Chapter 1: The Dust Road
The year was 1601 (Post-Menma). The Earth, once a cradle of technological marvels, had regressed into a world that mirrored the pre-medieval era. Gone were the roaring engines of cars, the thunderous echoes of guns, and the soaring wings of airplanes. Humanity had lost the light of science and invention, but in its place, they had gained something extraordinary—something that bordered on the miraculous.
The air itself was alive with Menma, the virus that had reshaped the world. It lingered in every breath, a silent companion to all living things. For centuries, it had woven itself into the fabric of existence, granting those who survived its touch abilities that defied nature. These powers, known simply as Menma, were as varied as the individuals who wielded them. Yet, for all its wonders, the world remained a place of mystery and danger, where the line between survival and extinction was razor-thin.
On a long, dusty road that cut through fields of wildflowers and golden crops, a wooden cart groaned under the weight of its journey. As the wind whispered through the grasses, a flash of sapphire brilliance darted above the flowerheads. It was a small, swift bird, its body covered not in feathers but in a soft, blue fur that seemed to absorb the sunlight and radiate it back with a gentle, inner glow. For a fleeting moment, it was a living jewel, a quicksilver specter of blue against the gold and green, before vanishing as quickly as it appeared.
The cart, pulled by two aging horses, was a patchwork of splintered, sun-bleached wood and frayed fabric, smelling faintly of dust and dry rot. Its wheels, cracked and worn, rattled against the uneven path, sending a jarring rhythm through the frame with every bump. The sun hung high in the sky, its scorching rays filtering through the tears in the cart's canopy, casting shifting, dappled light on the passengers inside.
A young man with short, unruly black hair sat on the left bench, his face a mask of growing discomfort. His pale skin glistened with sweat, and his dark eyes flickered with irritation. He wore a loose black jacket and simple gray trousers, his attire as unremarkable as his patience was thin. The cart's constant, bone-shaking jolts were testing his limits, and the stifling, stagnant heat inside was doing him no favors.
Across from him, on the right bench, lay a girl with long, flowing black hair streaked with strands of deep blue. Her porcelain skin seemed almost luminous in the shifting sunlight, and her lips, naturally rosy, were parted slightly as if in a silent sigh. A thin blue cloth covered her eyes, resembling a blindfold, and her silken hair spilled over the wooden bench like the inky roots of an ancient tree. She appeared serene, almost asleep, though how anyone could rest in such a rattling contraption was beyond the young man's comprehension.
The driver, an elderly man with a head of white hair that danced in the breeze, sat at the front, humming a tune as he guided the horses. His weathered hands gripped the reins with a practiced, gentle ease, and his smile suggested a man content with his lot in life. To him, this was just another peaceful day on the road.
But for the young man, it was anything but. The relentless shaking of the cart was churning his stomach, and the heat was becoming unbearable. After two hours of enduring the journey, he finally spoke up, his voice tinged with frustration but still polite.
"Old man," he said, addressing the driver, "it's been two hours already. Shouldn't these horses be faster than this?"
The driver glanced back through the small wooden window, his smile unwavering. "My apologies, young sir. These horses are 24 and 26 years old. They're not as spry as they used to be, and their Menma isn't what it once was."
Menma. The word hung in the air like a whispered secret. In this world, it wasn't just a virus—it was the source of power, the lifeblood of both humans and animals. When the Menma virus first swept across the Earth, it didn't just infect humanity; it seeped into every living creature. Some animals became docile companions, their abilities harnessed for labor or companionship. Others transformed into monstrous predators, their Menma-enhanced instincts turning them into forces of nature.
The young man frowned, his irritation giving way to curiosity. "Twenty-six years? That's past the average lifespan for a horse. Why haven't you replaced them?"
The driver's gaze softened as he looked ahead at the dusty road. "Replace them? Many have told me the same. But to discard them simply because they've grown old? That's not something I can bring myself to do. They've been with me for so long—they're like family."
The young man fell silent, his eyes drifting to the driver's white hair, which fluttered in the wind like a flag of surrender to time. He understood then that these horses weren't just beasts of burden; they were a testament to the driver's loyalty and love. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he lowered his head, trying to ignore the cart's incessant shaking.
His thoughts turned to the girl across from him. She hadn't stirred once during the entire journey. How could she remain so still, so unbothered, while the world around them seemed determined to fall apart? He glanced at her again, her serene expression a stark contrast to his own discomfort.
I wonder, he thought, if she'd be angry if I suddenly threw up on her.