What was Feodor Jessman’s plan?
While it was fundamentally very different, in truth it had a great deal in common with the plan attempted by the Elpis Air Defense Force—the organization Feodor’s older brother-in-law once led—five years ago.
Elpis’ goal, in short, was to remind Regule Aire of the threat posed by the Beasts. For that purpose, they’d taken Beasts they determined could be controlled and released them into Regule Aire in order to bring about a tragedy of their own manufacture.
However, the Beasts rampaged with more power than expected, and thus the plan failed. While two floating islands were taken over by Beasts and the people of Regule Aire once again had fear etched into their hearts, their actions didn’t change. The reason: both before and after the Elpis Incident, the Winged Guard remained the only ones with the skill to stand against the terror of the Beasts.
After racking his brain about it over and over, Feodor finally realized why.
The Elpis Air Defense Force—as well as his brother-in-law—made three mistakes.
First: they tried to use the military to make their ideals reality. In a large organization, it was natural for many different ideologies to coexist. In a place where different value systems mingle and mix, a single shared ideal was difficult to maintain in its original form. All it took was one new ally for complex thoughts to be simplified, delicate phrases be reworded, and pleas for commitment be rewritten into cold self-serving calculations. The words of the ideal became hollow platitudes, reduced to mere excuses validating the desires of the individuals involved.
Second: their plan of action was flawed. The Elpis Air Defense Force was established to battle against the Beasts in the stead of the Winged Guard. That meant their struggle was already doomed to fail in refuting the system that brought about the Winged Guard. Even if they’d succeeded in the most absolute way possible, they’d only ever be seen as the new Winged Guard.
Third and finally: they believed they were in the right. Actions that upset the status quo would be viewed with resentment and hatred from those satisfied with “normalcy.” Even if Elpis claimed to be fighting for justice, their actions would without a doubt be called evil. That much ought to be self-evident, but they rejected that obvious truth and acted as if they were in the right. That was why they were defeated by the justice of those diametrically opposed to them and reduced to the ugliest of villains.
Thus, Feodor came to his decision. Everyone ought to wield a weapon. Everyone ought to have the right to fight, and a stage to fight upon. Everyone ought to live side-by-side with death. Everyone ought to see the face of the current Regule Aire.
To bring about his ideal, innumerable battles would occur. Senseless deaths would happen. Many floating islands would fall. As they confronted blood and tears directly for the first time, the people of Regule Aire would realize that what they’d had wasn’t peace. They’d learn the act of living—or rather, the luck of not being dead yet—was fundamentally and irrevocably precious.
Those who swore to lead the way—who bore the responsibility for destroying the world as it was—should have the self-awareness and self-respect to recognize themselves as irredeemable villains.
When he was twelve, this was Feodor’s conclusion, decision, and oath.
What’s more, he remembered. There was something his brother-in-law had shared with him right before he was executed: details of the first battles of the Elpis Incident at Collina di Luce on Island No. 11.
“The Winged Guard just…killed the First Beast when it showed up out of nowhere in the middle of the city. They’re hiding lethal weapons of that caliber.” His wavering gaze stared off into the distance, and his fragile voice shook. Full of confusion, regret, and guilt, the half-delirious figure in front of him seemed so far away from the self-assured and confident person Feodor had always known his brother-in-law to be. “They recovered Chanteur’s corpse. Where it was sent afterwards was covered up, but—but—without a doubt, it was sent to the Great Sage. It must’ve been, without a doubt.”
There was no way he’d forget. Chanteur, supposedly invincible and immortal, and the superweapon that killed it. The Elpis Air Defense Force’s plans had been laid to waste by these two things. And now, both lay in the hands of the Winged Guard.
…That’s why he decided that day to become a soldier of the Winged Guard. No matter how long it took, no matter how many sacrifices were made, he’d expose the secrets about those two things. He’d gain possession of them. And then he’d fulfill his desire.
While fighting for what was right, Feodor’s brother-in-law had used the wrong methods. He’d betrayed the admiration of his younger brother.
That was why Feodor decided those mistakes ought to be fixed by none other than himself, with his own two hands.
Confidential Warehouse Zero. Commonly known as the Pickle Barrel.
Among the various confidential warehouses, it stood out as the place where the most dangerous material was gathered.
Naturally, that meant it had the strictest security measures of any building on the Winged Guard’s military base. It was located underneath Weapon Storage Warehouse One, and obviously had no windows that might be used as a means of entry. The walls were forged from strong steel, so one couldn’t get in by digging a tunnel. The only way in or out was through a ridiculously solid metallic door bristling with no less than 5 locks and alarms.
In order to get in without drawing attention, one had to open the main door with the agreement of several officers who’d been entrusted with keys, as well as giving notice in the guard room. A full eleven documents had to be stamped to grant access, which alone would take at least three days to handle. Even first officers, granted the highest level of authority on this base, weren’t permitted to simply come and go as they pleased. Needless to say, as a fourth officer, Feodor was hardly in a position to casually saunter into the warehouse. Even so…
…Okay. While holding his breath and muffling his footsteps, Feodor raced through the hallway. These past five years, he’d thoroughly investigated the warehouse. It wasn’t as if he could walk into it with his eyes closed, but as long as he was careful, it was still possible to get in.
The patrol happened once every 20 minutes. After it passed through, there was a small window of time. The alarms could be silenced with a little tampering, so long as one knew their inner mechanisms and locations. Duplicate keys had been forged to bypass the locks. To suppress the clanging of the door opening and closing, he’d prepared a lubricant. It went without saying that it was a volatile type unlikely to leave traces. Beyond that, all that was needed was the prudence to avoid making mistakes at crucial moments, some vigilance and courage, and a little bit of luck.
Calm down…calm down…calm down, dammit! Admonishing himself over and over again, Feodor repeated the process he’d practiced a thousand times already in his head.
With a tiny squeak, the door opened. Feodor quickly slipped through the smallest possible gap he could manage, closing the door behind him with the most meticulous care to ensure it wouldn’t make more noise.
“…Ahhh.” Feodor breathed a deep relieved sigh as the adrenaline drained from him, feeling as if he’d collapse on the spot. Wiping off sweat that’d dripped to the bottom of his chin, he waited until his heart, wildly roaring with stress, calmed down. Pretty sure my lifespan just got a lot shorter…
There was an almost-chronic shortage of personnel in the Winged Guard’s 5th Division. No matter how stringent security might be, if the number of flesh-and-blood eyes available was insufficient, there’d surely be gaps. He might’ve had to practically force himself through those gaps, but at any rate, things seemed to be going well up to now.
After his eyes had somewhat adjusted to the darkness, Feodor lit a small luminous crystal he’d brought with him. As the dim light slowly illuminated the interior of the warehouse, he looked around.
It wasn’t particularly spacious, nor was it cramped. There were several large shelves lined up one after another, loaded with wooden boxes of all shapes and sizes. Feodor cast his light closer to the side of a nearby box to read the label: Akeri Agent Infiltration—List of Names.
He couldn’t say he wasn’t interested, but as his target was something else, he pulled his eyes away for the time being. Keeping his steps quiet, he inspected the boxes one by one. Tin Pack Incident—Evidence. Heaven’s Arrival—Ideological Code. Anachronistic Clock—Design Concept. Some of them were things he might’ve heard of before; others he knew nothing about.
Undoubtedly, the significance varied for each item, but each and every thing here had been deemed dangerous to the current world. One would expect several objects within this collection to be capable of annihilating a few cities or even entire floating islands.
But there certainly are quite a lot of them…
The 5th Division was garrisoned at the base during the Elpis Incident, around when Croyance consumed Island No. 39. Feodor’d heard once that the barracks, warehouses, and other buildings were all originally part of some educational facility that’d been bought and hastily remodeled. Only a few years have passed since then, yet so many forbidden items are gathered here.
It was likely that items formerly possessed by other divisions had been brought here as well. Even if those were taken into account, however, it didn’t change the impression that there were an awful lot of them. It occurred to Feodor that the various races living in Regule Aire had originally been scattered over the vast surface. Since they’d all been stuffed into this cramped world in the sky, it’d make perfect sense for things to be extremely unstable. It wouldn’t be strange if, at some point, the people of Regule Aire turned upon one another and brought about their own destruction.
Because the Beasts existed as an easy-to-see enemy, that danger rarely showed itself, but in truth, the threat of such an end was always close by. These “dangerous materials” could be said to serve as proof.
Feodor abruptly stopped.
In front of his eyes was a large box that, by itself, had to be carried in one’s arms. A label was affixed to it: Elpis—Bead Bottles.
“Gotcha.”
Perhaps it was to avoid jarring the box, but its lid hadn’t been nailed down. Putting on leather gloves, Feodor carefully opened the box. He shoved his hand into a sea of cushioning and felt around until he finally pulled out three spherical objects wrapped in protective paper and removed their wrappings.
Small glass balls containing dark onyx clumps. Exactly what he’d hoped to find.
“Gotcha, gotcha, gotcha.”
They’d gone overboard with the packaging, but that was hardly strange when one considered the sheer lethality of these glass balls. Bead Bottles…in other words, Croyance. No amount of cushioning could possibly dispel the fear of releasing what was sealed within the Bottles and destroying everything on the island.
As for himself, Feodor knew the glass was thicker and sturdier than it looked. It wouldn’t break just by being handled roughly. Unless it was at the center of a large explosion or smashed onto hard ground from a suitable height, one wouldn’t be able to so much as crack it.
“Well, I’m fine with the packaging being overdone.” Feodor took out three round stones of an appropriate size from his pocket, wrapping them in the Bottles’ protective paper. He lowered them into the cushioning and returned the box’s lid to the way it had been. It was a crude substitution; if even a moderately sharp-eyed individual looked inside, it’d be immediately seen through. On the other hand, normally there wouldn’t be anyone entering the room, and it was impossible for most people anyway. The chances of the theft being detected within a few days were exceptionally low.
Things have gone well, up to now. The problem is what happens afterwards.
If he relaxed now and failed to escape, it’d all be for nothing. Until he’d carefully erased the traces of his infiltration and snuck back to his own room, he couldn’t let down his guard for a moment. Before opening the door again, Feodor started to cover the light of his crystal—
He suddenly noticed it.
In the corner of the room, coiled in layers of chains, there was a large black box.
Not only large, but narrow. It was of such size that an adult man could lie in it and have room to spare. Coupled with its black color, it almost seemed like a coffin.
His tingling spine was screaming at him, telling him something. His mouth stiffened.
“This is…”
Its outwards appearance matched the story he’d heard. This was, most likely, what was discussed the other day. The top-secret item transported to this floating island along with the supplies. The mysterious thing sent directly to Ithea and immediately brought here. It was rumored to be the Great Sage’s legacy, but of course the credibility of that rumor was unknown.
Even so, Feodor had a creeping suspicion, backed with almost infinite confidence, that he knew exactly what was inside.
“This is…the Great Sage’s legacy.”
Feodor kept his steps silent as he crept closer to the black coffin, trying to inspect the side. The label affixed to it had been painted over in black. Next to it, in somewhat untidy and shaky lettering, “Dead Black Agate” had been written.
Judging by how large the container was, it couldn’t possibly house an actual Black Agate. Was it perhaps a codename relating to whatever was inside? Feodor slipped his hands through a gap in the chains, trying to shift the lid. It wouldn’t open. It didn’t budge when he tried picking it up from the bottom, either. He’d known it might be, but it was fairly heavy. It went without saying that it’d be impossible to sneak away with.
What if I just break the box and take what’s inside? It wasn’t a bad idea, but it’d require some time and the proper tools; Feodor had only considered taking the Bottles, and he wasn’t comfortable trying to break open the container with what he had on hand. What’s more, there wasn’t much time left before the next patrol came by.
“I guess it’s impossible for now.”
Just confirming it was here was already an unexpected prize. He wasn’t the type to get greedy. Reluctantly pulling himself away—rather, forcefully ripping himself away—from the box, Feodor decided to make his escape. In his heart, he vowed that he’d definitely return in the near future.
Feodor’s careful preparation paid off; there were no issues in the exit trip. Slipping through the guards’ surveillance once more, he was able to escape the Pickle Barrel.
Now he walked through the streets of the base in the dark, his stomach growling loudly. Being on full alert up to now had burnt through all the fuel he had. He was thankful it’d taken until now for the grumbling to start, but…
“Ahh, what a pain…”
The Bottles. That black coffin.
There were things he wanted to consider and things he had to consider, but his rumbling stomach was preventing him from thinking straight. I want something sweet.
As Feodor walked down the empty street, he idly dug through his pockets. Nothing edible turned up, making him moan in despair. It’d be fine if the world ended right now. He couldn’t even muster up a kind thought on an empty stomach—well, not that he wouldn’t think something similar on a full stomach, but that was another matter entirely.
It was already late, so the mess hall and store would be closed by now. Given the Bottles shoved in his pocket, he didn’t want to roam too much. The candy he’d bought before ought to still be in his room, so he’d make do with that once he returned. It’s fine. When morning comes, the mess hall will be open. There’s no such thing as an endless night, after all…
“Huh?” It seemed to be getting unusually noisy.
Somewhere in the distance, he could hear a number of soldiers rushing down corridors and speaking to each other in hurried sentences. They were too far away for Feodor to catch the details, but he could at least hear that some sort of suspicious character was being pursued.
Suspicious character…
Was the cat already out of the bag? Feodor’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of his mouth, but at any rate it seemed as if the target wasn’t him after all. Relief washed over him as he calmed down.
If it wasn’t Feodor they were after, perhaps it was another thief? They’d decreased recently, but at first this sort of occurrence wasn’t unusual. The military base had all sorts of equipment and machine parts not normally accessible to civilians lying around. The risk in stealing such things wasn’t small, but the reward obtained was probably worthwhile.
Alternatively, it could be some kind of sabotage? Right now, with the big battle against Croyance drawing nearer, such things weren’t unthinkable. There were uncountable numbers of motives in the world. The Winged Guard might be the protectors of Regule Aire, but it’s not as if their existence was appreciated by everyone on the islands. After all, the people being protected could poke their heads up to say selfish things at anyplace and anytime.
“…I don’t care who you are, but I’d appreciate it if you don’t overdo it,” Feodor murmured. His own position was akin to that of a venomous spider hidden within the Winged Guard. Part of him wanted to cheer on Mr. Suspicious Character, but it was outweighed by annoyance about what he’d do if the military tightened their security and made it harder to act. If you’re going to escape, hurry up and do it.
He stopped.
The wind ruffled the grass. It sounded like mere rustling, but he’d been a step too late in realizing there was another sound mixed into it. A person’s presence, lurking nearby.
Hostility. Malice. Aggression. Killing intent. Something both unlike any of these things and yet very similar to them. All of it directed at Feodor.
…Well. This is a problem.
Feodor was no good at straightforward fights. Sure, he knew how to use a sword, and he’d dabbled a bit in the basics of martial arts. By making full use of the two along with feints and other deceptive maneuvers, he was skilled at pretending to be an expert in fighting. Though he couldn’t guarantee that he’d win against a true expert, he’d at least put on a good show. However, his strength was all theatrics—he could only really use it in a one-in-one fight that he’d prepared for in advance. His feints and tricks were useless in a match where his opponent relied on brute strength without listening to his words or watching his actions, doubly so if he’d been caught off guard. If he got involved in a straightforward contest of strength, he’d have no chance of winning given his lack of proper sword practice and physical training, not to mention his innate weaknesses as a mere imp.
Feodor reassessed his situation. Late at night. A street with nobody else around. Myself, walking alone. Ignoring the fact that it was happening inside a military base, the setting was perfect for a ruffian to appear. Should I run right away? Or start yelling for…
The leaves rustled.
By the time he’d heard the sound, it was already too late. Without having time to look behind him, a powerful attack rammed into a blindspot at the right of his back and slammed him down painfully onto the street pavement. Perhaps because his attacker was watching his exhalation and aimed for the precise moment his lungs had no air in them, he couldn’t so much as scream.
Agh…! Fighting back the pain in his shoulder, Feodor twisted his body. The first thing that entered his field of vision was a clean white hospital gown that stood out starkly among the dark night. What entered his gaze next was bright, orange…hair…
Huh?
He instantly realized who his attacker was, and immediately rejected it. There’s no way that’s true, it can’t possibly be true! After all—that’s right, why would she be in a place like this? There’s no way she’d do something like this, even if she was. And there’s no way she’d ever make an expression like that!
He desperately searched for an excuse, trying to avert his eyes from reality. But in the end, the sole piece of his mind that remained calm and collected used the last bits of air in his lungs to croak out a name of its own accord.
“La…khesh…?”
His attacker disregarded him, her hands roughly trying to pin him down. In the dark and under the chaos of the situation, he let his body’s instincts take over and resist. This was where the small training and experience he’d gained as a soldier was (more or less) coming in handy.
His attacker’s physical strength was clearly superior to his. Her technique was also skillful, without any openings to speak of. However, her physique was clearly that of a small girl. Grabbing onto that one and only advantage, Feodor resisted. The two of them, each trying to wrestle the other down, rolled around on the ground in a tangled embrace.
“Argh—!” Feodor hissed in pain as his side hit hard stone, and his whole body reflexively relaxed. The previously even battle fell apart as their foreheads collided, close enough he could feel her violent breathing on his lips. Having completely lost control, his shoulders were pinned down. His attacker grabbed the collar of his shirt and started to strangle him.
Am I going to die like this?
Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad?
In sharp contrast to the defeatism sweeping through his mind, his body continued to react of its own accord. Unable to put any strength into his arms, the choking Feodor wrapped them around his attacker’s head, forcing her to look at him in the eyes.
He saw citrus-orange pupils, bloodshot with red. Their gazes became entangled.
“G-gh… Y-you are…”
Feodor was sure that right now his eyes were lightly glimmering.
He was an imp. Member of a race that was said to have once tricked the emnetwiht with their devious words and cursed eyes, leading virtuous people to their demise one after the next. However, it’d been over 500 years since the emnetwiht were wiped out, and modern imps had all but regressed. Though their “devious words,” or smooth-talking abilities were still usable, their so-called “cursed” magical eyes had weakened to the extent where current imps had almost forgotten their existence.
At present their power could only be used after fulfilling a multitude of conditions, rendering it something closer to a little-known parlor trick. First: the surroundings had to be dim. Second, one’s eyes had to meet another’s at such a ridiculously short distance that their breath could be tasted. Third, the target’s mental makeup had to be approximately similar to that of the emnetwiht. Fourth, the user had to be in a mental state capable of precisely directing their power. And so on. Even if the stage could be set for all these things to come into place, the amount of labor needed would be much more efficiently devoted to simply deceiving the target.
That was why Feodor himself tried not to rely on his power as much as possible. It was difficult to use, he wasn’t used to it, and its effects were unstable. He shouldn’t make any plans that depended on it, and in any situation where he was forced to fall back upon it, he’d already have lost. That was what he’d always told himself.
“Y-you…are…my friend!”
In that instant, the two of them froze.
His heart cried out. Something ran down his spine.
Open eyes. Shared gazes. Something within Feodor, flowing soundlessly, poured into her. Little by little, his body became filled with an incomprehensible satisfaction and exhaustion.
It was a feeling Feodor knew. There’s no way it worked…right?
At one point when he was young, he’d attempted to master his power one way or another. But no matter how much trial and error he went through, no matter how many times he tried, his success rate never rose above ten percent. Even if he practiced it when he was calm and in quiet places, the result didn’t change.
“Um…”
He heard his assailant speak. She sounded confused. “You’re…?”
It was the voice of Lakhesh Nyx Seniorious. At the very least, a voice similar enough to convince him.
“Hey, Lakhesh. It hurts, you know?” Feodor tried to make a friendly smile. There was no need to lie or pretend—his constricted neck really did hurt.
After a long moment of hesitation, his attacker relaxed her hands and straightened up. Remaining seated on Feodor’s stomach, she looked up at the sky.
An imp’s eyes could only slightly alter another person’s mentality. Right now, in her mind, when it came to a certain Feodor Jessman, a thought along the lines of It feels as if he’s a close friend ought to be sprouting.
“Who are you?” she asked quietly. Another question followed immediately, “Where am I?”
I’m the one who’s got questions for you, Feodor thought. Faeries who’ve been encroached upon by their past life never reawaken—that’s what he’d been told. He’d spent several sleepless nights furious with himself for driving Lakhesh to that point. And yet, right now—although her words and actions might’ve become peculiar and dangerous—she was up and about, not to mention very energetic.
There’s no way…
“Do you not remember?” Feodor asked his own question instead of answering hers. The word amnesia came to mind. It was a common plot device, a tragic development that could be found in fictional stories, crystal movies.
It’d be extraordinarily unlucky if that tragedy had befallen Lakhesh. At the same time, it could be said to be impossibly lucky. At the very least, it was much better than the state she’d been in until yesterday, endlessly sleeping and waiting to disappear. It was true that one’s past, memories, and relationships were important, and the pain of losing them might be unbearable. But despite that, if those things were built back up starting from now, that pain might someday end.
“Eh?”
From afar, the flickering light of torches was becoming visible.
The girl noticed them a second after Feodor did. Remaining silent, her aura changed to one of caution and guilt. “Hey, wai—?!”
He was too late to stop her. The girl shot up and was off. Although his opportunity was lost already, Feodor recalled something. Right now, in this base, a suspicious character was being pursued. And the girl in front of his eyes now—the one trying to disappear from sight—was, no matter how one looked at it, clearly acting suspiciously.
“Wait, Lakhesh—” his words lost power partway through. “What’s going on…”
In the end, she was gone before he could finish speaking. In the blink of an eye, that white hospital gown had already blended into the darkness of night and vanished.
“Just what the hell is going on?!”
No voice came to answer his question. Feodor grimaced, suddenly feeling itchiness and pain all over himself. Since he’d gotten thrown around and slammed to the ground so harshly, he had scratches everywhere. He quickly examined himself, confirming the Bottles were safe while at it. They were indeed sturdily made. If they’d been broken in the fighting just now, I’d already be an onyx statue… The thought was a bit frightening.
The torch lights seemed to be getting closer; perhaps they’d heard the earlier battle? Feodor decided it’d be more convenient if he wasn’t found and made himself scarce, many more thoughts than before running through his mind.
Why was she running away? What would she be running from? Where could she be going? What is she planning to do from here on?
What kind of miracle happened just now? What happened to that girl who I shouldn’t have been able to meet again?
He idly ran through the list of questions in his head again and again. No answers appeared. His vague speculations wouldn’t crystallize into thoughts.
An unusually cold wind, unbefitting of the season, blew. Feodor shivered a little.