Chapter 34: The Wanderer

The upward staircase was steep and quite narrow, barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side. There were no handrails on either side, just an empty, dark space that seemed to promise a fatal fall if one slipped. Looking down, only the flickering yellow streetlights intermittently illuminated the dark intersections of the streets below. These gaps were bottomless, filled with a gloomy, murky fog that flowed like a river.

Salser followed Astolfo, who had dashed up the stairs, at a cautious pace. He couldn't move too quickly because Jeanne was gripping his tail tightly from behind.

He slowly bent down—a straight corridor lay above the stairs, leaving only a gap about half a person's height—and crawled into the space between the paths. It was uncomfortable to crouch and move forward in this narrow passage, which became increasingly low. To be honest, he felt like jumping down and flying away, but the grip on his tail was too tight, so he could only entertain the thought.

After some time, he finally crawled out from the increasingly low gap and, without hesitation, placed his hand on Jeanne's head to stand up straight. The occasional bell sounded closer, but the surroundings remained dark, eerie, and damp, with only the faint glow of distant lights offering a slight sense of relief.

"Can you move your hand from my head now?" Jeanne asked him expressionlessly. Perhaps because her wrist was wrapped around by the Dark wizard's tail, she did not speak harshly.

"Ah," Salser came to his senses, "Maybe it's because you're too short, I didn't notice you had stood up."

"...Is that an explanation or a provocation?" Her expression twisted slightly.

"Do you care about height, Miss Peasant?"

Jeanne stepped forward:

"Me? Of course, I don't care. My father was just an owner of a small farm, my mother had no education, and I only knew how to herd sheep as a child. Who cares about such things?" 

"Then why are you getting upset?" Salser said.

"Oh, instinctively," she said indifferently, "As soon as you speak, I can feel you trying to provoke me."

"I'm not that familiar with you," he added, "So, do you act recklessly like this in the Inquisition  when judging criminals?"

"Recklessly? Me?" Jeanne said with a rising tone, "Go ask the confession records of the Inquisition I supervised, go ask the Saint Rovato Square where I burned heretics, go ask the criminals whom I executed on the guillotine-widow, I've never heard anyone dare to doubt me!"

"The people who have been to the guillotine have already lost their heads. Are you planning to sleep on them so they can have children to answer me?" *(See author's note for more information)

"What do you know!?" Jeanne glared at him, "I can make them pregnant for real!"

"You're quite humorous."

Her face grew darker.

"Dark... Sal... Ugh, it feels so stifling to have to call you by your name."

"Relax, you're still holding my tail."

"A lifeline must be held tight, what if I slip and fall?" Jeanne said.

"Are you afraid of heights?"

"Me? Of course I'm not afraid of that. I just don't want to die in some inexplicable place—an inquisitor slipping and falling to death, not to mention in a dream, it's too ridiculous."

"Well said, but I feel that your personality is already done for. You're almost deeply in love with my tail. Have you considered marrying it? Can you make this tail pregnant, just like you can make the guillotine pregnant?"

"..."

Jeanne glared at him fiercely; being stared at by such a gaze was uncomfortable, even for Salser.

At that moment, a voice came from the end of the stairs, saying:

"I found the entrance to the bell tower, Mr. Salser!"

Both of them turned their heads to look at the end of the stairs, and there was Astolfo at an archway entrance, waving at them.

...

At the same time, on the other side of the city.

The rain fell. If a city is old enough, so old that the era of its birth is forgotten, and if it is desolate without maintenance, then its buildings and streets will be so dirty to the point of being shiny, with walls that peel off layers of curled skin, soaked in the residue of decaying years. The city of Zobeide in the dream is such an ancient city.

Nascarl knelt at the upper level of the city, facing a street full of cracks, with a newly laid road behind him. His expression was dazed, his complexion somewhat dull, as he slowly crawled forward on his knees.

He was alone here.

In this dark, damp space, the rain fell into puddles, occasionally a cold wind blew from the gaps between the intersecting streets, stirring up white mist. When the wind stopped—it became even quieter. The distant thunder was as dull as if it came from the depths of the earth, while being very oppressive, like someone thumping on a cowhide drum.

Occasionally, a pale flash of lightning would tear through the darkness, and at that moment, the shadow of the dream would instantly appear from the darkness in front of him...

Her eyes were cold and transparent like ice, her white hair like ashes, her smile ambiguous, her voice soft and slow, with a strange lyrical tone. She wore a black brocade dress with pleats, a red silk ribbon and a shawl with wavy patterns on her shoulders, and her slender doll joints extended from the white sleeves, dripping with a few drops of blood. She looked lonely and peaceful, like a pale water lily sleeping in the desolate graveyard under the moon.

The illusion vanished with the lightning, leaving no trace behind. In the pouring rain, his sigh was like sobbing, its sound piercing through the echoes of raindrops, reverberating between the damp walls, then slowly dissipating.

My life, he thought, this is my life.

Nascarl bowed his head, wanting to forget that thing... but how could he?

He slowly laid and mended the broken streets. This disheveled man hunched over and knelt on the damp stone. Below him were the streets crisscrossing and supporting each other like tree branches, with bottomless black gaps between them like abysses; above him were the eerie buildings that stretched out layer by layer, blending into the eternal night of Zobeide, with low-hanging black clouds faintly visible in the gaps; in front of him was a crack of dozens of meters, with newly laid stones slowly closing and sticking together; behind him was a seemingly inexhaustible pile of stones and mud, as if an invisible hand was placing materials and making them follow this man as he slowly moved.

So outrageous, so absurd.

Lady Maria, my dear lady of the dream... what have you done to me? Can I still find your traces here?

He immersed himself in his memories. Mechanically and rigidly, he laid the streets according to the revelations in the dream. He built the city of dream—in this place where the last trace of the dream woman was lost, he created the space and walls of the otherworld. He wanted to make sure she could never escape.

With a heart-wrenching, bloody gaze, he surveyed the crisscrossing streets of Zobeide, his hand on a limestone column—cold, stiff, feeling nothing of its recent formation from broken stones and mud. With infinite reverence, he prayed—O great existence that has bestowed such power upon me, Moon Goddess, I will build this city here until I find her, until the end of time.

"Te Deum laudamus."

He whispered, chanting with a mournful, distant voice.

"Te Deum laudamus."

Author’s note:

In Old French, the word for guillotine and widow is the same. This is set as Jeanne's native language in the past. Although she doesn't speak it much now, occasionally, she still unconsciously shows some habits related to her hometown language.

Nascarl is the unfortunate fellow mentioned in Chapter 15.

Of course, I don't actually understand French at all; this is a reference from Victor Hugo's book.

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