HEO 71

Black Weasel took a deep breath and swung his axe with all his might at the air.

Now, let’s think about this as Silver. After burying my biological father’s head… what should I do? I’d rip out my enemy’s guts. Revenge!

No, no. That’s too crude.

He should have cut off the servant’s head first and then jumped into the river to retrieve the head. With Silver’s skills, he could have easily snatched any warrior’s axe and cut the servant’s throat. Yet he stopped at just retrieving his father’s head. Why?

Did he not really feel like seeking revenge? Well, honestly, I haven’t exactly done anything commendable either. Given Silver’s personality, it wouldn’t be strange if he’d just scowled, “You reap what you sow. That’s the end you deserve,” and left it at collecting his father’s head… No! But we lived together for 11 years! Scratch that! There has to be another reason!

There’s only one thing left.

He judged that he was no match for the servant.

That was an accurate assessment. Wolf’s greatsword, which had sliced through his neck in a single stroke… was still vivid in Black Weasel’s mind. At first glance, it looked like an ordinary greatsword. At least, that’s how it must have appeared to those around him. But the impression Black Weasel received when he faced the greatsword up close was entirely different. It was ominous, like a solar eclipse. It seemed as though the blade had been forged not with fire, but with malevolent darkness.

More importantly, there was Wolf’s skill with the blade. He severed Black Weasel’s thick neck with a single strike. A human neck, with its seven vertebrae and the dense network of muscles and ligaments, is as tough as the base of a camphor tree. Even a seasoned warrior cannot sever a human neck in one blow.

Was that strength a “reward”? What if the servant’s reward, like mine, activates only when specific conditions align? I don’t know what those conditions are, though.

The logic clicked into place like the gears of a clock. Black Weasel scrunched up his nose and stroked his beard with the back of his hand.

Alright. If that was the case, the first place Silver would head after his father’s death would probably…

“Come forth, hunter!”

Upon hearing the piercing shout, Black Weasel flinched and came to a halt. He had arrived at a village square. The center of the square was crowded with people. At a glance, they were all warriors. Regardless of gender, they all had their sides shaved, leather bracelets studded with metal on their left wrists, and axes and daggers at their waists. Surrounded by the warriors, a man on horseback, holding a parchment, shouted again.

“Step forward, hunter!”

Black Weasel walked forward again with a sour expression. It was always like this during the winter when food was scarce. The warriors would gather to raid nearby tribes. What “hunter”?

But then came the next words.

“The Skeleton King awaits you!”

Black Weasel’s whole body grew cold.

“The unknown darkness from which anything might crawl out, merciless monsters! But the Skeleton King bestows a reward upon those who return alive!”

The unknown.

Monsters.

Skeleton.

Reward.

Each word pierced his mind.

“The power to turn the impossible into the possible! The might to twist fate! The artifact that turns fanciful dreams into reality!”

The man’s voice cracked. The warriors, who had been silent until now, all thrust their fists into the air at once. They stomped their boots on the ground. A cloud of dust rose. As if transformed into a blast furnace, the square was instantly engulfed in heat.

“Step forward, you who wish to leave your name! Step forward, you whose heart still beats! Step forward, you who spit on death! Hell calls for you!”

“Hunt! Hunt!”

“We hunt monsters!”

“We retaliate! We pay them back!”

A roar erupted. Fists lashing through the dark sky, the contorted faces of warriors, necks with bulging veins, eyes bloodshot, everything pulsed with primal hatred. Black Weasel glanced around and startled upon spotting something. A few steps away, on the wall, graffiti painted in blood caught his eye. A girl’s face. Beneath it, a skeletal body.

Black Weasel stared at the drawing. All manner of cursed symbols swarmed over the skeletal specter like maggots.

Five years.

Five winters had passed.

That void now loomed with a different meaning.

What had happened during that time?

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1.

Two years ago.

A pitch-black night.

Thud. Thud. Thud. A dull sound reverberated across the deck.

Someone pushed Wolf’s shoulder and ran off. He gripped the ship’s railing with one hand and threw himself into the darkness without hesitation. Wolf’s gaze followed his trajectory.

Splash. Pure white foam surged from the pitch-black river, as dark as dried pig’s blood. Laughter followed. A whistle.

“Who is that? What’s he doing?”

Wolf stared at the river as if he were gazing at mold blooming on wallpaper. A warrior slung an arm over Wolf’s shoulder and said,

“He’s gone to retrieve the head. The people of Stoll believe that if the head isn’t buried in the ground, the soul cannot pass into the afterlife.”

‘To retrieve the head? That man’s…?’

Wolf couldn’t tear his gaze away from the river. The rippling waves stretched the ridges. Suddenly, something resembling a rotten log rose abruptly in the distance. It was a person. Hidden by the darkness, it was hard to see. He cut through the water with both arms toward some unknown destination. The trail of white foam following his movements gradually faded into the black ridges.

He’s getting farther away. Don’t go.

Who is that person? Well, do I really need to know?

Why didn’t you choose me?

It’s none of my business. Tomorrow, I might be the one lying around as a worthless corpse.

I only ever looked at you. But until the very end, you chose that person instead of me.

Turn back now.

If I had looked like that person, would your choice have been different? Would you have liked me just a little bit more?

Close your eyes. Stop thinking about it.

Come back!

I don’t know you.

Come back and look at me!

Squeak. A sound interrupted his thoughts. His vision warped like oil floating on a river.

Wolf opened his eyes. Squeak. Squeak. The sound of the sail halyards rubbing against rotten wood on the deck was drifting all the way here.

His head ached, as if he’d been tormented by a nightmare while he slept. He couldn’t remember what the dream had been about.

He rolled his eyes to look around. The cabin was cramped like a wooden box. A shirt lay haphazardly on the floor. The oil lamp hanging from the ceiling had nothing left but a blackened wick. In one corner of the cabin, a white parrot slept on an iron perch, motionless as a stuffed animal.

Wolf sat up with a start. Beads of sweat trickled down the contours of his upper body. The bedsheets were soaked through with sweat.

“Hey.”

〔What?〕

‘Flea’ replied.

“Time.”

〔11:21 a.m.〕

Just then, the parrot opened its eyes. It fluttered up from its perch and landed on Wolf’s shoulder.

“Wolf! I’m hungry!”

“Me too, Your Highness.”

He picked up the shirt lying on the floor and slipped it on. He kicked the cabin door and stepped out into the hallway. A warrior walking toward him from the opposite direction pressed his back against the wall the moment he saw Wolf.

On the deck, warriors were gathered in small groups, chatting loudly. Greasy animal bones, hard bread crumbs, and wooden barrels filled with murky liquor were scattered all over the floor.

“Damn. Quite the luxury.”

Wolf grabbed a chunk of bread, a piece of meat, and a cup of liquor, then headed toward the stern. As he handed over the bread, the parrot clamped it between its talons and began to nibble at it bit by bit.

Soon, the parrot pushed off Wolf’s shoulder and soared high into the air. Just as it was about to vanish from sight, it paused. It turned. It gradually shrinked as if merging with the blue sky. It became a dot, then a smaller dot, until it finally disappeared completely.

Wolf stood at the railing. He raised his cup while gazing up at the sky. It was filled with gray clouds.

“I wonder if it’s going to rain.”

〔Possible.〕

“I was talking to myself.”

A chilly autumn breeze, the cries of seagulls, and the salty smell of the sea mingled and crashed in. The sea was tedious and dangerous. Aside from the fact that disposing of corpses was easy, it was no better than the land.

Just as Wolf had emptied half his cup, the small dot reappeared in the sky. It gradually grew bigger, spun around, and plunged toward the ship at breakneck speed. Just before it was about to crash into the deck, it spread its wings wide and soared. Finally, it landed on the highest mast.

The parrot’s white feathers fluttered in the wind. With its eyes gently closed, it looked beautiful and free, but Wolf frowned.

The prince looks really happy.

In fairy tales, princes and princesses cursed by witches were always unhappy. Locked in towers, or transformed into beasts, they spent their days in tears, waiting for someone to save them. But what about reality?

Perched on the mast, Red Eagle preened his white feathers with his beak while basking in the sea breeze. The prince “reborn” as a parrot at the most desperate moment of his life. Perhaps it could be a blessing. Compared to the misfortune of being stripped of his status, honor, and lover, everything at its roots.

No. This isn’t right.

You’re smart. You were such a kind and thoughtful fellow. And now you’re supposed to spend the rest of your life flitting between the sky and my shoulder? Pecking at the bread I give you and nibbling on millet?