November 20, 1320.
It was upon the rooftops, it was beneath the ground, it shrouded the sky, and it crept into every nook and cranny of the city. It playfully climbed the tree canopies, restlessly chased the shifting winds, acting as a mischievous child forever frolicking with the moonlight. Every breath carried a thin, pure white mist, signaling that the child had finally returned—the bitter chill of the "White Nights." One wonders if that dreamer ever found Nastenka.
Do you fancy a drink blended from the chill and the darkness? Though Koromachi would likely say no, she was still kneeling low upon the damp earth, her fingers pressing firmly to trace the final lines of a magic circle encompassing Endsilver's estate. She could have stayed home instead, attending to so many far more crucial matters—like beer, for instance. It was monumentally important, yet that old geezer of a mayor somehow had the heart to drag her out here.
"They could have at least brought me a few bottles of beer," Koromachi grumbled as she worked. Nevertheless, it didn't take her too long to complete it. The eerie glow from the magic circle cast upon her face, clearly illuminating the silhouette of the Greedrabbit waiting behind her.
Koromachi straightened up, glanced at the small figure, and grumbled, "That boy Akusha is such a slowpoke; he's only managed to finish two of them by now."
She raised her eyes toward the colossal mansion, tightly enveloped in an ethereal barrier. Sometimes, this mansion felt just like those tiny houses over there, remaining warm before that child. Yet, those houses were warm because of affection, because of a tender, nurturing touch, and because of the faint light flickering from a still-burning oil lamp. As for this grand structure, it was "warm" precisely because that "child" was absent—within its courtyard, flowers still bloomed in full radiance, and the roofs retained their luxurious color, entirely untouched by the white of the snow. Perhaps the master of this estate has somehow offended the snow.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, sensing each ripple upon the surface of a tranquil lake; it was strangely, remarkably gentle. This gentleness, however, stood in stark contrast to its power—a power she could not bring herself to believe was of human origin. It was absurdly powerful, much like the Tower of Babel itself. Yet, amidst the sheer grandeur of this "Tower of Babel" lay a bizarre tenderness, as though she were being fiercely embraced by springtime. It was the scent of blooming flowers, subtle strokes of fragrance that softened the overwhelming, oppressive force of the barrier.
"But if even the snowflakes cannot find their way inside, why does the fragrance of the flowers..."
Koromachi burst out laughing.
"So it's a one-way barrier. It only blocks outsiders from infiltrating, but does nothing to stop those within from escaping."
Koromachi chuckled to herself. Her grin began to turn so utterly devious that the little Greedrabbit had to scrawl upon the dirt:
this is a smirk
The riddle had been solved; the barrier was no longer an insurmountable mountain far beyond Koromachi's reach.
"Go on in," she said, "it has grown a few fractions weaker."
The Greedrabbit slowly advanced. As its body crossed the invisible boundary, the air suddenly fluctuated, forming faint, spreading ripples that shattered like the surface of a tranquil lake struck by a stone, before devouring its shadow within.
But at that very moment, a small figure suddenly dashed out of nowhere, lunging straight toward the barrier. Quick as lightning, Koromachi reached out and firmly snatched the child by the scruff of their collar.
"Shifu! Why let that rabbit go in instead of me?!" the child protested, squirming wildly.
"Do you have a death wish? There's no way you're getting in there."
Koromachi hoisted her up by the back of her collar, dangling her like a little kitten. She studied that pouting face intently—stubborn, glistening eyes that vividly evoked the air of an "ingenious nobleman of La Mancha," yet shadowed by heavy dark circles, all paired with gentle, pastel-pink hair whose soft nature Koromachi wished her personality possessed even a tenth of. Her long, pointed, triangular ears gave a slight twitch. Those eyes remained fixed on the mansion, yearning to charge headfirst into the "windmills" with absolute obstinacy and folly.
Koromachi narrowed her eyes at her godforsaken disciple:
"Have you even memorized the past continuous tense yet, that you think you can just wander out here?"
"Uhm... hehe, Shifu. The moon is so beautiful tonight..."
The words "changing the subject" were written clear as day all over her face. This level of lying was inferior to even a shepherd boy's.
"Recite the formula."
"Uhm... Shifu. Were you perhaps born from a bamboo stalk? Because you are so remarkably beautiful—flawless, like a gentle fairy descending upon the mortal realm... and surely, someone as wonderful as you wouldn't flick my ear, right?"
Koromachi cocked her thumb against her index finger, brought it right up to the girl's ear... and delivered a sharp, powerful flick. Thwack!
"That's the wrong formula for the past continuous tense."
"Itai! That hurts!" The little girl clutched her reddened ear, crying out in pain.
"If you know it hurts, why don't you study properly for once?"
"But it's so boring! Why do I even need to learn this blasted grammar anyway? A knight's duty is to go out and save the world!"
Koromachi let out a long, weary sigh. How on earth was she supposed to cram knowledge into this completely empty head? The mind of an obstinate fool who, of all things, chose to idolize another obstinate fool. She questioned the child:
"Is the comedy play, The Knight of the Burning Pestle, about to be performed?"
"Yes!"
"So, to put it simply, you are desperate for cash just to go watch that play?"
"Hehe... and also to buy some Kikufuku (a type of sweet from Sendai Prefecture, Japan)!"
The child laughed, feigning innocence.
"And you honestly thought that charging headfirst into the barrier was a wise solution?"
"Is that so? Well, I don't know why, but it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. Hehe."
Offering a sheepish grin, the child rubbed her ear while curiously asking Koromachi, "By the way, Shifu, why did you let that rabbit go inside instead?"
"Because you are far too weak against this barrier; I can't rely on you for a single thing," Koromachi retorted, her voice dripping with blunt, brutal sarcasm.
The child countered, "T-Then... why don't you go in yourself, Shifu?"
Koromachi's eyes darkened slightly, gazing toward the fading streak of light from the magic circle.
"Because... neither can I."
And on the inside...
I opened my eyes and looked around. Everything had changed; it was no longer a maze of steel pipes, but iron doors heavily oozing dark red paint from their crevices.
I roamed about, knocking on door after door. Answering me was nothing but silence and the void, save for the hollow metallic clang that rang out with every rap. But then, one door shattered completely beneath my knock. Inside lay a bedroom with a double bed, heavily laden with an abundance of pineapple-infused gin.
I stepped into that room. It reeked intensely of red paint—a sharp, acrid aroma like crushed pine needles, a heavy undertone of wood and citrus peel essential oil, and a cloying, thick sweetness that felt harsh at the back of the throat. It felt like a bar situated along a crystal-clear coast, drenched in sunshine and brushed by a gentle breeze. Yet, this idyllic scene did not last; following that brief, soothing comfort, a suffocating oppression crashed over me, mingling with the hazy, dreamlike illusion of the stella flower.
Strangely enough, that sensation beckoned me to venture even deeper inside, as if to more clearly perceive this peculiar fragrance. The room was remarkably thoughtful—right beside the bed brimming with pineapple gin sat a single chair.
I sat down upon it, picking up a lowball glass. It bore the fragrance of the stella flower; from what I could recall, this was a tea brewed by boiling the petals of the flower itself, yet its taste was uncannily similar to alcohol—or more specifically, gin.
"Good children don't drink alcohol, but surely a good child is allowed some 'tea,' right?" I took a small, tentative sip. The pineapple juice possessed a rich, natural sweetness laced with a sharp, vibrant tartness. When blended with the stella flower tea, this very juiciness and sweet-and-sour balance mellowed out the inherent "harshness" and fiery pungency of the tea, making the beverage far more palatable.
The crowning highlight of the beverage lies in the aroma of juniper berries and its signature herbal and root notes. The pineapple juice by no means overpowers these scents. On the contrary, the refreshing pineapple flavor serves as a canvas, accentuating the renowned herbal fragrance of this tea to create a profile both profound and unbridled, akin to early spring blossoms.
Following that first sip, the lingering finish leaves a crisp coolness, a touch of subtle astringency from the citrus layers (lemon and orange) inherent to this tea, and the long-lasting, sweet aroma of pineapple.
Humbert Humbert—foolish, pedophilic, and utterly deserving of banishment to the second circle of Hell—was perhaps a bit more fortunate than I. He drank to celebrate a glorious victory, whereas I am drinking tea with a scythe already pressed against my neck.
Because...
"Shota-chan~ Come here. Don't run anymore; I know you're hiding in there."
That sickly sweet, soft voice dragged me from my stupor in the gentlest, yet most agonizing way possible. Amidst the closely packed doors, the interwoven iron chains, the icy chill of rusted steel, the overwhelming reek of pineapple, and the flickering illusions, there the two of them stood—Shi and Dozaemoon.
I slowly stepped out of the room, my hand still tightly clutching the tea glass, which had gone completely cold. I glanced around and let out a soft sigh. Behind me lay a bottomless night; on either side were nothing but tightly locked iron doors, and right in front of me stood them. I prayed that if this were a dream, please let me wake up; but if this were reality, please let me die just a little more gently.
Strangely enough, not a single panicked thud echoed within my chest. Why did that primal emotion of fear fail to surface as it had so many times before? Why did these legs no longer yearn to run frantically, desperately clinging to the fading rays of the dying sunset?
Perhaps it was because the ones before me were them...
Perhaps I had fallen in "love"—or more accurately, become utterly manipulated by their alluring biological traits.
Within me, a dead forest stubbornly keeps its green, While out there, the living walk as if already deceased.
What were those two lines of poetry about, I wonder? Resignation to fate, I suppose. Even poets—souls overflowing with literature, with the morning light, and with bright tomorrows—sometimes earnestly yearn to let go and surrender to their bonds. So surely, I am no exception.
"Such a good boy, Shota-chan..."
I drew in a deep breath to keep my breathing steady, gradually closing my eyes. I waited. Waiting for the end of all tomorrows, waiting for the final ray of sunlight to eventually fade away, waiting for the brilliant rose to wither beneath the scorching sun.
But a pair of hands yanked my collar from behind and bolted; yet, curiously, they were incredibly gentle, almost as if they were 'cradling' me. But since darkness had already consumed my vision, I was unable to identify the young woman dragging me along.
When all around, the weary choose to bow,
And drift along life's heavy current now,
A single soul still asks in quiet dread:
"If everyone should stop, who steps ahead?"
The lake rests still, while heavy shadows loom,
They dim the lamps, and sleep takes every room.
But I collect the meager ash to start
A roaring, fierce blue flame within my heart.
Though people mock my dreams as wild and vain,
Though weary crowds surrender to the strain,
I'd rather be a candle in the gale,
Than be cold coal when winter nights prevail.
What is this poem about, I wonder? A dogged defiance against fate, I suppose. Even poets—those distant souls, brimming with tears, with bleak nights, and with unfinished yesterdays—still remain a flame. No matter how flickering, no matter how faint, they are still a source of warmth. So surely, I am no exception.
"That poem does not speak of resignation."
A shrill voice snapped me out of my train of thought. I looked around, straining to discern who that voice belonged to. I was standing in a room with an impossibly high ceiling. Overhead, lamps cast a faint, amber glow that flickered sporadically. A stifling, musty oppression enveloped my entire body, as if this very space 'hated' me. The walls were covered in gaudy, colorful patterns—whimsical flowers drawn just like a child's painting.
"Over here, Akusha-chan!"
Despite looking all around, I couldn't pinpoint the source of the voice until I looked down at my feet—it was Mr. Rabbit!
"Did you come to play with me?"
I cradled him in my arms, nuzzling his cheeks and repeatedly stroking that soft white fur. He didn't seem to mind, lying perfectly still to let me pet him to my heart's content.
"Did you save me?"
Mr. Rabbit replied, "Of course."
But an inexplicable, irrational sense of unease flooded my heart. I asked softly,
"Earlier, I was absolutely certain that what touched me was a human hand. Besides, you're so small... how could you have dragged me along?"
"That's a secret."
"But how can you speak human language?"
"That's a secret."
"How did you even get in here?"
"That's a secret."
"But why did you say that poem isn't about resignation?"
'''Within me, a dead forest stubbornly keeps its green, While out there, the living walk as if already deceased.'' It sounds incredibly negative, but the truth is... it really is negative. Yet, that negativity is simply because it is too honest with the adult world."
"Are adults really that negative?"
"Perhaps so, because grown-ups love numbers so much."
No matter how hard I pressed, all I received in return was the cold indifference of those mere two words: "That's a secret." He hopped out of my arms and spoke. Yet, when he finally spoke in earnest, I couldn't understand a single thing he was saying.
"Why do you think beings with human-level intelligence like them would ever need to attack you? Could it be for reasons such as territorial defense, predation, and seeking a mate?"
Mr. Rabbit suddenly asked a very peculiar question. I thought, desperately trying to find an answer, grasping for any logic to understand, searching through all my knowledge to rationalize it, yet time kept passing, too stingy to grant me the solution.
""It appears they don't fit into any of those classifications. Such behavioral patterns are exclusively observed in organisms driven purely by instinct. Yet, based on my observations, they possess advanced linguistic capabilities and demonstrate a high proficiency in tool utilization." I said, shaking my head. "It's completely absurd. Beings with human-level intelligence would never attack for such primitive reasons."
"They belong to the fourth category due to a mind-control artifact."
"Why are you so sure about that?"
"That's a secret."
Mr. Rabbit pulled me back from my wandering thoughts. Even though there was no evidence—or perhaps there was, and he simply wasn't telling me—I suppose I'd just trust him. Surely, he wouldn't deceive me... right?
I still couldn't shake my curiosity regarding those "secrets" of his. Perhaps locating that artifact was of paramount importance now, yet the burning desire to know clung to me, refusing to let me go.
We set off. Yet, there was a bizarre abundance of pathways branching in every imaginable direction—left, right, horizontally, and vertically. With every turn we took, dozens of new paths would manifest, until I could no longer tell if we were actually making progress or merely walking in circles.
Within that space, there were footsteps, ragged breaths, the hum of flickering lights, the rustling of the wind, and the sound of clawing. There was the surreal noise of flowers bursting into radiant bloom, the friction of carpet against shoe soles, and the incessant roaring of muskets.
We tried our best to distance ourselves from the area of the gunfire, but bizarrely enough, the sound seemed to know how to "run." No matter where we went, it loomed right behind me. We couldn't outrun it, couldn't escape it, couldn't comprehend it, couldn't resist it. Within this space—or perhaps I should refer to it as a labyrinth now?—rows of vases lined the base of the walls on both sides, packed tightly together. It was a floral species completely unknown to me. And the most vibrant focal point right in the center was... them.
"You've been a very naughty boy, Shota-chan~"
That voice remained as crystal-clear as silver bells drifting in the wind, like snow falling upon a hill, like the very dreams from which I never wished to awaken. Except, they were a little different now. Normally, Shi would be on top, with Dozaemoon underneath. But now, their positions were completely reversed—and gripped in Dozaemoon's hand was an axe.
"Don't run, I am genuinely advising you. Dozaemoon doesn't like that."
They kept closing in with slow, deliberate steps. Yet, it seemed I truly was a naughty child; completely disregarding her counsel, I scooped up Mr. Rabbit and bolted at breakneck speed.
But they were invariably faster. Their bodies twitched convulsively, eyelids blinking rapidly, as they lunged toward us.
"Don't run... please, don't run."
Shi continued to speak incessantly, yet her voice carried a trace of pathos as tears streamed down her face. It was highly paradoxical, considering she was currently functioning as Dozaemoon's legs, driving them both directly toward me. Perhaps she was an exceptional actress, or perhaps I was simply a cruel spectator who, having witnessed too many performances, still suspected a ruse even when the acting had ceased.
And a pair of hands gripped my shoulders, yanking me backward until I was sprawling flat on the ground. A pair of feet—or perhaps hands—pressed down on my shoulders, preventing me from rising. My field of vision was now reduced to the blinding glare of the overhead light, Shi, Dozaemoon, and an axe blade. And that axe blade in Dozaemoon's grip was utilized in the exact manner an axe was intended to be used: to cleave in two whatever they desired—or, more specifically right now, my chest cavity.
It was the sensation of my fragile spine being violently crushed beneath a boulder of monstrous weight. Yet, by some fleeting stroke of luck, it did not hurt in the slightest; there was only the feeling of this body going completely rigid. But unfortunately, that small mercy lasted for a mere three seconds before the agony embraced me.
Could I be turning delusional, to "hear and feel" it—the splintering of bone echoing from deep within my own chest cavity—a dry, spine-chilling "snap"?
A searing burn flared up, only to be instantly overtaken by a hollow, piercing cold. The wind rushed into the gaping gash in my chest, as the warm blood gushing outward caused the skin to rapidly chill.
I struggled to flail, struggled to breathe, but the air failed to reach my windpipe, "leaking" out instead through the chest wound. Each attempt to inhale felt as though thousands of needles were plunging straight into my insides. I could smell—or perhaps merely imagined—the sharp, metallic stench of blood rushing up my nostrils, its taste welling up in my mouth. My breath was no longer normal respiration; it was a "gargling" sputter, the hiss of bloody air bubbles wheezing through the open wound.
The agonizing pain from earlier began to fade, replaced instead by an irresistible drowsiness. My limbs lost all strength, turning tremulous and ice-cold. Perhaps this is the textbook phenomenon of blood failing to pump to the periphery, and I am rather pleased to have finally put it into practice. My vision began to blur, the surrounding scenery darkening from the edges inward, as though someone were drawing a black curtain closed. All ambient sounds receded into the distance, muffled as if I were submerged underwater.
Though that encroaching curtain of darkness was far from gentle, fortunately, it granted me one final sight: Mr. Rabbit. Are you worried? You keep nudging me with those tiny feet, clutching a hope as minuscule as a solitary star. I lift my hand—or perhaps I merely think I am lifting it—using a frail finger to brush away your tears.
And that darkness truly arrived—nothing but darkness, nothing but an ice-cold void. Yet these ears could still catch it: the voice of a young girl I had never heard before, seemingly enraged over something. A sudden blast resounded.
And I drifted off into that dream.