On Being Found and Adopted by Talula

"...?"

Orson looked at Talula in confusion, unsure what she meant by that.

"The fate of the infected in that village... if I had witnessed it with my own eyes, I truly don't know what choice I would have made."

Talula withdrew her gaze from the window and spoke softly to Orson. The anxiety she had felt earlier had eased considerably.

Because Orson, the survivor who seemed to have slaughtered those "troublemakers," was here, Talula had not placed all her focus on the infected who had died unjustly, avoiding what might have been the final straw that crushed her.

"You're right, Orson. If I forget how to keep moving forward, then I should seek help from others. My original goal was to see both ordinary people and the infected across this land smile."

Talula shook her head, wanting to cast off all the unease and fear that had built up inside her and welcome a brand-new tomorrow.

"Once the snow stops, we'll go back, Orson. Then we'll think about tomorrow together—"

"Watch out!!"

Orson had kept a small-range low-frequency scan passively active. Though his current condition had weakened both its range and frequency, he still sensed several figures approaching the window at once.

Those figures were not merely passing by. They stopped beside the window and took out some kind of bowstring mechanism.

Crossbow bolts—

Orson shouted as he rose from the bed and shoved Talula away from the window. Almost at the same time, the sound of shattering glass and a crossbow bolt piercing flesh broke the silence.

"Ungh... ngh, cough!"

Orson clutched his abdomen. Half of a crossbow bolt was embedded in his body.

Before he could say anything, the agonizing pain left him drenched in cold sweat as he collapsed to the floor. This was different from the hunger he had felt before, when life had slowly drained away. This was hotter, more painful—like someone had poured boiling oil over his stomach. He could not even breathe out, only helplessly suck air into his lungs.

"What are you doing—!? We were never a threat to you!"

"And you have the nerve to say that while carrying that sword around."

The man who seemed to be the village chief looked disdainfully at the battered greatsword in Talula's hand, its blade chipped and worn.

"...I understand. Is this enough for you?"

Talula threw the sword to the villagers. The chief caught it and examined the greatsword that had once pierced Koschei with a sneering grin.

"Looks like it'll fetch a good price."

"I'm no threat anymore. Hurry up and stop Orson's bleeding!"

Talula shouted, but the villagers did not move.

"What else do you want?"

Looking at the few villagers smiling sinisterly before her, Talula realized something. This was not "self-defense" at all.

"You aren't nobles, are you? No, it doesn't matter even if you are. Out in this wilderness, it won't matter if a few nobles die. Everything you have belongs to me now, anyway."

The village chief raised his crossbow and aimed it at Talula.

"—"

Talula's mind went blank in that instant, not from fear of the situation, but from rage.

This village had ample supplies, no signs that the Enforcement Team had ever come through, and even preparations to endure the winter.

These people were not desperate. They lived fairly well.

And yet...

Greedy, shortsighted, illogical, cold-blooded—they would kill people for some insignificant and unknown gain right before their eyes, using such a childish excuse.

They had no idea what kind of retaliation attacking "nobles" would bring, nor had they considered the sins they would bear after murdering someone.

They had thought of nothing. Even though their lives were not difficult, they would still viciously attack strangers who had expressed no hostility, for utterly unreasonable reasons.

Were these the people she wanted to save? Were these the people who had pulled the trigger on Orson?

"You... you bunch of—"

Talula raised her trembling hand. She had the power to burn this village to ashes, and she intended to burn it to ashes.

The moment before infernal flames consumed the village:

"Rest Note."

Orson, lying on the ground, struggled to extend his hand. The shadow known as Rest Note took physical form and pierced straight through the village chief's head, blowing it apart from within.

"...Huh? What... what splattered all over my face...?" "Ah... aahhh, ah!?" "Wuh—waaaahhh!? They're infected! They're infected!!"

With the village chief's sudden death, the remaining villagers immediately fled the room in terror.

"...Orson!"

With no target left to burn, Talula could only lower her hand and turn toward Orson, whose breathing was growing weaker as he lay on the floor.

"You can't kill them—wasn't that what you said... this land is worth saving, but... some people aren't worth it... leave these people to me... Talula, you... keep your..."

"Stop talking!"

Talula tore open Orson's clothes and tried to treat the wound with the methods she had learned from FrostNova and the other infected in the Guerrilla Force.

"I'll cauterize it to stop the bleeding, then we have to go back... right now...! Hold on, Orson, hold on!"

In the end, Talula was only a young girl. She could not carry Orson in a front hold without touching his wound, so she could only half-support, half-drag him out of the village.

Orson knew very well that if this continued, he would not make it back to the settlement alive. He would pass out and suffocate somewhere along the way.

He was more panicked by that fact than he had expected—not because he was about to die, but because of what might happen after he died.

Alina had not awakened yet. If he left too, who would accompany this girl walking along the edge of a cliff and keep moving forward?

Live... I have to live. Think of something.

This time, he could not wait for Talula to save him. He had to use his own strength to survive—because Talula was the one who needed saving.

He absolutely could not lose consciousness. Once he passed out, it would all be over.

Just as he was about to lose consciousness completely, Orson finally thought of a way. Betting everything on his last remaining strength, he manifested the white score—the score of his own soul.

Orson reached for the white score, then forced his hand to close around it.

"—!!??"

An incomprehensible, indescribable pain exploded from within his body, but the tearing agony of his soul temporarily brought back the consciousness he had nearly lost.

—Don't die.

Orson desperately gripped his soul with enough force to shatter his teeth.

—Don't die here.

Every second felt as long as a minute. The endless pain and torment on the level of his soul made Orson want to release his Soul Score every moment.

—If I die here, everything will completely come to nothing...!

Orson clutched his soul tightly, like a climber gripping the edge of a cliff. Even if his hand were torn apart completely, he could not let his consciousness fall into that endless abyss.

—I want to change those damned tragedies. I want to see her receive what she deserves. I want to sit around a bonfire with everyone again and watch the stars...

—So even with the will to die, I can't die here...!

Orson did not let go, and Talula did not let go either.

There were no gods or miracles in this world. Orson had known that for a long time.

In that case, he would rely on himself.

Until the very end, Orson never released the hand gripping his Soul Score.

Snowfields and Dandelion Fields

In a pure white hospital room, Orson stood quietly beside a bed covered with medical equipment.

Orson hated white. Endless white, white everywhere, white like a winter day blanketed in snow—nothing but anger rose in him at the sight of it.

Orson looked at the girl lying on the bed. Though he still could not make out her face, he did not care about that detail.

He tightly held the girl's slender hand, hoping to pass his warmth to her that way. But he did not dare squeeze too hard, afraid he would hurt the back of her hand, which was covered in bluish needle marks.

"Don't give up. You can make it through. I spoke with the doctor—the results will definitely be better next time."

Orson spoke softly to the girl. She used all her strength to offer him a pale smile.

"Maybe. Listen to me, Little Sen."

The girl gently turned her head and brought her lips close to Orson's ear.

"Little Sen, you're very kind. You never think so yourself, but I know you can't watch the tragedies around you unfold as if they have nothing to do with you. You suffered a lot because of me, didn't you?"

The girl smiled at Orson. Just as he was about to refute her, she shook her head to stop him.

"Back then, I wanted to become a violinist, so you desperately asked everywhere if anyone had an unused violin. You even sneaked scores out of the music room for me—what an idiot."

The girl laughed softly, but it quickly turned into coughing.

"Thank you, Little Sen. If possible, I hope... that in exchange for all the suffering I endured in this life, you'll meet someone in the future who deserves your kindness, someone who can truly stay by your side."

"Wait—"

The girl's heart stopped. Perhaps it was fortunate that she still wore a smile on her face.

Orson opened the window. Outside lay an endless field of dandelions. He stared at the flowers and stood there in silence, lost in thought.

I should just stay here. Even if I leave, there's nowhere for me to go.

No... is that really true?

As Orson pondered in confusion, someone knocked on the door to the hospital room.

Orson mechanically walked to the door and turned the lock, then stared blankly at the visitor before him.

"..."

Dragon horns, silver-white hair, a crisp military uniform, and an expression that was resolute yet gentle.

"Orson, we still have to keep moving forward, don't we?"

Talula stood at the door and extended a hand to Orson.

"I..."

Orson hesitantly turned to look behind him, only to find that the hospital room was gone. In its place was a dandelion field stretching to the horizon.

The girl stood amid drifting dandelion fluff and smiled at Orson.

Orson turned back again. Before him was a dark, overcast sky completely covered in ice and snow. Frigid snowflakes swept down fiercely from the heavens, while the cold air tore at skin and faces like blades.

Orson stood at the boundary between high summer and deep winter in silence.

Before him lay endless darkness and cold, filled with the white he hated.

Behind him was a warm, vibrant field of flowers, where all worries could be forgotten beneath clear skies.

The choice was obvious.

"...Sorry, Little Pu. I still can't bring myself to let her walk alone through that kind of world."

Orson turned back toward the girl surrounded by dandelions. This time, he could finally see her face clearly: azure eyes, short golden hair, and a smile as warm as the sun.

"Do your best, Little Sen."

The girl smiled and waved at Orson, then vanished from the dandelion garden.

"Yeah, I will."

Orson turned his gaze back toward the frozen earth and extended his hand to Talula.

"Sorry to keep you waiting—"

When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Talula's horns.

Orson blinked hard, and his vision gradually sharpened from a blur. Only then did he realize he was lying in bed, while the "Tyrant of Reunion" sat beside him, tightly holding his hand.

He was still alive.

"Morning, Ta—rua!"

Before Orson could finish greeting Talula, she threw herself directly into his arms.