The coastal town covered by Odin's Nibelungen lay beneath a sky as gray as a rag washed too many times, pressing down upon the rooftops and leaving people feeling stifled.
The little stove crackled as it burned. Orange-red flames licked at the bottom of the pot, while thin wisps of white steam rose from its spout, carrying the fragrance of wine and the faint spiciness of ginger. Warm yellow light cast swaying shadows across the walls, baking the whole room into something like a cave.
Amon was wrapped in bandages, white cotton cloth wound from his shoulder to his waist. The damage caused by the spreading power of Gungnir had been suppressed by Dragon Blood, but the penetrating wound had yet to heal. The wound remained; it simply was no longer worsening.
He curled up in a broad armchair with a blanket over his knees. The firelight illuminated half his face, leaving the other half buried in shadow. The edges of his bandages gleamed a warm white in the flames.
He suddenly raised his head. His gaze passed through the roof, through the gray sky, and toward the boundless Void Ray beyond, separated by who knew how great a distance.
Hm? What's the Main Body muttering about?
He could not hear clearly. Perhaps it was not calling for him, or perhaps this world's power had cut off the message.
Forget it. If he had not heard it clearly, then he had not heard it clearly.
Heaven is high and the emperor is far away. The Main Body can't control me!
Amon withdrew his gaze, blinked, and turned his attention back to the little girl across from him who was old enough to be his great-grandmother.
"How did you ever think of this?" He lifted the coarse earthenware cup before him