HEO 122

“I swear by all the gods of Stoll, it’s certain. Would you trust a prescription from an Atanian physician?”

“Well, if it’s that…”

A crackling sound came from inside the hearth. Silver frowned and rubbed his fingertips against the workbench.

He’s trying his best to save me. Well, I suppose it’s only natural, considering the mess he caused…

The thought crossed his mind again. The short lifespan of an Ash mutant.

“Hey, about your name.”

Silver spoke on impulse. The man looked up.

“My name? Why bring that up all of a sudden?”

Even as he spoke, the man’s hands kept moving; he took a cup from the workbench drawer and washed and dried it thoroughly.

“Which name are you asking about? As you know, I have quite a few.”

“…Dog-Dick. The name I gave you. On second thought, I don’t think that name really works.”

It felt unsettling to call someone who wouldn’t live long “Dog-Dick.”

“You said you hated it and wanted a new one, anyway. Or are you fine with it as is? Should I keep calling you Dog-Dick?”

“No! I’ll still pass on that name.”

The man answered almost immediately. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he were holding back a laugh.

“It’s a terrible name. It mocks a person’s physical weakness. I’m stolen contentreally glad you’re feeling a pang of conscience about it now.”

“It’s not exactly a pang of conscience…”

“Anyway, give me a different name. And put some effort into it this time.”

“You come up with it. I hate racking my brain over things like that.”

Silver crossed his arms and glared at a knot in the workbench.

“If it’s longer than four syllables, I can’t remember names, or anything else. My biological father’s name was longer than that, so I always called him by a nickname.”

“Biological father? You have a father?”

The man paused while removing the straining cloth from the earthenware vessel and asked back. Silver was dumbfounded by the look of surprise on his face.

“Are you an idiot? Is there anyone in this world born without a father?”

“I know that. But somehow…”

The man trailed off, seemingly searching for the right words.

“How should I put it? You exude a powerful, solitary presence, reminiscent of a wild beast. Like a wolf that grew up on its own without anyone’s care. That’s what I meant.”

“Bullshit. You took me for some dockside beggar brat raised without a dad, didn’t you?”

“Not quite that bad. I just didn’t see you as the type who’d been taught manners by a father.”

“That’s true.”

Black Weasel and Silver were closer to being friends. They just happened to share blood by chance; otherwise, they were the sort to get into a fistfight every three hours. A truce existed only when they were enjoying booze, hallucinogenic herbs, or gambling.

“He was a bastard who was useless as a father. He’s been dead for three years, but I called ​visit our site​him by a nickname so often that it took me days just to recall his real name. I’m not even sure if I got it right.”

“Sons usually have a bad relationship with their fathers.”

The man tilted the earthenware vessel over a cup. Silver blinked.

Huh? What is this? It feels like I’ve been in a situation like this before…

Oh, fuck.

It felt like stepping on a fish bone while walking barefoot. The source of that sense of déjà vu was none other than Wolf. Just like now, there had been a night long ago when he’d talked to him about fathers.

‘My fathers were out on the streets. The neighborhood big brother who was a legend in the alleys. The bookstore owner who turned a blind eye when I snuck out anatomy books to read. The old man at the antique shop who’d nag me whenever he saw me. They were all good fathers.’

That was what the servant had said. But the guy right in front of him…

“What about you? How’s your relationship with your father?”

He asked cautiously, as if he were testing the sharpness of a blade with his thumb. The man shrugged.

“It was shit. I’m just one of countless sons who have a bad relationship with their fathers, you see. That was the only thing I had in common with that ‘Die Quickly You Litlle Rat’ bastard.”

“Is your father still alive?”

“He was, before I came to this island. He was breathing, at least.”

The man picked up a medicinal herb leaf lying on the workbench and crumbled it.

“If luck is on my side, the old man’s probably dead by now. Oh, and my mother too.”

His ill will was obvious. Silver could clearly picture the kind of people his parents were: a rough, brawling couple who boasted about murder and pillaging as if they were heroic tales, and who beat their child like a blacksmith hammering metal under the guise of teaching manners. Such warrior couples were common in Stoll.

But wait, is this guy really from a defeated tribe?

He looked more like someone who’d been on a sightseeing trip, got caught in an unlucky storm, and washed up here. Since he’d already fabricated his name, he figured he was perfectly capable of fabricating his background too. The man glanced at Silver.

“And your mother? Somehow, I get the feeling your mother too…”

“She died a long time ago. Forget it. Let’s drop the personal questions.”

“Right. It’s not exactly a pleasant topic.”

The man’s hands moved again. He squeezed the straining cloth with all his might and wrung out the very last drops into the earthenware vessel. The medicine was as black as ink. He transferred all the liquid from the bowl into a cup. The aroma of baking bread wafted from the oven.

“Almost done. Just wait a moment.”

The man opened the oven door. The savory scent of bread rushed out. The risen crust had split open along the scored lines, and white steam curled upward.

He placed the loaf on a cutting board and sliced ​​it in half. He set out a block visit our siteof cheese wrapped in cloth and a crock of butter alongside it. From the lower shelf of the cupboard, he took out a piece of salted meat wrapped in greaseproof paper and sliced ​​it thinly. When he laid the meat onto the still-hot griddle, the fat sizzled, releasing a salty aroma.

Finally, he brought out a bottle of ale and poured it into two cup. It was a mild brew with hardly any head.

“Here, let’s eat.”

The bread had a simple, wholesome taste. The crust was hot, but the inside was perfectly moist. The man sat opposite him and picked up his own portion of bread. For a while, the only sounds filling the kitchen were the clinking of a knife against the butter crock and the sound of slicing meat. Silver lifted his cup of ale and glanced at the man.

“Say… about your name.”

“Yes. My name.”

“How about ‘Field Mouse’? It’s better than ‘Stuffy-Nosed Mouse.’”

“Is that the best name you could come up with? Field Mouse?”

The man chuckled. Silver took a sip of ale.

“I told you, I can’t remember names longer than four syllables. ‘Stuffy-Nosed Mouse’ only stuck because it was funny. I don’t have a poet’s gift; even that took quite a bit of effort.”

Silver set down the ale and picked up a piece of bread. As he scooped up some butter with the tip of his knife and spread it, crumbs from the crust scattered onto the floor.

“‘Field Mouse’ isn’t a bad name. They’re quick and clever animals. People use the name quite often. It’s not like ‘Edible Round-Mouse’ or something.”

“No, ‘Field Mouse’ doesn’t suit a pirate captain. It doesn’t have to be as imposing as ‘Charcoal Bear,’ but it needs to be a name that commands respect. Something people won’t look down on. Hmm…”

The man swallowed his bread and rested his chin on one hand. His gaze drifted past Silver’s shoulder. He wore an expression like someone rummaging through the drawers of his mind. Then, he lifted his head and took his hand away from his chin.

“That’s it! Wolf! Call me Wolf.”

“What?”

Silver paused just as he was bringing the bread to his mouth. It ​Read on​felt like a blast of cold wind had hit him.

“Wolf? Why that name?”

His voice came out rougher than intended. The man’s expression stiffened slightly; the corners of his eyes, relaxed just moments ago, narrowed.

“No special reason. It just popped into my head, that’s all.”

The man tore off a piece of bread, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly. The awkward silence that inevitably follows when one feigns nonchalance to gloss over a slip of the tongue passed.

“Grable. ‘Wolf.’ It’s just one syllable (two in Stoll language). Do you dislike it because it overlaps with your real name, Tennen Grable. ‘Silver Wolf’?”

“Pick a different name.”

Silver said bluntly.

“The man who killed my biological father was named Wolf. ‘Wolf’ ​visit our site​in the Atanian tongue.”

At those words, the man’s eyes darted back and forth. He looked as though he’d been struck by an unexpected blow.

“That… I never imagined. If I’ve touched a raw nerve…”

“‘Raw nerve,’ my ass.”

Silver scowled and tore off a piece of bread.

“Do I look like some brat who’d whine and cry over his dad dying? My biological father wasn’t the type to die of natural causes anyway. He was a contract killer by trade. You get what I mean, right?”

“So, the problem was the guy who killed your father?”

“He was a friend of mine. At one point, I trusted him as a friend.”

“I see…”

The man drew out his words. He lifted his ale cup, took three or four deep swallows, and set it back down. The ale remaining in the cup sloshed gently.

“You felt betrayed by that friend, then? Was this ‘Wolf’ guy from Atania?”