I'm Fighting Kal'tsit? Seriously?

—That was how it used to be.

Once a base at a relay station had been built to such a scale, aside from natural disasters and Originium dustfall, an extremely rare third cause of Catastrophes could emerge: the artificial accumulation of Originium materials.

And quite coincidentally,

this cause usually manifested as an [earthquake].

"No." Gerald answered the previous question from the big-tailed Lupo. "I've just seen it often enough that I learned a little about it as a precaution."

When frontline scouting and infiltration were required, there was no room for Catastrophe messengers to survive on the battlefield. The soldiers had to make their own judgments.

"In any case, I can't determine the earthquake's magnitude, nor do I know how long before it happens. Past experience is hard to apply as well, since there's no way to judge the exact state of things with the naked eye."

He paused, then continued, "My suggestion is to evacuate as soon as possible—but the problem is that the people inside the relay station probably won't accept that easily. Given the circumstances, even the act of simply trying to deliver the information may face resistance."

"...That [soldier]."

Angelina murmured, then snapped back to her senses and hurriedly asked, "So someone wants to deliberately trigger a Catastrophe? But why would they do that?"

"There are several possibilities." Saria, who had been silent for a long time, suddenly spoke up. "One is the classic Columbian dilemma, a vicious cycle many scholars have reported on: pioneering requires large quantities of industrial products, industry itself requires Originium power, and Originium is excavated through pioneering. As long as that cycle cannot stop, neither can Catastrophes. The Catastrophe we're facing may merely be one result of it."

"The other is a conflict of interests—for example, schemes between superiors and subordinates, or sacrificial pieces on a politician's chessboard. I don't think I need to continue."

As expected, the two messengers fell silent again.

Provence's big tail slapped irritably through the air, then abruptly stopped just before it could fling her entire body away, narrowly avoiding everyone else's attention. Sweating, she hurriedly gathered her tail back into her arms. If she got caught again like before, that would be bad.

Meanwhile, the little fox lady irritably floated herself into the air, bobbing her head as she thought over what to do next. The brief rest had restored some of her strength. At the very least, she remembered not to fly straight off a cliff without looking at her destination this time—but when it came to the crucial issue, she still couldn't think of a solution.

First, Provence's identification... that was the least important point. Even if she lost it, she could have it reissued through the International Messengers Office.

The biggest problem was whether, if their escape from the relay station reached the Columbian authorities, she would be thrown out as a scapegoat by whoever was behind this, whether she would be put on a blacklist for breaking trust, and whether she could continue being a Catastrophe messenger.

But that wasn't really a problem either. She was prepared for it. Compared to human lives, none of that mattered.

The second point was how to disperse the crowd, or at least ensure everyone's safety.

...Honestly, it was difficult.

Even if they could get hold of the Catastrophe messenger's signal gun, as long as there were still people among those officials who wanted to trigger the Catastrophe, they might not be able to convince the people in the relay station no matter what they did.

After all, everything here had been painstakingly retrieved through their expeditions. These were life-saving supplies used to support their families. Without them, they were no different from dead.

While the two were thinking, Gerald sensed Saria's gaze flick toward him.

"Don't get any ideas. I can deal with the prison's power layer easily enough, but asking me to dismantle the energy in the earth veins is beyond what any normal creature should be doing." Where Saria couldn't see, Gerald's expression had become far more animated. "I'd have to be a giant beast to pull something like that off."

"I know."

Saria left it at that, then said to the two hesitant girls, "Let's go. I'll return to the relay station with you. Follow your original plan. I'll help you open a path."

"But..." Angelina's mind had already begun to overload. She was dizzy, and her voice carried a touch of softness. "What if everyone refuses to listen to us?"

After putting her helmet back on and draping her coat over herself, the Vouivre silently turned to look at the baffled Gerald and gave him a meaningful nod. "There are some people they'll listen to."

"Then I want to negotiate terms." Seeing that this woman was about to make another major move without a word, Gerald couldn't help sighing.

"Go ahead," Saria replied.

"You'll handle all the cooking for the rest of the journey."

"One meal."

"Five meals."

"Three meals."

"Deal." Gerald shook off the dust that had gotten on him from leaning against the carriage, then waved to the two messengers. "You go ahead. I'll show up where I need to be when the time comes."

With that, he turned and walked to the front of the truck, found the passenger seat, opened the door, and climbed in.

Leaving the two messenger ladies looking at each other before finally turning their puzzled gazes toward Saria.

"You'll find out." Rarely, she kept them in suspense. Though it was embarrassing... she unexpectedly enjoyed this feeling of mutual understanding. "Let's go."

"Ah, you woke up quickly, my friend. I actually bet you'd sleep a little longer. Looks like I lost."

As though Kannott had known Gerald would come to his passenger seat at this time, he pulled a box of cigarettes from his chest—the kind the pioneers had given him when he returned. "Want to try one? They're surprisingly good."

"Smoking is harmful to your health." The Pegasus shoved aside the tentacle offering it to him. "Next time, invite me for a drink instead. I came to ask whether you have any Rusthammer clothes I can borrow."

The voice from inside the iron helmet stopped for about half a minute. Then Kannott gently shook his head.

"Well, to be honest, I don't like those friends who call themselves the 'Catastrophe Followers.' Sometimes, their behavior tends to... exceed my expectations. So we have plenty to talk about, my friend, but why are you helping them?"

"No matter what your own goals are, I've never seen you hesitate when it's time to save someone." Gerald glanced at the locked door behind them, where the collection was stored, and turned the question back on him. "Otherwise, I might not have survived in such good health. Isn't that right?"

"Oh, my friend, that's because your value far exceeded my expectations. You're much more useful to me alive than dead."

The merchant in the iron helmet exhaled a muddled breath. "But I do agree with that view of yours. Seeing false prosperity return to nature is a beautiful thing—but if it's mixed with pioneers' blood, I'm afraid it won't be so beautiful anymore."

"I can tell." Gerald looked with interest at the box of cigarettes in the tentacle's grip. "You seem pretty fond of those."

"Because even if they aren't so pure..." His tentacles slipped out from beneath his robes and brought out a full set of clothes, along with a crossbow. "They still carry the scent of the wilderness. Untainted by civilization, in their purest form... just like what I sensed when I found you."

"That was when I realized that even among modern Kazimierz people, there were still a few who hadn't been tainted by neon. It was interesting."

The Pegasus accepted the crossbow, swung it around in his hand, and tested its feel.

After a moment, he said, "I'm not really good with crossbows. Do you have a bow?"

"Few Rusthammer members know how to use bows. That's something I've always found regrettable. I've never even seen you use one." Kannott lowered his head slightly, using a tentacle to pull a match from a matchbox and strike it along the edge. "How good are you with a bow?"

"Worse than with my sword, better than with my gun." Gerald answered without much concern. "Somewhere in the middle."

"Then you're still far from worthy of one."

He lit the cigarette in his hand and simply set it there, watching it burn.

"Who exactly are you using as the standard?" Gerald nearly choked on his breath at that. "My swordsmanship isn't worthy either?"

"Almost."

The voice inside the iron helmet finally carried a hint of laughter. "Harlandu Khan, the Whip of the Land. Try to reach his level, my friend."

"...Fine. I won't ask why you know what the swordsmanship of the Nightmare Great Khan was like," Gerald said as he reluctantly put on the Rusthammer clothes and donned a mask. "After all, I don't want to know how my ancestors knelt before him and submitted. Every time I learn about that history, I feel a little embarrassed."

Picking up the crossbow, he pushed open the passenger-side door. It was nearly afternoon, and there wasn't a trace of cloud in the sky.

It was good weather for playing a game.

"Do you mind if I ask you one final question?"

Kannott watched the cigarette burn down to its end. In the distance, three figures had nearly reached the side of the relay station.

"Merely as a reference for a change in attitude." He waved the cigarette in his hand, letting the smoke slowly disperse. "What did you dream about?"

"Huh?" The Pegasus gave the person inside the vehicle a surprised glance, then laughed. "That's what you wanted to ask? All right, let me think... I dreamed that my father told me to listen to him, so from now on, I want to listen to him."

"More specifically?" Kannott tilted his head, clearly not very satisfied with that answer.

"He told me that as long as I'm happy, I can do whatever I want." Gerald shook the crossbow in his hand. "So it should be fine if I use this as a melee weapon, right?"

Gerald stomped hard on the ground, and the dust beneath his feet was instantly thrown up, forming a ring of air that spread in all directions.

A wind field immediately appeared around him, wrapping him like an invisible shield. His coat tails and long silver hair whipped wildly in the gale.

He pulled up his hood, covered his face with the mask, and casually rested the crossbow on his shoulder.

The next second, his entire figure vanished from where he stood under the force of the wind field.

Three seconds later, accompanied by an ear-splitting impact, the previously still wall at the edge of the distant relay station suddenly caved in, cracks spreading across it like a spiderweb.

Kannott watched the scene in the distance as the cigarette in his hand slowly turned to ash and fell above the seat. The person beneath the iron helmet smiled soundlessly.

"See? It's only a shame you aren't a Nightmare. Otherwise, wouldn't this already be quite similar?"

It Was All Some Little Banshee's Fault

Chunks of concrete twisted and shattered like clay kneaded by an invisible giant hand.

Six Columbian soldiers who had been leaning against the wall to rest during a shift rotation were thrown to the ground by the sudden blast of air in an instant.

The coffee cup in someone's hand traced a perfect arc through the air. Brown liquid poured out, reflecting an amber sheen beneath the sunlight before splashing across another soldier's face. It scalded him so badly he nearly flicked off the safety and blindly opened fire everywhere, all in pursuit of his own personal five-kill achievement.

The back of one recruit's head struck the powered crossbow of the man behind him, and his nostrils filled with the mixed smell of blood and sand. Struggling to prop up his upper body, he saw his leather military boot stuck in one teammate's equipment strap, while nearly all his comrades lay sprawled across the ground, unconscious.

"Columbian profanity... What idiot drove their convoy straight into us?"

The recruit had barely raised his upper body when coarse sand suddenly poured into his open mouth.

Before he could spit out the grit mixed with engine oil, an arm reeking heavily of rust clamped around his jaw like a hydraulic pincer and slammed his entire head into the scorching sand.

"Don't move, newbie." The voice was so faint it was almost impossible to hear, yet it reached his ears clearly. "Don't move."

The recruit's pinned right eye barely opened a slit, and all he saw was more than a dozen scars crossing the forearm restraining him. A cracked index finger pressed against his Adam's apple, leaving him only enough room to breathe.

They lay quietly where they were, waiting for their heartbeats to slowly ease along with the heat of the ground.

On the other side of the wall, a figure stepped over the smoking wreckage. His cloak rose and fell in the wind. The shadow of a white hood hid his brows and eyes, while several strands of silver hair were faintly visible at the edge of his mask.

And the recruit who had cursed moments ago could only feel grateful.

Thank goodness the shrill alarm hid his pounding heart... otherwise, he was certain that those boots wouldn't have landed on the empty ground beside his head. They would have come down squarely on his skull.

Only after the footsteps gradually faded did heavy breathing begin to echo throughout the area.

The soldiers who had been lying on the ground suddenly abandoned their previous unconscious act. Some pulled their feet free from equipment straps, while others wiped coffee off their faces. They didn't care whether they had bruises or burns. There was no time to think about that.

Staying alive was what mattered most.

"...Cough, cough." The recruit finally recovered from suffocation. Rubbing his throat, he looked at the teammates around him. "Shouldn't we report this to the higher-ups?"

"I don't know how you value your own life, newbie." The sturdy arm patted his shoulder. "Unfortunately, if we hadn't chosen that just now, that Rusthammer man would've killed us outright. You may not have experienced anything like this before, but that's fine. Now you have."

"But we could've tried to shoot him."

"Hah, do you think we're filming in Blue Cardwood?" Before the previous man could answer, the soldier wiping coffee off his face immediately mocked him. "Columbia would only collect our bodies. Against people like that, we're no different from ordinary people. Believe it or not, if we'd looked at him one more time, every head here would already be on the ground."

"But it doesn't matter. More people are going to die anyway." The speaker glanced at the huge hole in the wall and walked over to scout outside.

The bone-chilling terror in the air remained where it was, refusing to fade for a long time.

Only after confirming there was nothing else outside did he grab the communicator on his shoulder strap and roar at the recruit, "Damn it, stop dragging your feet and get through the wall already. Who knows whether that guy will come back."

The recruit was still dazed and unsure what to do when he was shoved out through the wall. His feet caught on rubble in the road, and he tumbled headfirst onto the other side—where a trench had been dug to stop people from climbing in from this direction. It happened to give him room to cushion the fall.

"Report the situation."

The voice from the communicator overlapped with the sound of a crossbow being loaded. The soldier responsible for communications immediately said, "This is the south side of the relay station. The outer defenses have failed. There is only one target, dressed similarly to a Rusthammer member. No other enemies have been spotted outside the wall. Unable to confirm whether attacks are coming from other directions..."

His voice suddenly caught in his throat. Staring at the distant command post, his pupils shrank to pinpoints behind his lenses.

He saw a figure continuously climbing the outer wall of the main watchtower.

In a way that made no sense.

Gerald actually hadn't thought that much about it.

As for killing, he had never been a bloodthirsty person. There was no conflict of interest or deep-seated grudge between them, so he had no intention of doing something like cutting people's throats.

His goal was simple: create room for the three of them to act, ensure they could link up with the Catastrophe messengers over there, remind the people in the relay station to evacuate, and stop the military from making obstructive moves. While he was at it, he could familiarize himself with his current condition—strictly speaking, this was his first time in two years fighting others in the real world in a relatively complete state.

For the journey home he was about to undertake, this would be a good opportunity.

He was going to make himself happy, not to truly slaughter every person in Kazimierz indiscriminately like the dream had said. Otherwise, there would have been no need for him to ask Saria about medical knowledge.

After all, he couldn't exactly kill everyone first and then bring them back to life.

The knights in the Oversight Council who lay comfortably in the rear enjoying themselves while ignoring the nation's affairs deserved to die; the bloodsucking parasites in the Commercial Union deserved to die; the people who used lofty banners to oppress the common folk and push this nation toward collapse deserved to die.

But his brothers stationed at the border, and the Silverlance Pegasi who still held the national defenses with their bodies, absolutely did not belong in that category.

But when he went to demand an explanation from those people, who would be the first to stand in his way?

Still these brothers of his.

So he had to properly practice his healing techniques from now on—so that the moment he crippled them, they could receive good treatment. It would achieve his goal while also giving him practice. Killing two birds with one stone.

His thoughts raced, but the Pegasus's movements never stopped. The instant he reached the main watchtower, he ran straight upward along its wall.

His fingers brushed across the concrete surface, and weathered marks instantly spread into a web. The entire tower peeled away layer by layer like a corn cob gnawed by a beast.