Kashchey walked toward the central tower of Chernobog.
It was the seat of Count Boris, the city's mayor.
Declaring his identity with calm precision, Kashchey passed a simple verification process before being ushered inside with great enthusiasm by the staff.
After all—this was Duke Kashchey, a living fragment of Ursus history.
Count Boris, upon receiving the news, immediately abandoned his work and hurried out of his office to greet the Duke.
"Your Grace, what brings you here today?"
Kashchey explained about a peculiar organization calling itself the Reunion Movement, one that had been quietly expanding its influence in the shadows of Chernobog.
"…Your Grace, surely you are aware that the so-called leader of Reunion is none other than your nominal heir? For you to inform me of this now… what exactly are you intending to do?"
"I merely did what is expected of a Duke of Ursus," Kashchey replied evenly. "I detected a dangerous faction and reported it to the city's mayor. From here, the mayor will raise the matter to the Emperor. That is the extent of my duty. As for what Reunion truly is… that will be for you to determine."
"…You would not shield your heir, would you?"
"Heh… once she left the Ducal manor, she ceased to be my heir."
"I understand."
"I imagine your Chernobog could use a touch of modest assistance…"
"There is no need, Your Grace."
Count Boris, who had been deferential only moments ago, suddenly showed a firm, resolute expression.
"Please do not trouble yourself further. Chernobog is capable of handling its own affairs."
"Is that so."
Kashchey gave no opinion either way.
They are always like this. Once they believe themselves strong, they think they can overcome any difficulty alone.
"Then I shall look forward to the mayor's performance… Oh, and, might I have a look at the Sarcophagus? I am most curious about the device that powers an entire mobile city. Relax, I would never ask you to surrender it—it is, after all, the foundation of your authority."
"…As you wish, Duke Kashchey."
With Boris accompanying him, Kashchey was brought to the chamber where the Sarcophagus was kept.
Naturally, the count remained on edge. He feared Kashchey might tamper with the device the moment his guard slipped.
This was Kashchey, after all.
The Duke simply stood outside the protective glass, gazing at the Sarcophagus.
Within it slumbered an "evil spirit"—
the spirit of Babel Tower.
Kashchey stared in silence for over ten minutes.
By then, Count Boris nearly suspected the Duke of plotting some mischief. But Kashchey merely drew back his gaze and left without incident.
Still, Boris quietly ordered his scholars and Caster to run fresh inspections, just to ensure the Sarcophagus had not been meddled with.
---
No matter how many times I look at that man… he unsettles me.
During the struggle of the Twin Kings of Kazdel, Kashchey had once crossed paths with that very being.
At the time, they had stood on opposite sides.
Its strategy—eerily prescient, as though it could glimpse the future—and its cold use of subordinates as mere pawns had led Kashchey to suspect it was a beast of legend, perhaps even another undying one.
But during one infiltration, he discovered he was wrong.
It was not a beast, nor anything of that sort.
It was something far older.
Far more terrifying.
'Then let them suffer a little first. After all, offering help in times of need is far more valuable than adding flowers to a brocade.'
"Natalya, do you want to become a hero?"
"Lord Kashchey, I do not understand your meaning."
"Heh… it's nothing. Perhaps next year, or the year after, you'll come to understand."
---
In the wilderness, a black-haired Kuranta man dressed in leather, wearing a windproof hood and carrying a travel pack, sighed helplessly at the red-haired Sarkaz girl walking beside him, a greatsword slung over her shoulder.
"Young Sarkaz lady… would you mind not following me anymore?"
"Aren't you the one who claims to be a traveler? My destination just happens to lie along the same road as yours."
"Even though I've never once told you where I'm going?"
"..."
"Forget it. You must be after my ability to shield you from the chaos of memory, isn't that right?"
"..."
"How about this—become my attendant. In return, I'll make sure you remain free from memory's torment. All you need to do is protect me during my travels and carry my things."
"Deal."
"You really are troublesome… My name is Grim. And you?"
"...You may call me Surtr."
"Alright then, Miss Surtr. Now, please carry this pack for me. A proper attendant shouldn't let her master carry his own luggage."
"..."
Surtr silently slung the massive travel bag onto her back.
"In truth, if I didn't have to carry this, I could better focus on keeping you safe."
"No need. I can handle myself just fine."
Within his Kuranta guise, Kashchey cast a discreet glance at the massive greatsword strapped to her back.
'Though, perhaps not as well as you can.'
He regretted, in hindsight, cleansing part of her chaotic memories when he first met her. It had been his way of thanking her—after all, she had pulled him out of an encirclement of desert marauders.
Though in truth, he hadn't needed saving.
But gratitude cost him nothing, and rewarding kindness with kindness ensured that if such a situation arose again, she would be inclined to lend him aid once more.
'The more people believe that good deeds are rewarded, the easier it is for me to move unseen in the current.'
For someone like Kashchey—an immortal villain—it was far more convenient if the world was filled with helpful fools.
His lifespan stretched too long for him to be concerned with petty gains in the moment. He could afford to look far ahead, waiting patiently for the fruits of goodwill to ripen.
Why strip the pond of fish in one day, when he could nurture it for years to come?
And so, in a fit of misplaced kindness, he had purged a portion of her disordered memories—snacking, so to speak, while doing so.
What he hadn't expected was the taste.
Her memories were like a grotesque mixture, as if someone had blended ice cream with hot chili and other bizarre ingredients.
It made him want to vomit.