Liberi Reader

The man sighs and looks around cautiously.

The optician has returned to Londinium for the first time in many years. But the view he sees now is as if he is looking at the city through a lens in the heat of his workshop, blurred and distorted.

By the time the image clears up, the only thing he can see is chaos. Trying to find an elusive presence in this bedlam will be no easy task, let alone someone whose appearance he does not even know.

The gaunt man empties his pockets, takes out a few pieces of bread from a bag, and tries to stuff them into Nowell's hands. The woman also takes out what few coins she has on her.

Nowell does not take them. He shakes his head, knowing that it is a thin line that separates these three people from the exsanguinated corpse by the roadside.

And he stands behind that tiny divide, always a spectator.

He has tried to reach out before, but his hands cannot save everyone.

This is not the first time she's asked, but it is the first time she hears something other than calmness in his voice.

The numerous wounds the man took, which should have killed him many times over, have all healed. Any bleeding quickly stopped, and even Sarkaz Arts Circles could not affect him.

Only the pain persists. Even so, he clenches his fist.

Nowell looks around and grabs a man who looks like a worker passing by.

Everyone looks in the direction the man is pointing.

That was when everything went wrong...

Nowell only has time to grab the hysterical woman.

A flash of red as far as the eye can see, and then the ground opens up like a gaping maw, swallowing the leader of the Self-Salvation Corps.

All eyes are trained on the epicenter of the tremor. The one within it holds the child tightly in her arms until the very end.

The dust cloud disperses, and all is quiet again, for now.

Partings like this have become a familiar sight to the people here. The outcome never changes, regardless of the victim.

Nowell knows all too well that there can sometimes be secondary explosions or aftershocks.

In Nowell's long life, there have been precious few things he was able to control. He has an ocean of memories, but it is not up to him which ones float to the surface.

Like an ordinary mortal, he can be distracted by flashbacks of the past that seem to overlap with the present as he gathers the weight of all those years.

Nowell looks towards the scene of the explosion and collapse. In the hole formed from brick and rubble, he seems to see visions of a dark mire from a century past.

It was a morning like this. He had heard the same pleading, which he had, stubbornly, chosen to ignore, instead setting upon a path in search of a death that could never come. This time...

He will not make the same choice again.

Guided by the Self-Salvation Corps, Nowell attempts to enter the underground ruins, helped by his years of experience and sheer immortality.

His steps are light and brisk, never stopping, until the sight before his eyes changes.

A red-headed child lies quietly beside a pile of collapsed rubble, near the remnants of an activated Arts Circle.

He hurries forward and takes the child into his arms. The boy's chest rises and falls rhythmically with his breathing.

He could have been asleep in bed, if not for the ash and gravel in his hair.

He takes a few steps, and comes face-to-face with the truth.

The young Self-Salvation Corps leader is half-buried in rubble, not stirring in the slightest.

Her eyelids are shut gently, naturally, as though she is only sleeping. Will she sleep here forever, underground?

A moment of pain in a fall that lasted seconds at most, leaving behind only peace. Nowell could not help but think—

The aftershock sends gravel flying, like a fowlbeast shaking off water after a rain. It is quick, scattered, and unpredictable.

Nowell did not even have time to check Clovisia for signs of life.

As the place threatens to shake itself apart, he bends over and protects the child from falling rocks with his own body. The sharper pieces easily pierce his clothes and skin, digging deep into flesh and bone.

He remains unmoving, clenching his teeth, waiting for the tremors to cease.

He is awakened from his pained trance by the sound of crying.

The boy had awoken to find himself in a dark, unfamiliar underground space. Following his instincts, he began to cry helplessly.

The aftershocks cease. Carrying Ollie with one hand and supporting himself with the other, he forces himself to sit up, pushing the weight off his back.

Fortunately, it is broken fragments of rock rather than a single, heavy slab, but he can still taste blood in his mouth as he moves.

In his arms, the child shakes his head helplessly in the darkness, hardly able to see anything.

Nowell sits down, puts the trembling boy on the ground, and reaches behind to pull the fragments out from his own back.

The boy grabs Nowell's clothes.

A smile, understood only by him, appears on his lips. Meanwhile, his fingers locate the final fragment, lodged between his scapula.

He grits his teeth and pulls it out.

Enduring pain had become a habit. Nowell lifts the child again and searches his memory for a path that will take them to safety.

The child nods and grabs the corner of Nowell's clothes. He even wraps it around his palm tightly without being told, indicating that he understands Nowell.

Suddenly, he hears an ethereal voice echoing in every direction.

A mist spreads in the darkness, surrounding him.

Nowell can recognize that voice anywhere.

He cannot move. A sudden, cold fury buffets his reason, nailing him to the spot.

He does not know why the voice chose this moment to appear. Instinctive mistrust overcomes all judgment.

Nowell has never seen the owner of the voice, nor gathered any clues about their appearance. Over the long years, all he could do was to piece together rumor after rumor, letting questions simmer into hatred.

If this voice is real and not his imagination, then it must...

The unicorn, hidden in the shadows of history, is both benefactor and villain.

Nowell can feel the child grab his clothes even tighter.

The man waves at Nowell with something other than anxiety or panic on his face.

It is a smile of gratitude, with a sincerity that makes Nowell awkward. All he can do is nod and smile back.

But the man keeps walking until he is right in front of him, and reaches out a hand, as though words alone cannot express his gratitude. And so Nowell keeps the smile on his face and shakes the extended hand, almost unconsciously.

Only then does he finally realize that pain is spreading, from his back to his chest to the rest of his body. He has difficulty breathing and bends down, grabbing his own collar.

The wounds he received from the rubble have still not started to heal.

Clovisia... he had passed right by the one he spent his entire life looking for, without even realizing it.

But it is no longer important. With great effort, Nowell looks up, fighting against the pain and difficulty of breathing.

In his blurry vision, he sees a child clutching his mother's hand tightly. The boy is the very picture of health, his hair and skin a warm color, with a smile on his face, just like...

Nowell falls to his knees, no longer able to support his own weight. It is as though the fatigue of a hundred years of wandering has come upon him in an instant.

Before his hands and feet grow cold from blood loss, he curls his body down, ignoring the searing pain as the wounds on his back stretch, until his head touches the ground.

It is a posture of worship and reverence, but he is not praying to anyone.

He lifts his head after a little while.

The pain lingers, as does the urge to cry his heart out. But all is silent, and only the beating of the heart resonates in his chest.

The thing that would make him happy, the thing that can kill him... it is already here.