novelraw Chapter 49 : Chapter 49
Chapter 49 : Chapter 49
Chapter 49: Monster Dissection Practice (1)
It was a very small flowerpot.
The flowerpot sat on the table.
It must have originally been a beautiful dress. They must have torn the splendid hem to shreds, sewn it into a round shape, filled it with soil, and planted flower seeds. It must have been so. A young Fleur thought, clearing her throat.
“……Who are you?”
On the other side of the flowerpot, a gaunt woman asked a question.
Pertillier de Saint-Pierre. This person is my mother.
Fleur confirmed, picking up the hem of her skirt. She bowed her head with a proper smile.
“Hello, Mrs. Saint-Pierre.”
The maid's uniform that enveloped Fleur's body fluttered.
“My name is Louise. Louise Bourdieux. I will be cleaning your bedchamber from today.”
Louise was an employee of the same age as Fleur.
Having stolen and worn her maid's uniform, Fleur had just arrived to meet Pertillier.
“Please leave.”
Pertillier turned her head.
“I can clean by myself. This place is not dirty.”
“I'm sorry, madam. I am not doubting your cleanliness. No matter how clean everything is, I have a duty to sweep and wipe your space.”
Pertillier’s bedchamber was a mess.
Where should I start cleaning? Fleur thought, narrowing her eyes. While the torn curtains swayed in the draft, the steam on the windows was rife with nail marks. The carpet, left wet, had long been stained yellow. The fireplace, riddled with ashes, looked as if it would struggle to even hold an ember.
“……Do as you please.”
Pertillier muttered softly, and,
“Thank you, madam.”
Fleur smiled brightly.
And so, it was the first day. She sorted and classified the dirtied things, swept the floor, and wiped the windows. While Fleur clumsily cleaned, Pertillier remained silent. She just sat facing the table, occasionally smiling at the flowerpot.
As if the small flowerpot was her only space.
* * *
My mother's bedchamber is as shabby as a cheap wooden coffin.
Fleur thought so.
It can't be helped. Mother was being destroyed.
That's right. If a wooden coffin sealed with nails is a prison that confines the decay of the deceased, then mother's bedchamber is blocking her rotting heart. So that it will never be revealed to the outside world.
Opening the window to ventilate, and scraping off the soot from the fireplace, Fleur thought.
And so, on the first day,
How can I sweep it all up?
Fleur pondered all day, and,
The pondering continued on the second and third days.
How can I wipe it all away?
The pondering continued on the fourth and fifth days.
Just how on earth……,
‘Can I bring my mother back to life with my own hands?’
* * *
It must have been the seventh day.
Pertillier spoke to Fleur for the first time.
Your way seems too arduous, she said.
She opened her mouth, wrapping her hand around Fleur's, who was cleaning the windowsill.
“There are things that cannot be washed away with just a wet cloth. It would be better to wipe it with vinegar. And like this……”
Pertillier’s hand moved.
Beneath it, Fleur's hand, holding the cloth, also moved.
Rough and gaunt. Fleur thought, feeling her mother's skin. But it was soft. The direction her mother's hand led was endlessly gentle, and exceedingly considerate. Fleur's hand, placed on the windowsill, was extending as if dancing.
“……It will be easier if you wipe it like this.”
“I understand, madam.”
I will never forget.
Fleur whispered with a smile.
* * *
“What kind of person is my mother?”
Once, Fleur used to ask such a question.
“She was a gracious person.”
This was the answer of Fleur's father, Deserick.
“She has fulfilled her given duties and is preparing to return to the Main Gods. So, Fleur, you must not disturb her final moments. Do not visit her and do not question. But please believe this one thing. You are a precious fruit born between her and me.”
* * *
On the fifteenth day, Pertillier had a bout of madness.
She rummaged through everything and screamed. She scratched her neck until her flesh tore, shouting for someone to kill her.
──Please! I can't take it anymore! Don't leave me in a place like this!
Her bloodshot eyes twitched like a hungry stomach convulsing, and her torn-out hair scattered like a crow's feathers. And so, Pertillier’s space became a birdcage. My gaunt and starving mother, Fleur thought with a faint smile. You must be missing the sky.
“It's okay, madam.”
With her withering mother by her side,
Fleur extended her young hand and wiped away her tears.
“I have come to clean everything up.”
* * *
It must have been the thirtieth day.
A sprout emerged from the flowerpot. A fresh cotyledon poked its head out from the pile of soil. Fleur and Pertillier stared at the flowerpot from across the table. Pertillier looked overjoyed, and Fleur merely tilted her head.
‘To think something like that could grow in the north.’
She couldn't believe it.
Flower blossoms were rare in the Saint-Pierre territory.
It was an environment where germination was impossible without magic. And so, flowers that bloomed overnight and gave off no scent were used for decoration. Even those often couldn't endure for long and froze to death. The sprout of the flower Pertillier had grown, though trivial, was absurdly full of life.
“Louise.”
Suddenly, Pertillier opened her mouth.
“Do you have a family too?”
“Of course, madam.”
Fleur nodded her head.
“I don't have any siblings, but I have parents. My father is a very kind person……”
My mother is……, she said.
Fleur trailed off.
Only after taking a deep breath could she declare.
“My mother. She is the most beautiful person in this world.”
Yes. You are truly beautiful.
Fleur believed it without a doubt.
Because beauty was completed through metaphor. Even flowers were like that. Flowers were a good material to guarantee beauty. Like a flower, same as a flower, as if seeing a flower, they expand the beauty of this world through ceaseless metaphors.
“She resembles a flower, my mother……”
Was it because of that?
All metaphors in this world are forced.
There would be no point of overlap between a person and a flower.
But it's okay. Fleur thought, blushing shyly. Eyes that have lost their gleam, hair that has worn away, a withered body. I can metaphorize everything about you with flowers. Because there are no flowers that do not wither. Yes, it must be so…….
“I see, Louise.”
A smile spread across Pertillier’s lips.
“I also have a daughter about your age.”
I want to introduce you to that child.
Pertillier muttered so.
“Look here.”
Pertillier’s index finger extended cautiously.
“Isn't she a truly beautiful child?”
What was beside it was not a person.
“My daughter……, Fleur.”
It was a flower.
It was the cotyledon of a flower.
I see. Mother also uses metaphors.
Fleur thought, nodding her head. She could understand without difficulty. Not a sliver of shock, not a bit of sadness, not the despair that tightened her heart was Fleur's share. Her mother, who was withering like a flower, had finally come to believe that something like a flower's cotyledon was her daughter.
“Nice to meet you, Fleur.”
Fleur gave a polite bow.
Toward the flower that had been named after her.
“You are very……, you resemble your mother.”
Unlike me, who ended up resembling my father.
* * *
“What kind of person is my mother?”
Again, Fleur used to ask such a question.
- A lowly woman, and a flaw of the family. But do not mind it. Our lives are made by the arrangement of the Main Gods. A woman from a village who was born with a high density of divine power but was ignorant, created a fruit like you through your father.
- Oh my, Lady Fleur. Don't mind such a dirty woman. Your hair, your eyes……, you resemble the master so much. A woman who vomits everything she eats and goes crazy in a fit of madness is nothing but a sacrifice.
This was the answer of Fleur's family members,
the believers who worshipped the Main Gods.
* * *
“Mrs. Saint-Pierre.”
Fleur greeted her every day.
Toward her mother who was becoming more shabby by the day.
“You are truly beautiful today as well.”
The cold of the north is harsh.
Although some flower buds bloom in winter, she wished the petals her mother had bloomed would be in the midst of spring. Because it seemed as if even her desolate bedchamber could become warm then.
That was all. Fleur swept and wiped Pertillier's bedchamber every single day without fail.
“Mrs. Saint-Pierre, you are truly beautiful today as well.”
The petals touched by the morning's fingerprints smell of a cradle.
The petals touched by the evening's fingerprints smell of a grave.
Why were you born? How about dying?
Fleur used to ask Pertillier's flower. If she turned the flowerpot upside down on the table, and then lifted it up, a complete flower's grave would be created. The pile of soil containing the flower seeds was a good material to make someone's grave.
“Mrs. Saint-Pierre, you are truly beautiful today as well.”
Mother's cold is not of the north.
Fleur knew it by then. The gravel path covered in frost, the biting wind that shook the windows, the heavy snow that rushed like the sighs of the Main Gods, all had nothing to do with Pertillier's cold.
Because mother must have come from a warm place.
Fleur decided to accept it that way. Pertillier's cold was made up of at most a few kinds of emotions. It could not harm the soil, did not threaten the building, and would have nothing to do with the climate that colored the ground white.
It was only freezing herself.
“Mrs. Saint-Pierre, you are truly beautiful today as well.”
Was it because of that?
Around the time the flower that grew from the soil withered,
Pertillier became a flower hanging in the air.
“……Mrs. Saint-Pierre.”
The flowerpot on the table.
The desolate, drooping flower blossom contained in the flowerpot.
Above it, swaying like a leaf,
The legs of the most beautiful woman in this world.
“Today as well, you are truly……”
Hugging Pertillier who had hung herself,
rubbing her cheek against the skin covered in filth, happy that she could finally hold her in her arms,
a young Fleur smiled like a traveler who had discovered a lone flower.
“……truly beautiful.”
.
.
.
Morning, the catacomb of the Naflansee Cathedral.
As the smell of old death seeped between the sarcophagi,
“I have failed.”
Fleur muttered, looking down at her left wrist.
“Their souls……, do not exist in the Underworld.”
A vague murmur spread.
Fleur had arrived at the catacomb due to a summons from the Inquisition Bureau. There were few evangelists who could use the Resuscitation Ceremony, and the Naflansee Cathedral needed Fleur. It was to resuscitate and interrogate the rebels who had died during the invasion incident that had occurred about a month ago.
“What could have happened?”
Fleur asked, tilting her head.
An innocent smile touched her light pink lips.
- Their souls aren't in the Underworld. Then where did they go?
- It is clearly related to the apostates. We must start the investigation at once. Hurry and send a letter to the Papacy.
- Understood. But first…….
Around the altar where Fleur stood, the Inquisitors, dressed in black uniforms, were busy. One of them approached Fleur. He offered a handkerchief with a considerate expression.
- Lady Fleur de Saint-Pierre, thank you for your service. Please wipe the blood from your stigmata.
Fleur narrowed her eyes.
On her left wrist, blood drops had formed on the mangled stigmata.
It was a wound that could not be healed even with divine magic.
“Thank you.”
Fleur took the handkerchief.
The white surface of the handkerchief began to turn red.
The small, flower-shaped embroidery on its edge also got soaked without mercy.
- You have worked hard since early in the morning. The reward will be paid into the vault under Lady Fleur's name. Please go back now.
The Inquisitor whispered so.
- Your friend must be waiting for you too.
On the wall of the corridor leading to the altar, a boy was leaning against it.
Emilio Mackenzie.
A third-year student at CIAR, sponsored by the Mystriel family.
He belonged to the Department of Elemental Studies and was not a student with a noticeable history. His family was ordinary. His talent was also ordinary. Even if he had a specialty, there was no reason for Fleur to consider it. In the first place, Emilio had never spoken to Fleur, and only the beings that occupied Emilio's inner thoughts were aware of Fleur.
“He’s not a friend.”
Thus, Fleur took a step.
She gave a slight smile to the Inquisitor.
“The evil spirits may need mercy, but the ghosts are just squalid.”
Fleur passed Emilio and crossed the corridor.
Emilio followed behind such a Fleur. The regular footsteps distorted the silence of the catacomb.
Fleur knew. That the Resuscitation Ceremony would fail. The souls of the rebels would not have reached the Underworld. They would be bound somewhere in Epezeria. The being who wanted their souls was behind Fleur's back.
“──Heraclitus of the Fire declares.”
Emilio’s mouth opened.
The gentle voice of an old man flowed out.
“Old memories come to mind. To think it's the Naflansee Cathedral. It seems like just yesterday when I was pondering the construction of this place.”
Fleur did not speak.
She quickened her pace with her mouth shut.
“Fire is the law that adorns the beginning and end of all civilizations. I dare say it is the natural phenomenon most connected to our lives. It is as clamorous as a baby's cry, yet it shrinks like a sick person's breath; that is the nature of fire. Is it because of that? Any civilization starts from a bonfire and ends up in a pile of ashes.”
I want to destroy it.
This place I built, with my own hands……
Just as Emilio smiled, muttering so,
“Shut up.”
Fleur looked back at Emilio.
Clank, he went. The sound of the catacomb's elevator descending.
A sense of displeasure crossed Fleur's gaze. She wanted to twist the neck of the boy standing before her.
Even so, it was just a futile delusion. Emilio was both innocent and ignorant. Even if that boy's breath were to be cut off, the beings that had coiled themselves in the boy's inner thoughts would find another host.
And so, they were ghosts, not spirits or evil spirits. Fleur was fully aware of their identity.
“I don't have time to listen to an old man's ramblings. I don't care about the ideology you or your comrades hold.”
You see, she said.
Fleur whispered, bowing her head toward Emilio.
Her sky-blue hair flowed down her shoulders.
“I hate it when those who deserve to die live, and those who deserve to live die.”
The elevator reached Fleur's side.
The iron mesh was drawn back, revealing an interior like a birdcage.
“So, keep this in mind.”
Fleur grabbed Emilio's hand.
She pulled him as she was and stepped into the elevator.
“If it weren't for my father……”
I wouldn't have associated with things like you.
* * *
──Thud!
The carcass of a monster rose onto the autopsy table.
The body, intended for bipedal locomotion, looked vaguely human.
However, things like blood scabs covered the monster's body. Above all, the head. The head of the monster on the autopsy table had no eyes, nose, or mouth. The pointedly swollen head looked vaguely like a crown, but it had a single eye in the solar plexus and its mouth was open at the waist.
“It is an Exemplar's Keratin.”
Abel pronounced the monster's name.
Exemplar's Keratin. Or a species called the Gluttonous Crown.
It was also the monster that was used in the cursed artifact that had bewitched Dante.
“The Exemplar's Keratin is said to have been born from the crown of a tyrant. Do you know the tale related to this?”
At Abel's question, the students remained silent.
The laboratory of Cia-Harphe Academy. The students were standing in groups facing the tables. They were the students of the 5th-year major lecture of the Department of Divinity, 「Practical Monster Purification」.
“May I speak?”
Suddenly, a delicate voice was heard.
It was Fleur de Saint-Pierre, the only 4th-year student allowed to take the 5th-year lecture.
“Go ahead.”
As soon as Abel nodded his head,
“A very long time ago, there was a tyrant who ruled a certain kingdom. In the midst of a record-breaking drought that came upon the whole country, the tyrant alone enjoyed a feast and was full.”
Fleur began to recite the tale without hesitation.
The people, tired of the tyranny, started a rebellion, and soon reached the royal palace. The tyrant was eating even in the midst of it. With his mouth full of delicacies, he was clutching his hungry stomach as if the armed people were of no concern to him.
“Kill him. He deserves to die. The people resolved so.”
However, the people could not kill the tyrant.
The moment countless blades were aimed at the tyrant, teeth sprouted from his crown and began to devour him.
Was it because the long period of turmoil had made even the crown hungry? The crown chewed and ate everything of the tyrant. From head to toe. Thanks to that, it gained limbs. It gained the tyrant's intellect. It also gained an endless hunger. And so, the Exemplar's Keratin was born. The monster called the Gluttonous Crown.
“Correct.”
Abel diagnosed in a calm tone.
“Monsters generally have tales. They are all baseless rumors. Just folktales good for chatting with friends, they are of no help in fighting a battle.”
Why is that, he said.
Abel asked the students.
“Our ancestors focused on giving origins to monsters and passing them down orally. Some monsters were even worshipped as gods. Do you gentlemen know the reason for that?”
“Because they couldn't kill them.”
Fleur answered, raising her hand again.
“It must have been in a similar context to considering natural disasters as divine punishment. The people of old couldn't kill monsters, and that's why they made up tales.”
“You know well, Fleur.”
Abel stood facing the autopsy table.
After examining the surface of the skinning knife, he threw it lightly.
Thwack, he went.
The blade stuck into the Exemplar's Keratin.
“I will now dissect the Exemplar's Keratin. I will peel off its flesh and rummage through its organs, and tell you gentlemen the truth about monsters.”
What constitutes a monster is not a tale.
Abel emphasized so.
“It is different from an earthquake or a tsunami. A monster is not an unavoidable disaster, it is nothing more than mere prey. No matter what anyone else says, you gentlemen must think so. Because you will make the purification of monsters your profession.”
So, I will take volunteers, he said.
Abel continued, looking around at the students.
“There happen to be two daggers. Would you not like to dissect the monster with me?”
The students remained silent.
It was not because they were afraid of the monster.
The upperclassmen taking 「Practical Monster Purification」 had experienced enough. They all had a history of having killed a monster themselves.
‘It must be because they don't want to.’
Fleur thought, stroking her floral wreath.
Stabbing a monster's vital point with a knife and rummaging through its insides were completely different tasks.
Hunting and dissection could not be placed on the same line.
If a Holy Knight or a cleric killed a monster, decomposing the corpse was the share of the lowly.
‘How foolish.’
Thinking so, Fleur raised her hand.
“Professor Argento, I……”
I will help,
Just as she was about to say,
“──It's a match, Professor Argento.”
There was a student who was advancing toward the autopsy table.
His sharply extended golden hair fluttered, and his ashen eyes, which had been filled with simplicity, were honed. Demian Fernando von Farenheit. He was a 5th-year student from the Department of Divinity who belonged to Abel's class.
“I, Demian Fernando von Farenheit, wish to challenge you, Professor.”
Demian stood facing the autopsy table.
He picked up a dagger and aimed it at Abel.
“Are you suggesting a sword fight?”
When Abel asked with a blank expression,
“Of course not.”
Demian chuckled and shook his head.
“The one who dissects the monster more skillfully will be considered the winner. Will you accept my challenge?”
“Do as you please.”
Abel let out a sigh.
“If I lose, I will immediately run five laps around the training ground. While making dog barking sounds. What will you do, young master?”
“Do not call me young master. Please call me by my name. And if, by any chance, I lose……”
Demian declared with a resolute expression.
“I too will run five laps around the training ground. But I will not make dog barking sounds.”
I will make cat meowing sounds, he said.
Demian vowed, raising the corners of his mouth in a smile.
“Because I like cats more than dogs!”