Ch.488Episode 17 – The Blood-Drinking Tree

# Nabuktu

Nabuktu is both a province and a city located in the southwestern part of the Zamria Federation.

One peculiar thing is that the province and city share the same name. Using South Korea as an example, it would be like having a “Gangwon City” within “Gangwon Special Self-Governing Province.”

The case of Nabuktu, where the province and city use the same name, is considered one of the few unusual examples even on the Moritani continent.

Even on the Moritani continent, known for its unique naming conventions, “Nabuktu Province, Nabuktu City” sounds strange from the start.

The reason for this city’s creation stems entirely from the history of the Zamria Federation.

Like many countries on the Moritani continent, the Zamria Federation was a nation born of mergers and wars.

The “Zamria Federation” emerged when tribal confederations formed around major tribes absorbed and unified smaller neighboring tribes through force.

“Nabuktu” was also a region absorbed into the federation amid bloody conflicts.

The tension between ruling and subjugated ethnic groups is a historical pattern experienced by countless empires.

It was only natural that the natives of Nabuktu would rise against the Zamria Federation government.

And as all empires and ruling ethnicities have done throughout history, the federal government labeled them as rebels, moved to suppress them, and succeeded.

The suppression succeeded, but integration failed.

The anger of natives whose homeland had been forcibly annexed was not an emotion that could be suppressed by guns and swords.

The initial armed suppression triggered a second uprising, and the second attempt at suppression escalated the uprising into a civil war. This marked the beginning of the Zamria Federation’s blood-stained modern history.

There’s no need to explain how incompetent and terribly oppressive the federal government was during this process.

One could easily find the answer by looking at where the three major warlord factions—represented by Asen, Sanya, and Hassan—established their bases.

Decades of civil war between the central and southern regions reduced the entire country to ruins. The conflict descended into an endless bloody quagmire when powerful nations, including the Kiyen Empire and the Abas Kingdom, began to intervene in earnest.

At this point, the Zamria Federation government felt the need to end the civil war.

The southern rebel forces felt the same way.

Everyone had guns pointed at each other, but they all sensed it was time to lay down their weapons.

Eventually, the Zamria Federation government took extraordinary measures.

They declared special autonomous districts for southern cities stretching from Nabuktu through Yon Kenema to Gorahun. They launched major projects to rebuild the devastated country and granted a certain level of autonomy along with regional revitalization projects.

The federal government’s blueprint didn’t completely end the civil war, but it was somewhat effective.

The south, granted a high level of autonomy, was quickly rebuilt around major cities, with Nabuktu at its center.

So Nabuktu isn’t just a city with a special name.

It’s a homeland that the subjugated people protected with blood and tears.

It’s a symbol of the conflict that runs through the modern history of the Zamria Federation.

Perhaps that’s why.

The tree that appeared in Nabuktu boasted a majestic and enormous presence.

As if symbolizing the blood-stained conflict.

As if it had absorbed all the blood and tears the city held.

## Episode 17 – The Blood-Drinking Tree

A tree devoured a person, but the city remained perfectly calm.

Some might be shocked that the city could remain normal after such a horrific incident, but even to me, this seemed natural.

No matter how massive the tree, the city representing the region is much larger and wider. The incident didn’t occur throughout the entire city but in a small section within it.

And Nabuktu is a metropolis of 24 million residents. In terms of area, it was slightly larger than Andong City.

In other words, it’s like having twice Seoul’s population living in an area the size of Andong, South Korea’s largest city by area.

Of course, the 24 million residents weren’t all clustered together.

Income, occupation, religion, and tribal origin—areas were divided according to implicit criteria, with people living alongside neighbors who matched their social codes.

The area where the incident occurred was the most underdeveloped slum among these divisions.

The dozens of tribes that make up the Zamria Federation’s population—the most marginalized and despised tribal members, those belonging to lower social classes, or refugees with no ties to Nabuktu.

The locals living in the slum generally belonged to such categories.

Just looking at this, one could roughly guess what tragedy was unfolding in that slum. I knew it from experience, not knowledge. I surmised it from information, not speculation.

In a desert where sandstorms sing of Mother Earth’s wrath. In a slum where a tree grows, nourished by human flesh and blood.

Armed provincial government troops and people climbing over barriers greeted us.

*

“…What’s that now?”

Camilla, stepping out of the car, turned her head toward the roaring crowd that sounded like a downpour.

A massive barrier made of sand, gravel, and waste concrete. As poles poked up and struck the barrier, troops dodged them and beat back climbing people with clubs and boots.

“Are they actually preventing those people from getting out?”

“It seems that way.”

I’d already heard through the embassy that the provincial government had erected barriers and sealed off the slum. But I hadn’t realized it was this serious.

As I carefully took out my camera, Camilla discreetly covered the window with her coat.

Normally, foreigners get arrested easily for filming such scenes. Diplomats even more so. I captured the scene in photographs, avoiding surveillance.

-Waaah!

-Back off! Get back!

-Remove this, you bastards!

At the boundary between the slum and downtown, troops and residents were in a standoff.

The slum residents were relatively young, with small-scale protests apparently centered around energetic youths.

-Remove it! Remove it! Remove it!

-Open the gate!

Residents gathered at the barrier, raising their voices and shouting slogans. They protested and gestured angrily at the troops.

Some cleared away debris blocking the slum entrance, and long poles appeared, swinging toward the troops on top of the barrier.

Batons flew toward the youths clearing the debris. Soldiers who had been indiscriminately beating residents their own age fled from the poles swung from below.

A military officer raised his voice through a megaphone.

It was difficult to understand the language, but he seemed to be demanding that they stop protesting and return home.

The residents responded to the troops’ “kind” request with fervent cheers.

The slogans grew louder. From somewhere, stones, bottles, and garbage came flying.

The overheated atmosphere resembled a pressure cooker about to explode.

It meant the residents were furious.

“……”

Despite a broadcast station’s van being clearly parked there, the provincial government troops paid no attention.

Whether journalists or foreigners were watching, the provincial troops were busy beating people indiscriminately and preventing them from escaping.

The federal troops dispatched from the central government were no better.

They chose to be bystanders. As if whatever happened was none of their business, the federal government troops didn’t bat an eye.

Federal soldiers standing in truck beds stared blankly at the protesters. Federal officers didn’t even pay attention.

One officer pacing along the roadside covered his ears against the noise, giggling while talking on the phone to someone, while residents outside the slum who chose to be spectators just stared blankly at the slum residents entangled with provincial troops.

Whether they judged it to be a Nabuktu provincial issue rather than their jurisdiction, or were concerned about subtle power struggles between central and local governments, I couldn’t tell.

Whatever the reason, it was clear that the federal troops on the scene had no intention whatsoever of intervening in this situation.

Our situation was no different.

It was impossible for foreigners to interfere in another country’s protests.

That troubled our group.

“Let’s go. There’s nothing good about staying here.”

I led the three hesitant people away.

Their reactions varied. Francesca turned away with a bitter expression, while Lucia couldn’t take her eyes off the tragedy unfolding at the barrier. Only Camilla, who was accustomed to such scenes, maintained her composure. Though her expression was far from cheerful.

The sun was already beginning to set in the west. We needed to hurry to our destination before dark to avoid complications with our work.

“Let’s go. Hurry.”

“……”

“We need to get rid of the tree first. Then we won’t have to see this mess anymore.”

Lucia, who had been standing frozen in place, finally moved her reluctant legs.

As she passed by me, she muttered in a somewhat weak voice.

“…That’s right. The tree is the root of all this.”

I chose to remain silent.

From the main road came the sound of military truck engines and irritable honking. A convoy of vehicles kicked up dust as they sped down the road.

Occasionally someone would try to cling to a vehicle or break through an open barricade.

Unfortunately, no one succeeded.

I looked at the slowly closing barrier in the rearview mirror before averting my gaze. After securing the photos to report to the embassy, I put the car in gear and stepped on the accelerator.

The convoy crossed through Nabuktu’s slum.

Heading toward the massive tree visible in the distance.

*

A city of 24 million boasted considerable size. But not everyone could enjoy comfort—the wealthiest residents of Nabuktu lived in the western new downtown area.

The incident occurred in the old downtown area to the east. More precisely, in the most underdeveloped slum within the old downtown.

The contrast between east and west, old downtown and new downtown, low shanties overlooked by towering skyscrapers, felt like seeing two sides of a coin.

The moment the paved asphalt ended, the vibrant city disappeared. Roads covered with light sand suddenly changed to dirt, and the air sank, settling in deep sadness and lethargy.

As our vehicle crossed through the slum, Camilla, looking outside, noticed people.

“…There are still residents here?”

She surveyed the streets with a bewildered look.

Many residents were still living inside the slum. There were merchants and customers haggling over stalls, and even children playing with worn-out balls.

Francesca, peering out the window, wore a puzzled expression. She turned slightly to look at me.

“Didn’t they say everyone was evacuated?”

“They did.”

As far as I knew, the residents inside the slum had been evacuated. Specifically, news from the embassy said evacuation had taken place under the governor’s orders.

However, even the embassy didn’t know exactly how many residents had been evacuated or from which areas.

There was only the testimony of a federal government official saying that an evacuation plan had been established at the provincial level, so there would be no problems with our activities.

“Evacuation my ass.”

Right after crossing the barrier erected by the provincial government, we could feel how serious the federal government’s incompetence was.

The situation didn’t change even as we went deeper into the slum. In fact, it got worse the further in we went. There were several times more people living inside the slum than near the barrier or outskirts where protesters had gathered.

If we had driven through quickly at high speed, it might have been different. But traffic congestion had slowed the convoy, making even that impossible.

Now the vehicles were crawling along. When the car ahead moved briefly, I tapped the accelerator slightly to follow.

“Even a worm would move faster than this.”

Francesca, sitting in the back seat, frowned with a somewhat frustrated expression.

“Suddenly there’s a strange smell… What is it?”

“If it’s a smell from the slum, there could be many things. Sewage, public urination, food waste, corpses…”

“I’ll need to use thyme.”

She took out a glass bottle resembling a perfume bottle from her leather pocket. It was a potion that extracted ingredients from plants to remove odors.

Thanks to its performance, which could even clean the ingrained smell from a smoker’s hands and mouth, the military had purchased it in large quantities. There was nothing better for avoiding tracking by military dogs and therianthropes.

Spritz, spritz. While Francesca repeatedly sprayed the potion in the air, Lucia appeared quietly between the driver’s seat and passenger seat, tapping my shoulder.

“Um, wouldn’t it be better to get out and walk? It’s going to be problematic if we’re delayed.”

“That’s not possible.”

Even if everyone in our party was skilled enough to protect themselves, this was clearly a high-crime area. And in a civil war country, a “high-crime area” meant a neighborhood where armed robbery, murder, and looting occurred incessantly.

The federal troops weren’t escorting us for nothing.

Of course, it would be foolish to believe we’re 100% safe just because the military is protecting us. Mexico and Ecuador weren’t plagued by cartels because they lacked armies.

If that’s the case in Latin America, how much more dangerous would Moritani be, at an Africa-Middle East level?

Perhaps because of the escort of government technicals and trucks, the slum residents didn’t approach us despite seeing us stopped on the road.

But the problem wasn’t the residents—it was the congested road.

The road cutting through the old downtown was chaotic with people and cars. Livestock, pedestrians, carts, trucks, military vehicles, and more.

The federal troops tried to control traffic but couldn’t stop the reign of all sorts of living and non-living things. Despite the appearance of armed soldiers, the slum residents continued with their business as if nothing was happening.

I scanned for any dangerous gestures before grabbing the radio, curious about when we might move again.

When I asked about the situation, the federal troop commander politely requested “just five more minutes.” Believing him, I waited patiently, but even after nearly ten minutes, the vehicles hadn’t moved.

After twelve minutes, Lucia snatched the radio. She suggested “getting out and walking” in a somewhat angry voice. The government troop commander adamantly refused.

Unable to do one thing or the other. What the hell were these idiots doing up front that they couldn’t even control traffic properly?

I was getting furious. There was nothing we could do on this congested road. Even though we wanted to get out, the federal troops, the Church, and Al-Yabd representatives dissuaded us.

So we were stuck in the vehicle, just staring blankly out the windows.

“I heard from the ivory tower that this region has quite a few mana stone mines distributed throughout. It doesn’t look very prosperous.”

“Wealth doesn’t reach everyone.”

“There are so many people. It seems like there are more and more as we go deeper in.”

“Overall, their nutritional status doesn’t seem good… I’m worried about the children’s health.”

“Someone’s watching us from the rooftop.”

“Don’t worry about it, Camilla. People in this neighborhood often go up to their roofs.”

We observed the eastern slum of Nabuktu and exchanged various conversations. Perhaps due to our professional habits, we all focused on different aspects.

The residents moving about normally showed no signs of anxiety about evacuation.

Though some faces looked worried, nowhere could we see people preparing to evacuate.

The slum’s landscape, where “evacuation plans had been established at the provincial level,” was completely disconnected from what the federal government had claimed.

Lucia’s face clouded with concern.

“What did the federation say?”

“The usual. They say there’s nothing they can do, so talk to the provincial government.”

“…I see.”

After meeting the protesters, I had called a federal government official to demand answers.

I asked if they knew how serious the situation was here, and why people were still living inside when they had said evacuation had taken place.

The federal government official flatly denied knowing anything.

“They kept repeating that it’s difficult to get news about Nabuktu from the capital. I told them the situation was serious enough for protests to break out, but they drew the line, saying the federal government couldn’t intervene in local government issues.”

“Is evacuation impossible too? There are troops sent from the central government here.”

“Nabuktu is a special autonomous region where federal troop activities are restricted.”

Under Zamria Federation law, the federal government cannot interfere in local autonomous government administration.

And the south was originally a region that fought for independence during the civil war.

The rebellious spirit toward the ruling ethnicity and central government was difficult to suppress even by force, so autonomous southern regions like Nabuktu rarely followed federal government orders. Unless it was martial law or wartime.

This is why the provincial government launched its own investigation at the beginning of the crisis.

Consequently, the federal government shifted all responsibility to the Nabuktu provincial government. They said autonomous regions’ problems should be solved responsibly by autonomous governments.

Meanwhile, the provincial government claimed that this crisis was the responsibility of both themselves and the federal government.

They argued that since the southern commander was appointed by the president and federal troops were dispatched, they couldn’t do anything without consulting the federal government.

In other words, the governor of Nabuktu and the president of the Zamria Federation were at each other’s throats.

They were cautiously testing who would solve the crisis first, and if it failed, who would take the blame.

The loser would likely face public condemnation, while the winner would eliminate a competitor and enter the presidential palace. After all, the federal president and Nabuktu governor were politicians from different parties and presidential candidates.

For reference, the current president is in the process of amending the constitution to serve a fifth term. According to the Foreign Ministry, news of constitutional amendments had emerged from parliament a few days ago.

“Haah…”

Of course, whether the dictator continues in office or falls from grace makes no difference to me, but I found myself in an awkward position due to the greed of these two pigs.

Coincidentally, there was someone pig-like right beside me. I casually dropped a comment while turning the steering wheel.

“Camilla. Can’t you do something about this?”

“What? What can I do?”

“Well, you’re British.”

I flashed a grin at Camilla.

She seemed to understand immediately what I meant.

“What, you want me to storm the presidential palace? Overthrow the president?”

“I’d be very grateful if you did.”

Camilla crossed her arms with a blank expression.

Her attitude was closer to being sulky than displeased.

Normally she would have flared up in anger, but she too seemed fed up with the federal government’s incompetence. Thoroughly disgusted, Camilla nodded as if to say “whatever.”

“What would you like me to do? Do you have a good plan? I’m worried that if we just overthrow everything, it’ll end up like Iran or Iraq.”

“……”

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No. Even though the sun has set for a while, for you to say something like that is a bit…”

Isn’t that a statement without conscience? I trailed off with a disgruntled voice.

For reference, Iran is a country where Britain instigated a coup to overthrow the government, and Iraq is a country where Britain participated as part of the coalition forces to remove Hussein.

Both countries fell into critical condition due to the aftermath of regime collapse, making Camilla’s statement seriously shameless. Why specifically Iran and Iraq among all countries?

Sparks flew from her pupils. Camilla, glaring with eyes mixing blue and red, thrust out her clenched fist.

What’s this? Is she telling me to eat it?

“Do you want to get hit?”

“I’m joking…”

“Be careful, or you might really get punched.”

Though it sounded like a threat, even threats are selective. It meant I had no reason to fear Camilla’s threats.

“How are you going to hit me? Beat me like an Indian servant? Or like a Black slave—”

“Quiet!”

Just as I was teasing her, a fist landed on the crown of my head. Bonk! When that fair, delicate potato-fist hit my crown, pain shot through my skull as if it were splitting.

Cowardly, Camilla had swung her fist with her middle finger slightly bent.

At this point, it was a declaration to go all the way.

I took it as a declaration of war.

“Ah… I just want to finish quickly and rest. I want to eat a whipping cream cake without any worries…”

“You want to whip someone?”

“…Be quiet. Before I really do it.”

“As expected of a career professional… saying you’ll beat someone like a plantation owner who tied slaves to wooden fences in cotton fields, what a terrible thing to say…”

Since neither of us was serious, the conversation ended with silly banter. Although the saint and alchemist in the back seat behaved as if they had seen something bizarre.

At least the heavy atmosphere had lifted. The companions who had been looking out the window with worried faces one by one regained their spirits. That was truly fortunate.

Now if only the road would clear up.

I groaned softly, leaning on the steering wheel.

“Hmm…”

Just then, a sharp sound came from somewhere. A siren.

It was a police car.

“Oh!”

“What is it?”

“The police are here. Looks like they’ve come to clear the way.”

The federal troops, stuck on the congested road, had urgently requested help from the provincial government. And shortly after, a police car came racing from the distance, spewing black exhaust.

A police officer with his arm on the window frame shouted something, and the federal troop commander walked over. The police officer and soldier met at the front of the convoy.

The two officials gesticulated vigorously while talking through the police car window.

Finally, after a brief discussion, when the police officer gave a thumbs up.

Like the parting of the Red Sea, the road that had been as clogged as a blocked toilet suddenly cleared.

“Wow… What did I just see?”

“We have Moses right here.”

Camilla and I, our faces pressed against the windshield, couldn’t help but be amazed.

It was a natural reaction, seeing an African-style unpaved road that had been blocked for over 30 minutes suddenly transform into a 10-lane expressway.

Then, the federal troop commander’s voice came through the radio.

Beginning with an explanation that “he had requested support as soon as the road was blocked, but the police arrived late,” the commander summarized the news and situation he’d heard from the police officer.

Shortly after we entered the slum, protesters trying to escape the slum and troops preventing their escape had clashed violently.

It was a collision so severe that nearly 100 people were injured.

When the local police received the federal troops’ request for support, they tried to send officers quickly, but it wasn’t easy to push through the scene where protesters and troops were clashing.

Only one police car managed to get through. Even that took 30 minutes because it had to take a detour to avoid the protesters.

So he had gotten angry. And as a sign of apology, he secured a promise not only for traffic control but also guidance to our destination. That was the federal troop commander’s explanation.

…Wait a minute. So that commotion earlier was an argument?

This bastard, really.

We’re already in a hurry, and he pulls this crap.

“Please be patient.”

As I was trying to calm my anger, Lucia gently patted my shoulder in consolation. I changed gears while trying to soothe my bubbling frustration.

Under police escort, the government technicals and trucks began to move quickly. Despite the exhaust spewing from the pipes due to fake fuel and the engines screaming in protest, nothing could stop the speeding police car.

The police car raced forward, sirens flashing brightly. Many vehicles followed its bulldozer-like advance.

It was hard to believe this was the same convoy that had been crawling like slugs just minutes ago—the speed was now remarkably fast.

-Thud! Thud! Thud!

The speed was so fast that heavy groans could be heard from the trucks driving on the unpaved road.

Rusty suspensions squeaked and creaked as if begging for mercy. Soldiers standing in the truck beds screamed for help. As their buttocks lifted from the seats, two seconds later the soldiers would crash to the floor along with their gear.

Camilla, hanging onto the assist handle, screamed before suddenly coming to her senses and warning, “In front! Watch out for the pothole!”

Francesca brushed back her disheveled hair, but as the vehicle swerved to avoid a pothole, her neatly arranged hair became a mess again, making it a wasted effort.

Meanwhile, Lucia had her eyes tightly shut and was busy muttering to herself. Listening closely, it turned out to be a prayer.

The speedometer on the dashboard pointed to 90 km/h. 90 km/h in an urban area, not even on a highway or expressway.

I glanced at the dashboard and marveled.

“Wow- This is the first time I’ve driven this fast since Syria! After I accidentally hit someone in Damascus, my boss cursed me out—”

“Why did you hit someone!?”

“They suddenly jumped into the road! What was I supposed to do!”

The experience of racing at 90 km/h through a slum where millions lived was a special experience that couldn’t be tasted anywhere else. Cars that couldn’t match the speed fell behind, widening the gaps between vehicles, but the police car showed no intention of slowing down.

Were they on drugs or something?

Thanks to my experience driving Toyotas in the Middle East back in the day, the vehicle I was driving maintained a steady distance.

Meanwhile, the cars carrying the Vatican and Al-Yabd clergy were gradually falling behind. And surprisingly, the federal government vehicles were far ahead of the Vatican and Al-Yabd vehicles.

They say even a worm has its talents. They might be useless at their jobs, but at least they can drive well.

Forget about that and just do your jobs properly, you bastards.

-Vrrrrrr!

-Grrrrrr!

The sound of tires grinding against sand and gravel was distinct. I stared at the police car ahead.

The alleys were getting narrower. From the federal troop trucks behind us came the screams of half-dying soldiers, and the police car increased its speed even more.

“Ugh, uwah! Gyaak!”

Camilla was practically dangling from the assist handle. As her body bounced up and down on the vibrating seat, she reached out with all her might, grabbed a map, and shouted.

“Grrrrk- he, here…! Th, three, thre, three k-“

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“D, dest, destination! Th, three, thre- 3km!”

She meant we had 3km left until arrival.

The car continued its dangerous race along the narrow roads. Following the maze-like winding paths was more like acrobatics than driving. At this point, it felt more like riding in a coffin than a car.

At least we should be thankful we haven’t run over and killed anyone.

As we raced madly through the slum, I, who had been staring at the front with a subtle expression for some time, looked around.

“Isn’t something strange?”

I cautiously opened my mouth while gradually slowing down.

“You almost killing us, sir?”

“No, not that.”

My finger, released from the steering wheel, pointed forward.

There was the police car, raising dust clouds as it sped along.

Camilla, who had been clutching the assist handle and seat, suddenly started dry heaving. She looked half-dead.

Whether it was motion sickness or something else, she had been muttering to herself that her stomach had been queasy and hard to bear. With her half-collapsed face raised, she asked back.

“What about the police car?”

“It’s not slowing down.”

“Is that strange? Maybe they’re just crazy…”

I turned my head from watching the front to the passenger seat.

“You think they just go crazy when they grab a steering wheel?”

“There must be another reason.”

“Racing through alleys, not main roads. At 80 km/h?”

Passing through Nabuktu’s eastern slum at 80 km/h isn’t completely impossible. After all, we’re still alive and well.

But. Thinking logically.

Even a driving maniac wouldn’t race through alleys like that.

The same goes for urgent situations.

We did need to hurry after losing time on the road. After all, we were dealing with a man-eating tree.

Yes, they might have increased speed due to urgency. I understand. I can fully understand.

Racing through dangerous alleys? That could happen. If the police know the slum’s geography well, it’s not impossible.

But here’s the thing.

Logically speaking.

No matter how urgent the situation, how familiar with the geography, how skilled they are.

No matter how apologetic they are for arriving late.

“Wasn’t this police officer supposed to guide us?”

Does it make sense for someone who came to guide us to race madly through alleys?

When they could have used the main road.

“They could have taken the main road, so why go through alleys? There are no colleagues to help cars that fall behind and get lost.”

“……”

“It’s strange, isn’t it?”

The high-speed car gradually slowed down. The harsh friction sound disappeared, replaced by the soft sound of gravel, and the tires came to a stop.

When we stopped, the trucks stopped too.

“……”

Silence fell.

The surroundings were quiet.

The federal troops were all expressing their agony, but apart from the sounds coming from the trucks, nothing could be heard.

The convoy that had been racing through the alleys had long since been torn apart and dispersed, so looking around, there were only three vehicles here.

The federal troop truck.

Our vehicle.

The police car that guided us here.

I cautiously reached for the radio. I pressed the button, but there was no answer. The radio was dead too.

I turned off the radio that was only emitting static. I got out of the driver’s seat. The other members of the party also quietly opened their doors and got out.

The police car that had been speeding was now stopped as if it had been a lie.

As if its role was already over.

With my hand on my waist, I cautiously approached the police car. I bent down to look into the driver’s seat.

The police officer was sitting still.

Hands resting on the steering wheel, in a stable posture. He was even smiling, seemingly looking in our direction.

Nothing unusual seemed apparent.

That is.

Except for the plants growing from his eye sockets.

“Ah.”

The smiling face turned around. He turned his head and lowered his gaze. The strange life form, like the stamen of flower petals rising from his eyelids, moved. As if rolling his eyeballs.

The swaying movement of the stamen stopped. As if adjusting a slightly misaligned direction. The head that had been fixed in our direction slowly turned back.

A smile spread.

A radiant smile bloomed like a fully opened flower petal.

The world tilted as if about to fall over. Someone pulled me from behind.

The gun I had tried to draw from my waist rolled on the ground.

In the periphery of my vision as I was being dragged away, there were Camilla and Francesca turning into flames in the distance.

Like a contrail crossing the tilting moon, a small fist emerging from an oblique angle, carrying a white light.

“Duck.”

It pierced through the monster’s face.

Tearing through the grown plants, crushing bones.

The delicate fist brought the monster’s face down.