Ⅰ
That cry of "Wait" had not come from one person.
It had come from four!
Four people emerged from the shadows to the east, south, west, and north.
From the east, a figure carrying a massive scythe and wearing a bird-beaked mask slowly emerged, dressed like a plague doctor of the Silver Age.
His footsteps were exceptionally heavy. With every step, the end of the scythe's long handle struck the stone paving, producing a distinctive, crisp clang, clang.
Most conspicuous of all was the raven perched on his shoulder.
The raven's feathers were sleek and glossy, gleaming with a light all their own even in the moments before dawn.
From the south came a hunchbacked old man, barefoot and dressed in clothing woven from leaves, branches, and vines. Though he appeared to move slowly, he was remarkably fast and made not the slightest sound, as though he had merged with his surroundings.
It was not Burrowing Stealth.
It was something more natural, more harmonious.
To the west stood the only woman among the four. Even a hooded cloak could barely conceal the undulation of her body. To the north stood the last of them, and the strangest.
Pistrie could plainly see him, yet kept feeling that he did not exist.
That dissonance-his eyes seeing someone while his brain insisted no one was there-made the Old Lion's youngest son feel sick enough to vomit.
But Pistrie held it back.
His gaze kept sweeping over the four figures.
He had heard that cry of "Wait."
He knew.
He still had a chance.
At least the member of the Pale Hand before him had stopped moving.
The three skeletons that had appeared alongside him, however, braced themselves as though facing a formidable enemy.
Soulfire blazed in the three skeletons' eyes. Rust-covered bone