Глава 9

Arrestin'... him? You mean, Captain Kelly's been arrested by his own?!

They said he was harboring Oripathics! But that can't be right. His son passed from Oripathy a few months ago, the whole city knows that. The first thing he did was report the news his son'd gotten ill!

These people... usin' such a tragic illness as an excuse? That's beyond shameless!

Not just once or twice, either. For people wanting to use any form of discrimination as a front, it's true, Oripathy is an especially good pretense.

Just take this time. The troops are weeding out any inside people born Taran.

Officers or soldiers, so long as they were kindred with Tarans in some way, were stripped overnight of any right to act freely.

Clearin' out the barracks' Tarans? In wartime, pressed for people? I've got an awful feelin' about this already.

So, Captain Kelly slipped me this like his life depended on it, wanted me to give it to 'the soldier not from this barracks who's constantly been hanging around here as of late'—

Mr. Chef, this is proof the barracks are makin' illegal Originium weapons!

What?! Hamilton's lost his mind!

I want you to find a trustworthy Messenger, give 'em this paper and our report about the spectre force both, to be treated as vital intelligence, and taken out of County Hillock straight away!

This is the Captain's endeavor in his final moment! We cannot waste it!

Can't do that. This information's too important, and we can't rely on a civilian Messenger. How about this instead, Miss—I'll make this trip myself.

Mr. Chef, you were a Messenger too?

Don't forget, passing on information's part of us lamplighters' profession too. Ah, finally, I can take on a decent assignment at long last. Excitement's got my hands and legs shaking.

Wait, hold on, there's some sound outside...

It's lightning, isn't it?

I'm feelin' doubtful about that.

It's fine, I've been here in County Hillock how many years now. The weather changes when it wants to. Used to it at this point.

A little lightning and rain can't hold me back! I'm off!

The Messenger charges into the recess of the street with nary a look back.

On his head, a hard rain is pouring down, and the thunder gradually nears, getting concentrated, louder—

This... this isn't lightning!

No, Mr. Chef—

—This is bombardment!!!

The Messenger isn't in time to hear her words.

Countless shells come down with the rain, exploding the moment they contact the ground and walls.

The blast waves tear effortlessly through the gel material, blisteringly and ferociously melting the metal makeup, but the more fearsome thing takes advantage of the illness that bores beneath the city's muscle and bone—

Incomplete combustion sees immense formations of Originium crystal, solidifying dense within the open wounds of streets and buildings, as if in the dirty rain, identically and rapidly, bloom pure black flowers.