HEO 120

No one laughed. Somewhere, a sailor shouted, and the ship’s hull heaved.

“We also…”

One of the men spoke up.

“…abandoned our wives and children, just like you, sir. We boarded the ship bound for Stoll, driven solely by a desire to satisfy our academic curiosity.”

A brief silence followed. Then, someone spoke hesitantly.

“But where are you from, sir? Your accent is unusual. You don’t seem to be from the city-state where we lived.”

“I come from a place far away. A place unreachable by ship. I’ve come from a very, very distant land.”

The blond man looked up at the sky. A bluebird, which had been circling high above, alighted on the tip of the mast. ​unauthorized copy​Cold, glittering stars began to appear one by one through the gaps in the dark clouds of the twilight.

“The stars are bright.”

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1.

At daybreak, a time that was neither morning nor night.

The island was submerged in a bluish darkness. In the dim light, it was hard to tell at a glance whether the four-legged creature prowling in the distance was a wolf or a dog. Silver and the man headed toward the mountain. Each carried a basket, their lips pursed in a silent pact.

The sloping path leading up the mountain was just as it always was. Gravel, rotting fallen leaves, and branches scattered here and there. With every step, the muddy [unauthorized copy]ground dragged at the soles of their shoes. A salt-laden wind carried the stench of the Pirate Village all the way here. The sky wearily repeated its daily routine, slowly driving away the darkness as it shifted from black to indigo, then from indigo to purple.

Silver glanced to the side while walking. Below the steep slope to the left, beyond the Pirate Village, the sea stretched out. The rising sun began to dye the pitch-black waters orange. It was a sight seen countless times before. To Silver, the sunrise was like the hard rye bread chewed and swallowed every morning, like the tolling of the bell on the hour, or simply another repetition of a tedious day.

By the way, where was Starry Eyes?

He was likely clinging to a tree somewhere nearby, camouflaged himself by overlaying its body with an illusion of tree bark to avoid human eyes.

Since Starry Eyes didn’t need to eat, there wasn’t much danger, yet… Wait.

Silver’s shoulders twitched. The man’s calloused hand had suddenly grabbed Silver’s own. Silver moved only his eyes to look at the man. He was trudging along while gazing down at the dirt path, seemingly unaware of what his hand was holding.

Silver opened his mouth, then closed it again. The words telling him to let go veered off the tip of his tongue and retreated back down his throat. The man’s grip was hot; the heat seemed to travel up Silver’s wrist and spread along his forearm. Before long, the man’s stride lost its rhythm. His gaze fell on their intertwined hands. Even from the side, he could feel him holding his breath. Almost immediately, one hand pulled away, and the two hands separated. A chilly breeze swept through the space where his hand had been.

The man quickly lengthened his stride. Perhaps due to the dawn light, the tips of his ears looked red. Silver followed him in silence.

The mountain ridge grew steeper, and the path narrowed. The man turned around and held out a hand. Unlike before, this gesture was intentional. Silver took his hand. With a fluid motion, the man pulled Silver up the slope. Even after Silver had found his footing, the man didn’t let go; his fingers visit our siteslid one by one between Silver’s own. Silver didn’t pull away. They kept walking, stepping over fallen leaves. They walked side by side, holding hands.

Silver stole a glance. The man’s profile made him look barely twenty at most.

Tch. He just looks his age, what a delusion to think he looks younger. Even at a generous estimate, you look nineteen, idiot.

His mind grew cluttered. The words Starry Eyes had spoken kept echoing in his ears.

[They say only Type 1 can impregnate a Spruce.]

[Yes, it’s a type that rarely catches people’s eyes. But my database says the probability of birth is similar to other mutants.]

To think that the Type 1 in question was an Ash. And on top of that…

[Apparently, there’s no way to identify Type 1s just by looking at them.]

[Like you, they’re asexual during their teens. The biggest visit our site difference is their early death. Most of them die in their early twenties.]

An early death. Most of them just… poof, gone in their early twenties.

What’s the cause? Does some specific disease strike at that age? If most die, that implies a minority survives, meaning there are people who overcome the illness.

Does he know?

He wanted to ask, but the words wouldn’t come out. What if he did know? Silver might just offer a comforting word– “You’ll be the exception who survives” –and leave it at that. But what if he didn’t?

Shock would spread across that handsome face, a face that looked as if God had sculpted it with painstaking care. He might drop to his knees and burst into tears. Or he might deny it. He’d be devastated. Despairing… No, no. He wouldn’t get all sentimental like that. He’d probably ask for proof.

Silver decided to ask Starry Eyes for the details later. The reason why Ash mutants die young, and, if there happened to be a way to avoid that fate, what it might be. Wait, more importantly…

That’s strange.

Silver frowned. Why am I worried about him? Why am I, Read on the guy who once snatched the last hallucinogenic herb from a beggar at the docks without a shred of guilt, acting this way?

He hadn’t even let go of his hand. Silver, someone who could scale cliffs with bare hands even while dead drunk, had let him help him up the slope. And right now, they were walking hand in hand.

Silver looked down at the man’s hand. A big, rough hand that was holding his own. Even though he knew that his partner was no pushover, the man treated him as if he were a fragile porcelain doll. Even more absurd was Silver didn’t mind that attitude.

Perhaps he was just being overly sensitive. Maybe such a change in demeanor was common after a one-night stand. As Silver recalled, Black Weasel always treated the women he spent the night with with the utmost care. The women, in turn, would act sweetly, almost as if they were his wives. They would bathe in hot springs and share meals together, but the moment Black Weasel turned his back to leave the inn, he would revert to his usual self, a heavy drinker, as if nothing had happened. The women likely felt the same way.

Then I should be the same.

And so should he.

He decided not to dwell on it. After all, their acquaintance would last two weeks at most. Once they received the heat suppressants from Director Erem, they would simply turn their backs on each other in front of the orphanage and walk in opposite directions. That would be the end of it. In Silver’s memory, the man would remain a handsome but somewhat suspicious character. He had no idea, however, how he would be remembered by the man.

The man came to a halt deep within the forest. The surroundings were dim, shrouded by dense trees that blocked out the sunlight like a roof.

“Let’s begin.”

Their hands parted. Silver moved forward on his knees and pushed aside the damp fallen leaves to scan the area beneath the undergrowth. The man pressed his nose close to the bark of an oak tree and pried off a small piece with the tip of his knife. While one of them rummaged through a cluster of ferns to check the state of the roots, the other examined the vines tangled in the tree branches. As the fog lifted, the sound of birds chirping echoed from all directions. A chestnut-colored squirrel ran past Silver. Here and there, the rustle of rabbits bounding away could be heard.

Suddenly, Silver remembered the nickname the man had given him: “Hedgehog.”

At the time, Silver had been inwardly shocked, wondering if he really looked that cute in the guy’s eyes. He felt a bit deflated, though, once he realized the name referred to his armor of spikes.

“Ugh.”

He shook his head vigorously to shake off the distracting thoughts. Silver carefully felt around the weeds for medicinal herbs. When he snapped the lower stem, a herbal scent wafted up. By the time the basket was half-full, his fingertips were stained with various colors.

Silver straightened his knees and rubbed his lower back. A dozen paces away, the man was examining a mushroom growing on a tree. Bathed in sunlight filtering through the branches, his face looked like that of someone no older than twenty. His skin, flawless and smooth, rivaled that of a fifteen-year-old boy. No matter how closely Silver scrutinized him, he couldn’t find a single trace of middle-aged weariness.

But.

That guy could be the youngest-looking person in all of Stoll. He might actually be a thirty-year-old man who had miraculously survived the deadly crisis that usually claims people in their early twenties.

He knew it was a completely far-fetched idea.

But even so…

“Hey.”

The word slipped out before he could stop it. The man paused in the middle of picking a mushroom and looked at Silver.

“Yes?”

“You… are you…” The question, “You’re thirty, right?” made a turn and fled deep into his throat.