Restlessness

Under the shocked gaze of the giant eye, a figure dropped through the opening, gracefully avoiding the obstacles on the way down before lightly touching down on the flesh-like floor. Veronica looked down at the immobilized eye below her, a mocking smile playing on her lips.

"Blood Cup Cult remnants, huh? What, healed up and in such a hurry to come back here and die?"

Veronica's taunt went unanswered. The beastlike scarlet eyes had lost their earlier disdain, leaving only wariness in their place.

The spacious lower-level warehouse rumbled. All the [Grail] essence accumulated by the Hound Bar was drawn together. Centered around Belloc's corpse, clumps of flesh buds pushed up from the Blood Pool, coiling together to form a bud of flesh and blood.

An abnormal vitality was poured into the temporary vessel without regard for the cost. The [Blood-Thirsty Hound]'s skin, tough enough to cushion bullets, was torn apart by the flesh swelling and multiplying inside it. Blood-red gashes blossomed, forming sharp, interlocking patterns across its skin.

It was on the verge of collapse, yet it had reached its peak.

Blood rolled from its body like smoke from a raging fire. The fearsome monster, reborn, opened its scarlet beast eyes and charged with a roar at Veronica—or rather, at Horn, standing opposite her!

As if. Even if he hadn't heard of that blonde woman, from what she'd just shown, she was definitely an Apostle of the [Key] on his level, if not stronger. That would be one thing if he were in his true body, but in his current half-baked state, facing her would be no different from courting death.

So what softer target could there be than poor, weak, helpless Horn?

It lunged at incredible speed, leaving afterimages. Even as the huge body it had just strengthened was cleaved in two by a purple arc of light flying through the air, the scarlet eyes—lodged in the [Blood-Thirsty Hound]'s body, at the spot where its neck had been blasted off—still gleamed with cruel delight.

If noble blood could not be his, then he would consume it!

The Apprentices who venerated the [Cup of Insatiable] were precisely those who detested bloodline supremacy the most. They knew that blood was the Holy Grail's benevolence.

—To waste that blood was to defile life.

The sharp rush of air behind him, Horn had already slipped to the warehouse entrance. He turned to face the headless Hound. His lips moved soundlessly, doing everything he could to convey a vital message to the terrifying monster about to pounce on him.

"Not a chance."

"Bang!"

The door slammed shut with decisive force. The black cast iron rushed toward the scarlet eyes, rapidly filling its vision.

"Thud—"

Its suicidal charge could have smashed through a concrete wall, but it failed against an ordinary door. The [Blood-Thirsty Hound]'s mutated body crumbled apart. Its strength had drained away completely, and the blood-red presence riding it scattered in frustration, fading into silence.

The bolt had fallen. It was time.

This way was blocked!

[ Fate Deflection—]

[Key, Open!]

Purple, distorted text flowed down the light screen. Certain he'd survived, Horn finally let out a breath. He leaned against the door, overcome by a strange sense of weakness and emptiness.

From the opening act of the dog-and-bitch tag team, straight into a carriage ambush, then a stealthy infiltration of the Hound Bar, a fierce battle with Belloc, an improvised alchemical explosive to cremate him on the spot, and finally a wild turn in which the hidden final boss played dirty and sprang right at him...

After everything he'd been through in a single day, Horn felt he'd spent all the energy he'd had since arriving in this world. He was even starting to miss his alchemy bench. Only sheer willpower kept him from collapsing.

Oh, right. There was also all the essence dropped by the monsters he'd cremated along the way, though he'd already burned through it all.

Feeling everyone's warmth and support along the way, even Horn couldn't help feeling a little touched. If Belloc's spirit was underground, his ashes must be smoking by now.

His weakness surged beyond anything he'd ever felt. Everything before him began to blur and tilt. Horn let his thoughts wander, trying to stop his consciousness from slipping into nothingness.

Think of something... He had to think of something... Why not think about what to do next?

Right, he'd go home, take a hot bath, draw the curtains, and get a good night's sleep. Once he woke naturally, refreshed and full of energy, he'd go to the alchemy workshop and keep practicing. Oh, and he'd rent a different apartment while he was at it, pretending none of this had happened, that monsters were a distant concern, and that he was living his usual, routine life.

Later, once he'd made something of himself, perhaps he'd have a hearth of his own, a clock of his own, books he'd published, and a window through which to watch the world go by. Even the most demanding critic would have to admit that he was living a successful life. There would, of course, be reasons to be unhappy, but he'd accept them calmly and remain happy.

When it all came to an end, sweet earth would fill his mouth... Better than bitter coal ash.

Would that be good?

And if that wasn't good enough, there was a more challenging option:

He could use his perspective as a transmigrator to guide the development of technology. He'd join the Alchemist Association and climb its ranks, higher and higher. The work he loved would flourish, and he'd own a luxurious mansion in central London bearing his name, filled with fine furnishings and bustling with visitors.

His peers would respect him, and his rivals would slander him. Eventually, he'd get used to hearing the name "Hohenheim Lancaster" spoken everywhere. Then one day, he'd die, and after a while, no one would say that name anymore.

And if that still wasn't good enough...

With the royal blood in his veins, he could pursue a place at court and try to become a noble with real power again. With a suitable marriage alliance, he might even gain land and a castle of his own.

Power would work its magic. The poor would become rich, and the ordinary would become rare. On summer mornings, the hills outside his castle bedroom window would glow green in the sunlight; on winter mornings, snow would turn them silver.

Laughter from the young heir would echo throughout the spacious rooms, mingling with the sound of the wind. It would stir the window frames, sweep into the hills, and then vanish without a trace.

Those could all be considered victorious endings. So why, why...

Why did he feel so...

[Restlessness]?

In his consciousness, a hint of gray seeped out of the flames and dripped onto the workbench, stretching into a card.

On its face, a hand tapped urgently on a table. Was it unease? Agitation? Or impatience?

A jumble of tiny words hopped across it, making one feel irritable and restless, eager to act.

[Restlessness: I am captivated by a yearning for restlessness. I seem to have developed some kind of... intention. What intention could it be? I yearn restlessly to find out.]

[Aspect—Memory: That which is remembered may be that which is understood.]

[Aspect—Influence: A certain response, resonance, or harmony. It will soon fade.]

[Aspect—Cocoon 2: Birth and death are the only two directions. Between them, we have found a point of intersection.]

[Aspect—Ember 2: ALITUR PROPRIIS IGNIS CINERIBUS (Every flame is nourished by its own ashes)]

[Aspect—Grail 2: Food, color, and sex—those who drown in them never return.]

[Aspect—Candle 2: Candlelight illuminates and dispels darkness. Candlelight guides the way. Candlelight... casts shadows?]

From the moment it appeared, [Restlessness] began slowly fading from top to bottom. In about a week, it would have turned completely gray.

His mind reeling from the sudden flood of unfamiliar terms, Horn's vision grew blurrier. The hallway before him swayed upward, revealing a pair of brown leather boots slowly drawing near.

Veronica looked down as the black-haired youth slid slowly down the wall, his face peaceful, though there was something faintly awkward about the situation. She sighed and waved to Emma Moore, who had just run down the stairs, panting.

"Contact Frank Mills. Tell him to arrange a private room at Sacred Heart Hospital."

"Urgently."