There had been a stirring premonition.
When
What about her could possibly make her the natural enemy of the resurrected dead?
What was it about her that differed from other people?
That she was kind. That she worked hard. That she could grit her teeth for someone else's sake. All of those qualities were wonderful, but other people shared those same traits.
No — it was a specialty she alone possessed, one that no one else had.
"— The Authority of Gluttony."
Even if she wished to part from her past as an Archbishop of Sin, that cross would never let her go.
Subaru had sworn to her that he would keep that cross from ever letting her go.
She had sworn to Subaru that she would never run from that cross.
— And so, there lay hope.
"I have the Authorities of Sloth and Greed."
The loathsome
Petrgeus Romanee-Conti and
Why had it turned out this way? It was as disgusting as if those bastards had passed the baton to him, and Subaru had never faced it head-on. But he could no longer avoid doing so.
For her sake, and for his own sake as the one who had chosen her, he had to face it.
And then— "— If you choose to live as
Everything has two sides, and every tool depends on how it's used. — No, it wasn't just about tools.
Whether a person becomes good or evil — that final line is drawn by oneself. There are environments where one can't do that. But he had been given the opportunity.
— Rai Batenkaitos, the Archbishop of Gourmet.
—
— Louis Arneb, the Archbishop of Surfeit.
Those who wielded the power they were given and became unspeakable sinners against the world.
A penitent who walked the path of atonement, continuing to repay the world while carrying the same power they did.
"— Stargazer."
The inseparable siblings who had created a dark precedent.
The penitent would devour those precedents — the deeds of those great sinners who bore the names of stars.
The newborn girl who devours stars — Spica, the Archbishop of Stargazing.
"— Ia ia iau."
The Stargazer's power activated through the outstretched hand, the touched fingertips of the girl who had been given the name of the Star of Pearl, whose memory had been sealed in a bug and resurrected in a vessel of clay.
She knew a white place where nothing held meaning, where everything was devoid of purpose.
A place where every soul — beautiful or filthy — was stripped clean and reborn anew.
She devoured the roles of those who had been dragged down from that place.
She devoured that causation, so that no soul would ever again be used as someone else's food.
— The Stargazer was realized: devouring the deeds of the Archbishop of Sin who bore a star's name.
"— Ia iau aei a."
△▼△▼△▼△ In that instant, Lamia and the others were engulfed by a collective gust of wind, and their movements froze.
Goz Ralthon, whose body was covered in searing wounds, did not miss that single opening.
"— Got you."
In the midst of battle, beset by the threat of Sunblades pressing in from every direction, Goz endured — having shed his burning armor and weathered the onslaught.
Carefully parrying attacks while his fighting spirit remained undimmed, Goz closed his eyes and yielded to his hearing.
Thanks to his Divine Blessing of Wind Resistance, he could focus on Lamia's sounds. More than twenty Lamias — and every single one sounded identical. Goz understood he was truly facing a fearsome opponent.
But for all the identical Lamias, their compatibility against Goz was the worst.
For some unknown reason, all of the Lamias simultaneously lost their footing.
It had to be Vincent. The Emperor of Volachia, to whom Goz had pledged his loyalty, had prepared a move to break through even this situation. He was so moved he could have wept.
Suppressing that emotion, Goz raised the war hammer in his grip, twisted the midpoint of the long handle to disassemble it into the striking head and the shaft, then struck the head forcefully with the shaft.
In that instant, a shockwave of sound spread outward — and struck only the Lamias whose stances had been broken.
"— — —"
The golden war hammer Goz swung was a weapon that combined a spherical striking head atop a long, spear-like handle — a masterpiece forged specifically for Goz.
A single swing carried the weight of ten men, and combined with Goz's superhuman strength and his extraordinary ears, it achieved a technique no one else could perform — the "Howl," which matched the unique vibration carried by every living being with the same vibration rendered as sound.
Despite his imposing and bolder-than-bold exterior, Goz Ralthon possessed ears that could distinguish even the color of the wind and the delicate skill of a genius musician playing any instrument.
It was his signature "Howl" that earned Goz the epithet "Lion Knight."
And it was that "Howl" that now struck at Lamia — no, at the Lamias — having seized upon the unique vibration in the midst of battle. The fractures in all of them expanded, and the zombie princesses shattered to pieces.
— The same thing happened in separate cars, away from Goz's battlefield.
Roswaal, who had determined that fire would not fare well against the Sunblades and instead engaged Lamia and the Pruning Force with wind blades and earthen avalanches.
Garfiel, who used his berserker strength to indiscriminately tear at Lamia, the Pruning Force, and even the dragon carriages alike with his savage claws.
No one missed the split second that had been created in an unexpected way for all those riding the linked dragon carriages.
Even without knowing who had created it, they did not miss the split second they believed someone had made.
"Guh!"
Gritting her back teeth, Lamia spun around, her long leg striking the girl touching her back — Spica. Lamia's kick sent Spica's body flying violently. Subaru and
The reason wasn't just Lamia's leg strength. Beatrice's "Murak" had reduced the gravity acting on them to its absolute limit, making them as light as ping-pong balls.
"Go!"
"Let's move!"
Julius slipped beneath the flying Subaru and the others, stepping forward toward Lamia.
He broke through the formation of the Pruning Force he had cut down and thrust his knight's sword — which housed a rainbow — at Lamia. Julius's aurora-infused sword strikes could slice through even the powerful shears of elite soldiers as though they were pudding.
But the Sunblade in Lamia's hand radiated even greater light and heat than Julius's rainbow-hued sword, and it met his thrust head-on.
The collision of their blades produced an explosion of light, and Julius and Lamia were blown apart. Both immediately moved to counterattack — but the next clash never came.
"...You never once laid a hand on anyone during the Imperial Selection Ceremony yourself, did you?"
"— Yeah, that's right."
The words slipped from Lamia's lips with a loosened smile, like a sigh. The one who answered was Abel, standing right behind her.
In Abel's hand was a barbarian sword whose blade had been half-melted, and the shortened, dull edge had nonetheless pierced Lamia through from behind.
"So you've finally gotten the nerve to lay hands on your own blood."
The vital point of the undead was not the heart, nor the head.
It was the core insect Beatrice and the others had discovered — the creature keeping them active within the vessel of clay. As long as that was intact, the undead would not stop moving.
And yet, the Sunblade with its wavering red blade fell toward the floor. Before its tip could pierce the ground, it vanished — swallowed by the space around it.
And Lamia had dropped it because her fingertips were crumbling, and she could no longer grip the sword.
"— — —"
Twisting her body, Lamia flung off Abel's hand, the barbarian sword still embedded in her.
She staggered forward on unsteady legs, her body on the verge of death — it seemed as though anyone who picked up a weapon and delivered a single thrust would reduce her to dust. Jamal did feint a strike with his melted twin swords, but Abel extended an arm to stop him.
And then, with her breathing barely hanging on, Lamia turned back toward Abel.
"Father and Brother Bartoloi aren't here. The two of them are satisfied, you see."
"— Lamia."
Those few words — Lamia's parting words — made Abel's black eyes waver.
Seeing that single reaction, Lamia smiled with her pale, cracked face and her lifeless golden eyes narrowed. — A mischievous smile.
"— Temegriph the First General!"
Immediately after, Lamia's expression shifted, and she called out a name in a sharp voice.
It was a name Subaru knew nothing about, but for the multiple people present, it held enormous significance.
Of course, it was the same for the person whose name was called.
"Alclauzelria!"
The quickest response, the one who drew a swift aurora arc, was Julius.
He danced the tip of his raised sword and created a wall of aurora by borrowing the power of spirits. Julius's judgment saved every life in the car.
But at the same time, the aurora erected for defense also hindered their movement, delaying their next move.
Responding to Lamia's call, a projectile of light pierced through the car from the side of the linked dragon carriages.
Like a scatter shot, it blew away the wall of the dragon carriage, and the aurora prevented it from piercing the people inside. But the light bullets that weren't blocked tore off the roof, leaving the interior of the car completely exposed.
Gliding toward that exposed car was a single flying undead dragon — no, a single creature performing acrobatic maneuvers that put the rest to shame, compared to the swarm of undead that had been throwing in the Pruning Force one by one.
That single black undead dragon dove into the dragon carriage, whipping up a tremendous wind, and carried Lamia away.
Lamia, who had already lost the arm that had held the Sunblade all the way to the shoulder, was snatched into the sky — and the one who did it was a single undead astride the dragon— "— Lord Barloi!?"
"Barloi..."
"Barloi!?"
The unexpected sight drew cries of shock from multiple voices.
But among them, the most startled and simultaneously the most anguished— "Big Bro Bart...?"
Medium's eyes went wide as saucers as she whispered, but the undead she called did not respond.
He simply pulled the reins of the undead dragon he straddled, and with Lamia still clutched in his arms, shot upward. The undead dragon carrying the zombie then turned its head toward the rear of the linked carriages and flew off in the opposite direction.
As the linked carriages surged forward and the undead dragon flew, the distance between the two grew.
"Big Bro Bart! Big Bro Bart—!!"
In a panic, Medium reached out, trying to chase after the shadow that was already disappearing from view.
From behind, Flop leaped forward and grabbed her, stopping her. The Pruning Force still remained inside the linked carriages.
"Ohhh, ohhhh—!!"
Those clad in black armor let out low growls and raised their massive shears with fierce intent.
It was as though they held the will to ensure their master's escape.
When their master had been struck down during the Imperial Selection Ceremony, they had been unable to fulfill this — because they had been defeated by the "Blue Lightning." Now, having become the undead, this was their dying resolve to see it through.
"Everyone, don't lose focus till the end!"
Anastasia's command rang out, and Julius was the first to respond to her fighting spirit, sprinting forward.
Those who could fight took up their weapons and clashed head-on with the Pruning Force, who were rousing themselves for one final surge. And this time, the collision would annihilate every last soldier.
— But this was precisely what bought their master the time needed to escape, allowing the Pruning Force's final flower of this assault to bloom in full.
△▼△▼△▼△ — At the same moment Barloi Temegriph seized Lamia Godwin and flew off into the sky.
Far, far away, collapsed upon the ruts of the linked carriages' trail, the old man covered his face with his hands.
His entire body ached as if grinding apart, and his scorched, raw feet were unashamedly wailing in pain. But neither the pain nor the raw wounds were what the old man had wanted.
Pain and wounds — none of that mattered. The real question was why he couldn't just die.
"You were given an opportunity, you know."
Lying flat on his back on the ground, cursing his own wretched appearance, he heard her speak.
She was not in human form. But that supple, powerful feline body was precisely what the people of the Volachia Empire praised as superior and beautiful.
She had been moving with the troops left behind at the rear of the dragon carriages and had pursued the linked carriages as a messenger — and she had witnessed the old man burst out into the open amid the flames of the meteor.
And at the very moment the old man was about to be slammed into the ground, she had snatched him back from death.
"An opportunity, you say..."
"When you were thrown from the dragon carriage, my legs couldn't reach in time. But the dead who flew out with you pushed you away."
"— — —"
"That bought just a little time, and my legs arrived in time. That's all I can say."
The leopard with the beautiful golden coat shook her head slowly as she spoke to the old man.
She understood what it implied, and what she meant by it. But the truth, she did not know.
Perhaps the other person had simply found the old man clinging to them bothersome and pushed him away. After all, he was someone whose true intentions were impossible to fathom.
And what they were thinking — that was something every member of the Volachia imperial family had in common.
'— My, you can make such a frustrated face, can't you.' "—!"
The memory of her surprised expression when she said that rose in his mind, and something caught in the old man's throat.
He didn't know what it was. He simply, only, thought.
"If it's an empire won by killing Sister... Lady Lamia, then shoulder the responsibility...! Fulfill your duty as Emperor...!"
The old man who had pretended to be a sword wolf, who had dyed even his own fur — a sheep or a goat, neither and both at once — wrung out those words.
And in doing so, he realized those words had been his true feelings, buried deep within his thread-thin eyes.
The old man — Imperial Chancellor
△▼△▼△▼△ — The Crystal Palace, once counted among the world's most beautiful castles, had undergone a profound transformation.
Undead roamed within its walls, and the wounds from the recent turmoil centered on the imperial capital had not healed in the slightest. Only death and destruction remained there, with no counterbalance of life or renewal.
And so, the Crystal Palace had lost its original beauty and become a wretched realm where abomination held sway.
But— "— — —"
Quietly opening the crimson eyes behind her lids was one who, even within that wretched realm, had not lost her beauty.
Her long orange hair was let loose and disheveled, her blood-red luxurious dress was torn in places, and her snow-white skin bore the stains of dirt — but none of it could defile her in the least.
That which is truly beautiful requires no outer packaging.
However— "With your hair in dishevel and your clothes in tatters, even so you look far more elegant than the likes of you now."
"...My, what a thing to say, Prisca."
Called by that old name in a honeyed voice, Priscilla Baariel narrowed her eyes.
Her raised arms were restrained by special chains, and though she was forced to stand like a captive, there was not the slightest hint of weakness in Priscilla's eyes or bearing.
No matter where she was made to stand or bound, there was nothing that could serve as reason enough for her to bend.
Imprisoned in the underground dungeon beneath the Crystal Palace of
Nine years old at the time of her death, Lamia possessed the skin and eyes unique to the undead, yet the enchanting presence that had earned her the title "Poison Princess" still remained.
But with her tattered dress and her crumbling half-body, she was now unrecognizable.
For the undead, damaged parts could be repaired. Even if not, they could simply be transferred into a new clay vessel. Having observed the undead and come to that conclusion, Priscilla understood.
She understood why Lamia — who despised ugliness and wretchedness above all else — had appeared before her in such a state.
"What's this, are you going to die again, Lamia?"
"My, what a way to talk to your sister. But you're right. My connection to the empty box was severed... no, it was more like it was eaten, you see."
"— — —"
"Yes, yes, listen, Prisca. Brother Vincent went and laid his hands on me. That's not something that would happen to the important you, is it?"
Lamia pressed her hand — the one on the side that hadn't yet crumbled, though it looked like it might at any moment — to her mouth and smirked.
Whether that was worth boasting about depended on one's values, but Priscilla simply let out a quiet snort. At that reaction, Lamia narrowed her golden eyes.
"Truly, it was so dull. There's hardly anyone besides you and Brother Vincent who can hold a proper conversation with me."
"The number of times you and I have spoken properly can be counted on one hand, I would think."
"It's not about the number of times, you silly sister."
Lamia murmured, and the hand she had pressed to her mouth crumbled away.
Slowly losing her form, Lamia stood before Priscilla, and her disintegrating figure intruded upon Priscilla's vision whether she wished it or not.
But Priscilla did not close her eyes. With those crimson twin orbs, she stared intently at Lamia.
Staring, she spoke— "If your role is finished, then make your exit swiftly, Lamia. — I shall watch over you once more."
At those words from Priscilla, Lamia raised her brows ever so slightly.
Then she smiled — a sweet, poisonous smile.
"What an unlovable sister you are."
In all of Priscilla's memory, those were the exact same words and the exact same smile as Lamia's last, in life.
△▼△▼△▼△ "Was that really all right for a final conversation between sisters?"
The lighthearted male voice reached Priscilla, who had witnessed Lamia's end.
Turning her gaze toward the faint sound of footsteps, she locked eyes with a sharp-featured undead descending the dungeon stairs. The same eyes common to all the undead — black with gold.
Yet his bearing, like Lamia's, set him apart from poorly made corpses.
"So it was you who brought Lamia back to the castle."
"She was quite the spirited one, she was. With that body of hers, she made it all the way down to the dungeons on her own. As expected of the noble princess of Volachia... one can't help but feel proud as a citizen of the Empire."
"How shamelessly you speak — a traitor who bared fangs at the Emperor."
"That's a sore point, I'll grant you... but when it comes to being enemies of the Empire, I'd say I'm not so different from Her Excellency here."
With that manner of speaking, he emerged from the shadows.
Now that Priscilla could clearly see his figure, she confirmed the assessment she had made on voice alone. This undead was Barloi Temegriph, former "Nine Divine Generals" of the Empire.
And Priscilla had met him once before, during her time in the Empire — when Priscilla was the wife of a mid-ranking baron, her first husband.
That said, this was hardly a reunion to warm old memories between the living and the dead.
"What do you want? Surely your earlier inane question was not the sole reason."
"Of course, witnessing Lady Lamia's end is part of the job... but I also brought a meal for Her Excellency."
As he spoke, Barloi lifted into view a silver tray he had been hiding behind his back.
Covered with a matching silver lid, it looked like the formal presentation of a fine restaurant. Priscilla narrowed her crimson eyes.
"I don't need it."
"Now, now, don't say that. After all, we're all dead, aren't we? There's no need for meals, so the thought doesn't even occur to us that a living person like Your Excellency might want one. If I didn't bring it, such a beautiful lady's evening would be ruined, wouldn't it?"
He smiled with his lifeless skin and opened the lid on the meal.
Warm steam and aroma spread forth, and upon seeing the food, Priscilla closed one eye.
It looked like a proper meal — surprisingly decent for something made by the undead.
"Unfortunately, I can't taste it, so I can't do a sample check, but I'm used to cooking, so I don't think it's bad. Oh, do forgive me for serving common fare."
"— — —"
Wordlessly, Priscilla made Barloi pick up the fork from the tray, spear a piece of food with it, and bring it to her mouth.
Priscilla's arms were tied to the ceiling. She understood there was no other way.
"I shall cut off your head with my own hands."
Saying that quietly, Priscilla took the offered food into her mouth.
It wasn't bad. But it was cheap. Even using ingredients found within the castle, if the chef's skill and ideas were cheap, the result could hardly be called exquisite.
Priscilla's silent pressure drew a pained smile from Barloi's undead face. Within that smile, something other than what was directed at Priscilla could be glimpsed.
"You know, this reminds me of a time long ago when I did something similar — sneaking food to a girl who'd been locked up as punishment for causing trouble."
Sensing the shift in atmosphere, Barloi revealed the true meaning behind his wry smile.
While finding his answer distasteful, Priscilla had him wipe her mouth and said— "Why do you seek to destroy the Empire? What do you hope for, having been resurrected?"
"— The former is not for me to answer. But the latter is simple enough."
At her question, the wry smile and lighthearted atmosphere from moments ago vanished, and Barloi responded.
Priscilla too was keenly perceptive of the change in Barloi's bearing. The unmistakable anger he carried — no, the same anger that had been present in Lamia as well.
Without betraying that impression— "The desire of the undead has always been the same, in any age: to settle our grudges."
Revealing the undead's true wish, Barloi Temegriph let out a lifeless laugh.
△▼△▼△▼△ "Like... like hell I can do this, damn it!"
He kicked at the wet pavement and rounded the corner ahead with momentum — only to slam his hip into a wooden crate right in front of him, crying out with a pathetic "Whoa!" as he tumbled spectacularly.
Inside the helmet that struck the wet cobblestones, pain lanced across his forehead and sparks danced across his vision. But with a chick spinning round and round on his head, stretching out wasn't an option.
He pressed his right hand to the ground and had to scramble to his feet.
If he didn't, that one would come. — The black-robed observer known as
"Otherwise, my guts'll get spilled again—"
"You are already here, Dazo."
"—!"
A chill raced through his lungs as he yanked the Blue Dragon Blade from his hip. Without form or technique, he swung it in a crude lateral arc, striking blindly in every direction.
But the Blue Dragon Blade that should have hit no matter where the enemy stood swung through empty air. Instead, a searing pain tore through his side, and the sword was knocked from his hand.
"Gaaah..."
"Resistance is meaningless, Dazo. You already have different conditions than the others. Bleeding needlessly and becoming unfit for the Emperor's purpose would make you worthless, Dazo."
Clutching his bleeding side, he tried to stanch the blood loss with whatever desperate movement he could manage. Ideally he'd press his other hand to the wound, but freeing his arm would take far too long.
Behind him, groaning in pain, the blue-haired undead wielding a curved knife in both hands — its mouth covered by a black cloth — turned around.
The golden eyes glared at him, carefully observing his bleeding form.
It wasn't that Viva had a particular taste for drawn-out suffering. Believing the dozens of explanations the creature had given over their encounters, its goal was experimentation.
It wanted to use a living human body to verify something. Probably it had been repeating this even before death, which was how it had earned the epithet "Vivisector."
"Fight and it's no good, run and it's no good either... Can you just finish me off in one go already? Since I'm betting on the next life anyway."
"Finishing you off in one go doesn't follow logic, Dazo. I don't want to cause you suffering — I simply want to verify something."
"Right... well then..."
Concluding that words were wasted, he glanced down at the Blue Dragon Blade. Fortunately, it hadn't rolled too far — he could probably lunge for it.
The real question was whether he could manage to put it to his own neck. If he botched it and prolonged the suffering, that would be unforgiving. — This was no time to be fumbling around.
"—!"
A second to decide, a second to steel his resolve, and not even a second more to act. Before Viva could begin its gruesome work, he collapsed forward and lunged for the Blue Dragon Blade without warning.
Viva's reaction came a half-beat too slow, and in that opening he drove the Blue Dragon Blade toward his own neck— "Oh my, putting your chips on the next life seems rather hasty, don't you think?"
"Huh!?"
The Blue Dragon Blade he had been about to press against himself was stopped from above — pinned to the ground by a small foot. Looking up, he saw the slender waist connected to that foot, and above it, a deranged grin.
It was the outrage of a child in zori sandals, standing on the Blue Dragon Blade with a single foot.
"Children are also not among the conditions I seek, Dazo."
At the child's appearance, Viva moved without a shred of hesitation, spinning the knives in both hands to deliver the same attack that had gouged the man's side — aiming for the child's vital point.
The worst routine: disable hands and feet first, then move on to checking the organs.
Watching the blade bearing down on him, the child merely raised an eyebrow.
"Oh my! Such admirable composure in the face of a sudden intruder! But—"
"—!?"
The next instant, Viva's eyes went wide as its head separated from its torso and went flying.
The child had kicked the knife Viva was about to swing, breaking the arm in the process, and in the same motion used Viva's own blade to sever Viva's head.
The child then nimbly switched feet on the Blue Dragon Blade, and with the next kick pierced through Viva's remaining torso, reducing the unnecessary undead body to powder.
"Collaborating with a villain of your particularly foul tastes is absolutely off the table!"
Contrasting sharply with the lethal performance, the child declared that in a carefree voice.
Beyond that proclamation, Viva's severed head — its expression frozen in shock — crumbled to dust and was swallowed by the imperial capital's wind.
The man who could only lie on the ground and watch in bewilderment at that display had the child pivot on one foot and turn back toward him.
"I'll trouble you to get off my sword. See? The ground is all wet, isn't it? My footwear is zori, and getting them wet is dreadfully unpleasant. So I'd like to stay like this!"
"Ah, that's fine by me, I guess..."
He looked up at the child standing on one leg in its ridiculous pose and pushed himself up from where he'd been lying to sit cross-legged. Just as the child said, his rear was unpleasantly damp from the wet ground, but it was too late for any of that now.
"More importantly, I need to borrow a hand from someone who's not too late to help. Can you patch me up?"
"Well, I imagine operating with one arm is quite inconvenient. Your rather unconventional appearance ranks very highly on my favorability scale, so it would be a waste to part ways here! Very well!"
The child laughed breezily, then added with sudden energy— "However! As I mentioned, I do not wish to wet my zori! So let's move to higher ground first. Until then, try not to bleed out, Sir Helmet!"
"Name's Al, kid. Naughty boy."
"Ha ha ha! Naughty Boy! You've got quite the boss-like way of talking!"
At the child's boisterous laughter, the man — Al — held his side and let out a long breath.
The child was clearly no ordinary person, and every word that tumbled out bore the unmistakable influence of someone he knew.
Whether this encounter would prove fortunate or unfortunate, one thing was certain regardless— "Just you wait, Priscilla... I swear I'll save you."
△▼△▼△▼△ Three heads lost their strength, and at last the massive body collapsed upon the earth.
Its wings were torn, its torso bristled with ninja tools that had pierced nearly every part that could be called a meridian of life, driven in to madden it — yet none could be called a killing blow.
The only thing that could be said— "Man, I am really, really not compatible with 'zombies.'"
He dispersed his clones and let out a long, weary sigh. Fighting something as powerful as a dragon was exhausting, to be sure.
If possible, he'd like this to be his last monster-hunting job.
"But, you know, Ana and those guys were saying something about the same thing happening to zombies, weren't they?"
If that was true, then the Three-Headed dragon he had just defeated could very well appear again.
Halibel would probably win the next fight too, but whether it could happen without involving bystanders was questionable. And in the meantime, having his hands tied as a mercenary was worrisome. Julius, who stayed by Anastasia's side, was capable— "But not as capable as me, I'd say."
He cracked his neck, then lit the pipe he couldn't smoke during battle and savored the taste.
Then, after confirming the Three-Headed dragon's body had fully disappeared, Halibel turned and searched for the linked dragon carriages that had long since run off into the distance, leaving him behind.
And so— "Man, I should be the one getting a candy for my hard work. ...Oh right, I'd die if I ate candy."
Muttering to himself, he set off running along the ruts of the carriages stretching toward the horizon.