a normal two-wheeler again.
His original beloved motorcycle had been destroyed by Toland, and although he’d quickly gotten his hands on an even better one afterward, after some hesitation, Młynar still used the money from a recent bounty to buy himself a newer three-wheeled motorcycle.
This kind of motorcycle was well suited to life in the wilderness.
It could carry people, cargo, extra fuel, and more spare tires, and it even rode more steadily than an ordinary motorcycle.
Kazimierz was a nation populated by large numbers of Kuranta, and broad plains covered much of its territory.
There really was a reason the older generation favored certain things, especially once practicality entered the equation.
“I’ve heard enough about your situation to understand the basics.
Pay attention to your surroundings on the way out of the city.” “…Just like I did back then.” After saying that, Młynar fell silent and focused on driving.
Clarus understood the hint and didn’t ask anything else.
He turned his head instead and watched the scenery passing by.
Little by little, the noise of the city faded behind them, and the flashing neon lights disappeared from his eyes.
Then the wind of the wilderness began striking his face.
Even while they were still within the city walls, Clarus felt as though he could already smell the wilderness waiting outside.
The campaign knights guarding the city gate recognized Młynar and simply waved them through.
Of course they did.
He was a Nearl.
If House Nearl had ever wanted to harm the Grand Knight Territory, Kirill wouldn’t have stood up for Kazimierz all those years ago.
Besides, the old Pegasus was sick.
He wasn’t dead.
The motorcycle didn’t slow, passing straight through the checkpoint.
The “wilderness” unfolded before Clarus.
Except what he saw was a “wilderness of life.” In the distance stretched enormous layers of gray cloth, overlapping one another in chaotic heaps.
Only after looking carefully could he make out what they truly were—a “civilized” spectacle formed from one dusty tent after another.
This really was a wilderness of life.
Because almost nothing living here would be considered a “proper life” by the gentlemen sitting comfortably above them.
“A refugee settlement.” The motorcycle that hadn’t slowed even once for the Grand Knight Territory’s endless decadence finally came to a stop before this stretch of wilderness.
Młynar removed his helmet and tucked it beneath one arm as he stared across the settlement.
“You probably grew up rarely meeting anyone with Oripathy like you, but the children living there rarely meet healthy children like Margaret.” “Seven or eight people out of every ten in there are Infected.
And that’s being conservative.” “If someone isn’t Infected yet, they probably only arrived recently and simply haven’t had enough time to become infected.” Młynar turned and looked at Clarus, who was staring blankly toward the settlement.
“Want to take a look?” “Can we, Uncle?” Clarus lowered his eyes.
“Of course.” Młynar started the motorcycle again.
“I came through here too, back then.” …
Run-down.
Crowded.
Those were Clarus’s first impressions of the refugee settlement.
Before entering, Młynar had already covered every part of himself that could reasonably be concealed, leaving only a pair of eyes visible beneath his clothing, carrying an unreadable look.
Clarus soon understood why.
They hadn’t traveled very far into the settlement before someone lying across the road blocked their path.
A Feline.
Black Originium crystals protruded from his face, and his chest had long since stopped moving.
A corpse.
His head and face were covered in blood.
Whatever had killed him, it clearly hadn’t been a natural death or simply the progression of Oripathy.
This wasn’t Clarus’s first time seeing a dead body.
He had never personally taken a life, but death had accompanied him throughout his entire life.
Młynar turned the handlebars, doubled back, and chose another road.
Clarus looked over his shoulder at the corpse, then at the expressions of the people around it.
And suddenly, he understood.
They were used to it.
He turned back toward the road ahead.
Dust billowed beneath the motorcycle’s wheels, slowly burying its tracks behind them.
…
“We’re here.” Młynar removed his helmet, then pulled the hood of his coat over his head.
Clarus climbed down as well and looked at the shabby little tavern in front of them.
It was one of the few actual buildings among the endless sea of tents.
The building itself probably wasn’t particularly old, but the wind and dust had remade it.
“It’s an information hub.
I come here often to pick up bounty work.” Młynar explained it casually.
Clarus nodded.
Młynar pushed open the tavern door, and Clarus followed him inside.
The little bell above the entrance rang with a crisp chime that felt completely out of place in a place like this, but the loud cursing, laughter, and crude teasing from inside immediately dragged Clarus back into reality.
The scars covering the patrons’ bodies and the weapons resting within easy reach beside them all seemed to shout the same thing at anyone who looked their way: We’re not people you want to mess with.
Młynar walked to the bar.
The bartender recognized him and handed him a key.
Młynar quietly thanked him, then led Clarus toward the second floor.
At the foot of the stairs, Clarus glanced back.
One drunken patron had already started swinging a bottle at someone else’s head.
Some people fought, some tried to break it up, and others simply cheered them on…
Complete chaos.
Behind the counter, the bartender calmly continued polishing a glass until it gleamed.
Clarus turned away and walked upstairs.