A paved road with cracks running through it.
On top of it, fragments of collapsed high-rise buildings are piled up.
A devastated cityscape where remnants of human civilization can be felt.
A lizard with small fangs, with a length of about 50 cm, is eating a winged insect on the street, holding it in its mouth.
The lizard, with red scales that seem to be covered in flames, swallows the winged insect and heads towards its resting place.
Using its short but thick four legs, it begins to crawl on the ground when, in an instant, an arrow pierces its head.
The lizard, unable to comprehend what happened in that brief moment, succumbs to death.
A figure approaches the convulsing body of the lizard. It stops beside it and lifts the lizard, along with the arrow stuck in its head.
"──Not a bearded dragon... Similar, but... What kind of lizard is this?"
In this world, it's survival of the fittest— the weak become the sustenance for the strong.
The carcass of the lizard, now a pitiful prey, is taken away by the figure.
"──I got it. ---Is this lizard okay?"
"──How quick. I was wondering what you were doing when you suddenly started cutting branches to make a bow and arrows..."
The arrowhead is made of metal fragments, the feathers are from a dead pigeon, and the bow is crafted from a thick branch of a naturally growing tree, with vines serving as the string, and tree sap as adhesive.
Harlan, initially astonished by the primitive hunting methods of this era, was unusually impressed when the bow and arrows were completed in about an hour, providing what he had requested.
"If you fire a gun, the prey will run away, and if the prey turns to dust, it's all over. Plus, gunfire attracts the Rapture."
"Yeah.──Could you cut off the tail of that lizard?"
"...I don't mind, but... what are you doing?"
"──Can't you tell just by looking?"
"No... I can tell if I see it. I didn't expect to see a witch's cauldron, but... what I wanted to know is what you're making."
A makeshift hearth is created by stacking rubble of a suitable size. On top of it sits a large pot. Wood is burning, and Harlan is stirring the bubbling contents with a wooden spatula.
It's a scene reminiscent of a fairy tale witch concocting a potion.
Despite the lingering questions, Moore unsheathes his fighting knife as requested. Gripping the lizard's tail and sliding the blade to the base, he effortlessly severs it.
The lizard, now tailless, rolls to the ground. Moore strides towards Harran, crossing over it, and offers the severed tail.
"I'm making witch's soup. I've referenced the records left by those once called witches in the past and created it myself."
"Witches?"
Unexpectedly, a mix of incredulous sounds and gazes is directed towards Harran. Moore, who peeked into the contents of the cauldron beside her, decided to pretend he saw nothing. He didn't want to acknowledge the bubbling scene of a purple liquid with a gooey, viscous texture.
"You seem skeptical. Let me clarify, I've survived by utilizing the records left by those who were once called witches."
"No, my words were poorly chosen. I apologize. It's not that I'm insulting you or the knowledge you've gained. Leaving aside fairy tale witches... I've heard that those who were actually called witches, in reality, played a significant role as skilled healers with advanced knowledge of medicine in towns and villages."
"Oh..."
She hadn't expected understanding, especially from Arks commander.
"Surprising..."
"What is?"
"...That you're a bit more accepting than I thought..."
"Prejudice arises from a lack of knowledge. To some extent, I know history. Learning history is the best way to understand humanity's achievements, mistakes, prejudices, and discrimination."
Indeed, there's some truth to that.
She snorted softly and returned to stirring the contents of the cauldron, but glanced at Moore from the corner of her eye.
"...Can you process that tail, cut it into chunks?"
"It's a simple task."
Why is it... comfortable?
The feeling of warmth in her chest...
Scales and skin are peeled off with the fighting knife, revealing muscular meat.
If Moore cuts it into chunks as Harran suggested, he grabs a handful of the tail's meat and tosses it into the cauldron.
Continuing to stir the simmering contents, eventually, it seems to be ready.
Harlan plunges the wooden bowl she prepared into the cauldron, scoops out the witch's soup, and hands it to Moore.
"──Eat it."
.
.
.
.
"...Huh?"
"Since you're going to face trials, eat it beforehand."
"...This?"
Reflexively taking it, Moore examines the witch's soup again.
The surface, where bubbles pop up, has a chemical purple color. In addition to the lizard's tail chunks thrown in earlier, various other unidentifiable ingredients are glimpsed.
Moore, who lives by the principle of eating anything edible, finds himself facing something that doesn't exactly stimulate his appetite.
"What's wrong? You dislike it? Even though I made it with my own hands? Is it due to a lack of knowledge leading to prej-u-d-i-c-e? For someone who talks so big..."
"...I appreciate it. I'll eat it."
Though he tries to be considerate with his words, he realizes he's digging himself into a hole.
This is food, undoubtedly food—Moore reassures himself as he brings the bowl closer to his lips.
Harlan eagerly watches as Moore's lips finally touch the dry edge of the bowl.
Tilting the bowl slightly, the faint sound of slurping the witch's soup is heard.
"How is it?"
"...I'm surprised by the fact that it's delicious."
"Well, of course. Who do you think made it?"
Without attempting to conceal her smug expression, Harran sweeps up her lush, deep purple hair.
"Top predators don't eat just for survival. We seek delicious things for the sake of gourmet pleasure. Of course, I do too."
"...Gourmet... despite its appearance..."
"Appearance?"
Harran's gaze settles.
"Say it."
Those settled eyes look up at Moore, urging him to continue. Like a top predator, confidently, or even arrogantly.
"...It's nothing. Maybe my sense of aesthetics is lacking. The taste is undoubtedly delicious."
"Good. Now eat it quickly."
Though a fleeting and straightforward opinion crosses Moore's mind that Harlan might be acknowledging the unappealing appearance, he wisely keeps it to himself.
Various spicy flavors can be detected, but good food is good. Don't worry about the appearance. Never mind it.
He tells himself as he finishes the contents of the bowl.
However, it seems the lizard meat was the most delicious. Moore bites into the bones, producing the sound of sturdy jaws and teeth.
"Well, it seems you like it. Now... shall we start the trial soon?"
Personally, this is what he hoped the trial would be.
It seems the real deal is about to begin. Sensing that, he places the empty bowl near the cauldron and follows Harran as she starts walking.
After walking for several tens of minutes, they arrive at...
"...Just to be sure, is this the headquarters?"
"There's no way. This is your testing ground."
"That's what I thought."
The outskirts of the collapsed city stretch out as a vast wasteland as far as the eye can see.
No, originally it might not have been the outskirts. Several buildings with exposed steel frames, abandoned during construction, were scattered around. It was likely a large construction site.
"I've had various conversations with you on the way here, trying to assess your qualities, but I've come to realize that words alone aren't enough."
"Well, I can understand what you're getting at without you saying it."
Agreeing, Moore opens the pouch of his body armor and takes out his favorite cigarette. Shaking the soft pack, he places one of the exposed cigarettes in his mouth and ignites it with an oil lighter.
"So, show me. For example, a determination willing to risk your life. Such things can't be proven with words alone."
"Certainly."
Though he can generally anticipate what will happen next, he shows a nonchalant affirmative nod with the cigarette still in his mouth.
"That's why—starting from now, I, Harran, as the guardian of Eden, will give you an appropriate trial."
"Please go easy on me. After all, I'm just a regular human."
"Yes. I'll go easy on you."
"That's comforting. It almost brings tears to my eyes."
Ignoring his shoulder shrug, the witch, with a sidelong glance, takes out an antique-style perfume bottle.
"You have good taste."
"Thank you. I like it."
Matching her personal color, a shade of purple that complements her, she pinches a part that looks like a balloon attached to the crystal perfume bottle made in the same hue with her slender fingers. She lightly presses it a few times.
Soon after, fine particles are scattered across the testing ground, and the ground begins to shake.
"...It's not an earthquake. What did you do?"
"I told you, didn't I? I'll give you an appropriate trial. You're a rare human who can fight against the Rapture. So, I have to summon an appropriate Rapture."
The ground shake intensifies.
Harran puts away the perfume bottle and suddenly disappears. At that moment, the ground explodes.
As the scattered soil and debris rain down, Moore's field of vision captures the ominous red single eye gleaming amidst the dust.
And when he sees the figure of the giant, he unconsciously removes the safety of the assault rifle he carries, spits out the cigarette he was holding in his mouth, and crushes it under his boot.
When the dust clears, the full form of the giant is revealed.
Three pairs of legs arranged like a spider or crustacean, a massive body reminiscent of a fusion of living organisms and machinery. The pulsating parts oddly lifelike. The height of over ten meters, it is—
"─Blacksmith."
"It would be pitiful to let an undamaged Tyrant-class fight, so I'll let it face the corpse I picked up earlier.─"
"...Thank you for that."
In response to the witch's words echoing around, Moore sends a sarcastically grateful gesture to her.
The corpse he picked up—indeed, it is heavily damaged. Moore doesn't know what was scattered earlier, but reviving a specimen that should have fulfilled its role is an incredible feat of technology.
Nevertheless—
"Somewhere..."
—there is a sense of familiarity.
He has only fought against Blacksmith once. He doesn't know how many other units of the same type there are, but they likely don't differ much in appearance.
That's probably why it feels familiar.
"No, that's not it."
—He knows this one.
Moore asserts this half-intuitively.
Whether it's due to a system error or the unsteady movements of the massive Tyrant-class Rapture's abdomen—which likely suffered damage and was now dripping thick, black, blood-like body fluid catalyst intermittently.
Perhaps—
"Hahaha... I see. What a twist of fate. Truly—I'm so thrilled that tears could flow."
—His mouth curves into an almost ear-to-ear grin, revealing slightly pointed canines. It's as if a wolf bared its fangs.
—This is it. This is the Tyrant class from that time.
If one observes closely, the thin, tough membrane that protected the ominous red core, reminiscent of a single eye, is shattered, glittering ominously.
In the midst of the ominous red glow of the core, small black dots mix in—bullet holes. Moreover, they were not from assault rifle bullets but from handgun rounds.
Moore vividly recalls the moment from that evening when he pointed his gun at her, a subordinate. He puts the backpack he carried on the ground and re-grips the assault rifle.
It seems the handgun bullets didn't fill its belly. If it was dissatisfied and got lost, that would be pitiful.
"I'll feed you until you're full this time."
Whether this taunt reached the near-death or rather the barely standing Blacksmith or not, this marked the moment the battle began.
It seems attacks like before, using tentacles or large-caliber warheads, are now impossible.
The enemy machine, boasting a massive body, showers sparks here and there, emitting a viscous, pitch-black body fluid. It awkwardly advances on three pairs of legs towards Moore.
He bends down, rummaging through his backpack. What he retrieves is a silver-plated case that gleams. Opening the lid, he takes out a needle-less syringe and presses the button against his neck.
The drug flows into his body from the internal ampoule, and he tosses the empty syringe aside.
"...Hahaha!"
An exhilarating feeling dominates his mind and body.
His left eye, now bloodshot, changes to an ominous glow comparable to the red single eye. Every muscle in his body tenses.
Taking a step forward, the distance between the figure reveling in uncontrollable laughter and the approaching giant shadow gradually shortens.
Suddenly, one of the legs supporting the giant body rises.
The red and bloody left eye, along with the mechanical right eye, observes the scene—Moore releases his left hand from the assault rifle.
His means of attack are now his own body and mass. Primitive, yet it produces an attack that evokes an underlying sense of fear.
Even with that before him, he stands boldly.
A leg swings down, aiming to crush the figure standing before it. However, the descending leg is seized by an extended left hand, bringing it to an abrupt halt.
A creaking metallic sound echoes heavily.
—Why can't it move?
—Why can't it be crushed?
A ponderous sound that conveys even bewilderment.
"...My precious subordinate has been taken care of by you...!"
From the upturned corner of his mouth, visible canine teeth emerge, biting down forcefully both top and bottom. A growling sound emanates from deep within.
With one hand supporting a mass that must be several tons, the man locks eyes with his half-dead archenemy. The assault rifle in his grip is raised.
The barrel of that gun would appear to be a perfect circle to the enemy machine right in front of him.
—"No need to hold back."
—I'll feed you until you're full.
The trigger is pulled casually.
The Tetra-line assault rifle produces a deafening gunshot, and a large-caliber warhead designed for Rapture use shoots out from the muzzle, with spent casings falling to the ground one after another.
The barrel is aimed at the core reminiscent of a red single eye.
Armor-piercing shells and tracer rounds are sucked into it, as if attracted, and the core is shattered into fine particles.
A lethal blow—force drains from the gargantuan body that had seemingly consumed its fill, and it topples over with a ground-shaking thud.
Destroyed.
However—apparently, that wasn't satisfying enough.
Without releasing the leg he had grabbed, without bothering to replace the empty magazine, he strides ghost-like toward the now-darkened core of the fallen giant. The assault rifle he holds is swung down.
Blows from the assault rifle strike repeatedly.
With each impact, a sound reminiscent of crushing ripe fruit—almost like an illusion—resounds.
Many times, meticulously, thoroughly, to ensure it never stands up again.
"—That's enough. It's already dead."
A mechanical crow takes flight from the witch's shoulder, revealing itself behind him.
Circling in the sky above the defeated body, it begins to scatter something— and the entire body of the enemy machine starts to disintegrate.
Biological components dissolve, and various-sized mechanical parts break down.
Seeing this—finally, he ceases the onslaught.
White steam rises from the tall body. Haran squints his eyes, wondering just how high the body temperature might be, and then opens his mouth.
"—There's still some soup left... Would you like to eat?"
Despite the one-sided nature of the ordeal, he probably burned calories during the trial, leading to hunger.
As the witch asks, he, bathed in tar and black catalytic fluid akin to splattered blood, replaces the magazine of his assault rifle.
"...I'll take it. I'm... hungry."
-----
.
.
.
.
"—You really eat a lot, huh?"
"—Is that a problem? Using that makes me tired."
Combat rations, MREs, have a reputation, both good and bad. Not just their reputation, but also various nicknames.
Being able to stuff oneself after such intense combat is a kind of skill.
"—Panzerneun, wasn't it? A full moon..."
"—It's an item to turn us who's titled werewolves into what we're called. Well, after using it..."
"—You get incredibly hungry and fall into intense drowsiness. Some might even faint, wasn't that it?"
Seating himself on the ground, the tall figure watches the beautiful woman sitting beside him, voraciously consuming the meals laid out in front of her. She sighs.
"—Those not used to it might faint. I did too at first. If you haven't used it for a long time, you'll probably faint too..."
"—How long have you been using it?"
"—Who knows. I don't remember."
After packing the emptied pouch into the provided bag, the tall figure, lying on his back, rests his shaved head, revealed when he removed his helmet, on the knee of the woman sitting next to him.
"—I'll... take a little nap... for 30 minutes..."
"—If you don't wake up after 30 minutes, wake me up. Even if something happens, wake me up, alright?"
"—...Got it... Lieutenant..."
His eyes closed, and seemingly without letting out a snore, he entered a light slumber.
It felt as if a noble wolf had taken a liking to him alone—a surreal situation. The woman's lips gently parted, and her delicate hand gently caressed the shaved head.
"—Good night. My Rick."
A faint sound echoed as the woman inclined her upper body and brought her lips to the cheek with a light, almost imperceptible touch, touching the lightly bearded cheek.
-----
.
.
.
.
"—Did you wake up?"
A voice descended from above. Sensing the feeling of something soft and warm supporting the back of his head, Moore's eyes, still trembling, slowly opened.
"...How long was I asleep?"
"About 30 minutes, Lazybones."
Feeling a pain akin to his entire body creaking—like muscle soreness, he sits up, despite it all.
It seems Haran had lent him her knee. He hadn't expected Moore, having polished off the remaining witch soup, to succumb to irresistible drowsiness and fall asleep so quickly.
"...Thank you."
He had been defenseless, sleeping on the ground. Haran smiles at him, sensing his disgust at this fact.
"For those who have overcome the trial, I should do at least this much."
"...It might cost you a lot."
Picking up the helmet that covered his head from the pouch placed beside him, Moore sighs and places it on his head.
"If you proceed straight on this path, you'll reach Paradise."
Moore stands up, immediately putting on his backpack and threading the sling belt of the assault rifle around his neck and under his right arm.
Climbing to his feet after Moore, Haran points to the cracked paved road leading from the current location of the test site to the wilderness.
"However, from here, you must go alone."
"...This is more like a trial."
A mere, slightly capable human, able to face the Rapture only to undertake solitary action on the surface.
On a personal level, Moore thought this was much more of a trial than facing a Rapture.
"Well... If we talk about whether you can do it or not... you probably can, but..."
"Hehe... Well then, go on. Someone who's been eagerly waiting for you to come is there."
As Moore, who was conducting a pre-march weapon check, pulls out the magazine and checks the remaining rounds, Haran speaks up. Moore tilts his head.
"...Someone eagerly waiting?"
"Yes. I'm sure they'll welcome you when you set foot in Paradise."
"...I don't have any acquaintances like that..."
Unfortunately, his circle of friends is neither wide nor deep. He doesn't even have friends.
Regrettably, since his commissioning, he hasn't received any updates on the current situation of the classmates he shared joys and sorrows with at the officer school. It's a heartless situation—
"—"
"What's wrong?"
"...It's nothing."
Moore, who had paused during the inspection, caught Haran's attention, and she inquired. Without delay, he resumed the inspection, pretending nothing had happened.
Having finished the inspection, Moore turns towards Haran.
"Thanks for everything."
"No need for thanks. Now, go."
Nodding, he turns away from the witch and begins walking towards the paved road.
On the way, near the site where he defeated the Blacksmith, Moore picks up a crushed cigarette butt, tossing it into a portable ashtray before stepping onto the cracked paved road.
----
.
.
.
.
The warm sunlight pours down.
She walks through the grassland, remembering a low and calm voice saying that a parasol suits her. That handsome figure and the cute parasol handed to her didn't seem to match, and she couldn't help but remember the memory that elicited a wry smile.
Of course, she didn't mind.
Opening the umbrella gratefully received and using it—
"It's beautiful, ----wasn't it?"
With a strong need for approval, she could self-evaluate that such compliments were partly due to familiarity, but at that moment, her cheeks became pink.
As she advances through the beautiful green grassland, she catches sight of something foreign in her line of sight.
"Oh... he's finally arrived."
It seems he's finally come.
He made her wait quite a while.
She adorns herself with white wings, an expanded armament—Pina.
Spreading it out, she floats into the sky, appearing above the foreign object that should be the visitor in the middle of the grassland.
Lowering the altitude slowly, with a behavior reminiscent of an angel descending, towards the front—
"Welcome—"
.
.
.
.
.
.
-----She loses her words.
The memories of that day and the night of separation flood back.
Her vision blurs. Her eyes moisten.
Her voice—doesn't come out.
"—!!"
She can't say anything. The words won't come out.
She feels like she might start sobbing. She doesn't want to show this face.
So, there's no choice but to act.
Standing in front of her—someone with a dignified face similar to that person from that day—she couldn't do anything but throw herself into his chest.
A paved road with cracks running through it.
On top of it, fragments of collapsed high-rise buildings are piled up.
A devastated cityscape where remnants of human civilization can be felt.
A lizard with small fangs, with a length of about 50 cm, is eating a winged insect on the street, holding it in its mouth.
The lizard, with red scales that seem to be covered in flames, swallows the winged insect and heads towards its resting place.
Using its short but thick four legs, it begins to crawl on the ground when, in an instant, an arrow pierces its head.
The lizard, unable to comprehend what happened in that brief moment, succumbs to death.
A figure approaches the convulsing body of the lizard. It stops beside it and lifts the lizard, along with the arrow stuck in its head.
"──Not a bearded dragon... Similar, but... What kind of lizard is this?"
In this world, it's survival of the fittest— the weak become the sustenance for the strong.
The carcass of the lizard, now a pitiful prey, is taken away by the figure.
"──I got it. ---Is this lizard okay?"
"──How quick. I was wondering what you were doing when you suddenly started cutting branches to make a bow and arrows..."
The arrowhead is made of metal fragments, the feathers are from a dead pigeon, and the bow is crafted from a thick branch of a naturally growing tree, with vines serving as the string, and tree sap as adhesive.
Harlan, initially astonished by the primitive hunting methods of this era, was unusually impressed when the bow and arrows were completed in about an hour, providing what he had requested.
"If you fire a gun, the prey will run away, and if the prey turns to dust, it's all over. Plus, gunfire attracts the Rapture."
"Yeah.──Could you cut off the tail of that lizard?"
"...I don't mind, but... what are you doing?"
"──Can't you tell just by looking?"
"No... I can tell if I see it. I didn't expect to see a witch's cauldron, but... what I wanted to know is what you're making."
A makeshift hearth is created by stacking rubble of a suitable size. On top of it sits a large pot. Wood is burning, and Harlan is stirring the bubbling contents with a wooden spatula.
It's a scene reminiscent of a fairy tale witch concocting a potion.
Despite the lingering questions, Moore unsheathes his fighting knife as requested. Gripping the lizard's tail and sliding the blade to the base, he effortlessly severs it.
The lizard, now tailless, rolls to the ground. Moore strides towards Harran, crossing over it, and offers the severed tail.
"I'm making witch's soup. I've referenced the records left by those once called witches in the past and created it myself."
"Witches?"
Unexpectedly, a mix of incredulous sounds and gazes is directed towards Harran. Moore, who peeked into the contents of the cauldron beside her, decided to pretend he saw nothing. He didn't want to acknowledge the bubbling scene of a purple liquid with a gooey, viscous texture.
"You seem skeptical. Let me clarify, I've survived by utilizing the records left by those who were once called witches."
"No, my words were poorly chosen. I apologize. It's not that I'm insulting you or the knowledge you've gained. Leaving aside fairy tale witches... I've heard that those who were actually called witches, in reality, played a significant role as skilled healers with advanced knowledge of medicine in towns and villages."
"Oh..."
She hadn't expected understanding, especially from Arks commander.
"Surprising..."
"What is?"
"...That you're a bit more accepting than I thought..."
"Prejudice arises from a lack of knowledge. To some extent, I know history. Learning history is the best way to understand humanity's achievements, mistakes, prejudices, and discrimination."
Indeed, there's some truth to that.
She snorted softly and returned to stirring the contents of the cauldron, but glanced at Moore from the corner of her eye.
"...Can you process that tail, cut it into chunks?"
"It's a simple task."
Why is it... comfortable?
The feeling of warmth in her chest...
Scales and skin are peeled off with the fighting knife, revealing muscular meat.
If Moore cuts it into chunks as Harran suggested, he grabs a handful of the tail's meat and tosses it into the cauldron.
Continuing to stir the simmering contents, eventually, it seems to be ready.
Harlan plunges the wooden bowl she prepared into the cauldron, scoops out the witch's soup, and hands it to Moore.
"──Eat it."
.
.
.
.
"...Huh?"
"Since you're going to face trials, eat it beforehand."
"...This?"
Reflexively taking it, Moore examines the witch's soup again.
The surface, where bubbles pop up, has a chemical purple color. In addition to the lizard's tail chunks thrown in earlier, various other unidentifiable ingredients are glimpsed.
Moore, who lives by the principle of eating anything edible, finds himself facing something that doesn't exactly stimulate his appetite.
"What's wrong? You dislike it? Even though I made it with my own hands? Is it due to a lack of knowledge leading to prej-u-d-i-c-e? For someone who talks so big..."
"...I appreciate it. I'll eat it."
Though he tries to be considerate with his words, he realizes he's digging himself into a hole.
This is food, undoubtedly food—Moore reassures himself as he brings the bowl closer to his lips.
Harlan eagerly watches as Moore's lips finally touch the dry edge of the bowl.
Tilting the bowl slightly, the faint sound of slurping the witch's soup is heard.
"How is it?"
"...I'm surprised by the fact that it's delicious."
"Well, of course. Who do you think made it?"
Without attempting to conceal her smug expression, Harran sweeps up her lush, deep purple hair.
"Top predators don't eat just for survival. We seek delicious things for the sake of gourmet pleasure. Of course, I do too."
"...Gourmet... despite its appearance..."
"Appearance?"
Harran's gaze settles.
"Say it."
Those settled eyes look up at Moore, urging him to continue. Like a top predator, confidently, or even arrogantly.
"...It's nothing. Maybe my sense of aesthetics is lacking. The taste is undoubtedly delicious."
"Good. Now eat it quickly."
Though a fleeting and straightforward opinion crosses Moore's mind that Harlan might be acknowledging the unappealing appearance, he wisely keeps it to himself.
Various spicy flavors can be detected, but good food is good. Don't worry about the appearance. Never mind it.
He tells himself as he finishes the contents of the bowl.
However, it seems the lizard meat was the most delicious. Moore bites into the bones, producing the sound of sturdy jaws and teeth.
"Well, it seems you like it. Now... shall we start the trial soon?"
Personally, this is what he hoped the trial would be.
It seems the real deal is about to begin. Sensing that, he places the empty bowl near the cauldron and follows Harran as she starts walking.
After walking for several tens of minutes, they arrive at...
"...Just to be sure, is this the headquarters?"
"There's no way. This is your testing ground."
"That's what I thought."
The outskirts of the collapsed city stretch out as a vast wasteland as far as the eye can see.
No, originally it might not have been the outskirts. Several buildings with exposed steel frames, abandoned during construction, were scattered around. It was likely a large construction site.
"I've had various conversations with you on the way here, trying to assess your qualities, but I've come to realize that words alone aren't enough."
"Well, I can understand what you're getting at without you saying it."
Agreeing, Moore opens the pouch of his body armor and takes out his favorite cigarette. Shaking the soft pack, he places one of the exposed cigarettes in his mouth and ignites it with an oil lighter.
"So, show me. For example, a determination willing to risk your life. Such things can't be proven with words alone."
"Certainly."
Though he can generally anticipate what will happen next, he shows a nonchalant affirmative nod with the cigarette still in his mouth.
"That's why—starting from now, I, Harran, as the guardian of Eden, will give you an appropriate trial."
"Please go easy on me. After all, I'm just a regular human."
"Yes. I'll go easy on you."
"That's comforting. It almost brings tears to my eyes."
Ignoring his shoulder shrug, the witch, with a sidelong glance, takes out an antique-style perfume bottle.
"You have good taste."
"Thank you. I like it."
Matching her personal color, a shade of purple that complements her, she pinches a part that looks like a balloon attached to the crystal perfume bottle made in the same hue with her slender fingers. She lightly presses it a few times.
Soon after, fine particles are scattered across the testing ground, and the ground begins to shake.
"...It's not an earthquake. What did you do?"
"I told you, didn't I? I'll give you an appropriate trial. You're a rare human who can fight against the Rapture. So, I have to summon an appropriate Rapture."
The ground shake intensifies.
Harran puts away the perfume bottle and suddenly disappears. At that moment, the ground explodes.
As the scattered soil and debris rain down, Moore's field of vision captures the ominous red single eye gleaming amidst the dust.
And when he sees the figure of the giant, he unconsciously removes the safety of the assault rifle he carries, spits out the cigarette he was holding in his mouth, and crushes it under his boot.
When the dust clears, the full form of the giant is revealed.
Three pairs of legs arranged like a spider or crustacean, a massive body reminiscent of a fusion of living organisms and machinery. The pulsating parts oddly lifelike. The height of over ten meters, it is—
"─Blacksmith."
"It would be pitiful to let an undamaged Tyrant-class fight, so I'll let it face the corpse I picked up earlier.─"
"...Thank you for that."
In response to the witch's words echoing around, Moore sends a sarcastically grateful gesture to her.
The corpse he picked up—indeed, it is heavily damaged. Moore doesn't know what was scattered earlier, but reviving a specimen that should have fulfilled its role is an incredible feat of technology.
Nevertheless—
"Somewhere..."
—there is a sense of familiarity.
He has only fought against Blacksmith once. He doesn't know how many other units of the same type there are, but they likely don't differ much in appearance.
That's probably why it feels familiar.
"No, that's not it."
—He knows this one.
Moore asserts this half-intuitively.
Whether it's due to a system error or the unsteady movements of the massive Tyrant-class Rapture's abdomen—which likely suffered damage and was now dripping thick, black, blood-like body fluid catalyst intermittently.
Perhaps—
"Hahaha... I see. What a twist of fate. Truly—I'm so thrilled that tears could flow."
—His mouth curves into an almost ear-to-ear grin, revealing slightly pointed canines. It's as if a wolf bared its fangs.
—This is it. This is the Tyrant class from that time.
If one observes closely, the thin, tough membrane that protected the ominous red core, reminiscent of a single eye, is shattered, glittering ominously.
In the midst of the ominous red glow of the core, small black dots mix in—bullet holes. Moreover, they were not from assault rifle bullets but from handgun rounds.
Moore vividly recalls the moment from that evening when he pointed his gun at her, a subordinate. He puts the backpack he carried on the ground and re-grips the assault rifle.
It seems the handgun bullets didn't fill its belly. If it was dissatisfied and got lost, that would be pitiful.
"I'll feed you until you're full this time."
Whether this taunt reached the near-death or rather the barely standing Blacksmith or not, this marked the moment the battle began.
It seems attacks like before, using tentacles or large-caliber warheads, are now impossible.
The enemy machine, boasting a massive body, showers sparks here and there, emitting a viscous, pitch-black body fluid. It awkwardly advances on three pairs of legs towards Moore.
He bends down, rummaging through his backpack. What he retrieves is a silver-plated case that gleams. Opening the lid, he takes out a needle-less syringe and presses the button against his neck.
The drug flows into his body from the internal ampoule, and he tosses the empty syringe aside.
"...Hahaha!"
An exhilarating feeling dominates his mind and body.
His left eye, now bloodshot, changes to an ominous glow comparable to the red single eye. Every muscle in his body tenses.
Taking a step forward, the distance between the figure reveling in uncontrollable laughter and the approaching giant shadow gradually shortens.
Suddenly, one of the legs supporting the giant body rises.
The red and bloody left eye, along with the mechanical right eye, observes the scene—Moore releases his left hand from the assault rifle.
His means of attack are now his own body and mass. Primitive, yet it produces an attack that evokes an underlying sense of fear.
Even with that before him, he stands boldly.
A leg swings down, aiming to crush the figure standing before it. However, the descending leg is seized by an extended left hand, bringing it to an abrupt halt.
A creaking metallic sound echoes heavily.
—Why can't it move?
—Why can't it be crushed?
A ponderous sound that conveys even bewilderment.
"...My precious subordinate has been taken care of by you...!"
From the upturned corner of his mouth, visible canine teeth emerge, biting down forcefully both top and bottom. A growling sound emanates from deep within.
With one hand supporting a mass that must be several tons, the man locks eyes with his half-dead archenemy. The assault rifle in his grip is raised.
The barrel of that gun would appear to be a perfect circle to the enemy machine right in front of him.
—"No need to hold back."
—I'll feed you until you're full.
The trigger is pulled casually.
The Tetra-line assault rifle produces a deafening gunshot, and a large-caliber warhead designed for Rapture use shoots out from the muzzle, with spent casings falling to the ground one after another.
The barrel is aimed at the core reminiscent of a red single eye.
Armor-piercing shells and tracer rounds are sucked into it, as if attracted, and the core is shattered into fine particles.
A lethal blow—force drains from the gargantuan body that had seemingly consumed its fill, and it topples over with a ground-shaking thud.
Destroyed.
However—apparently, that wasn't satisfying enough.
Without releasing the leg he had grabbed, without bothering to replace the empty magazine, he strides ghost-like toward the now-darkened core of the fallen giant. The assault rifle he holds is swung down.
Blows from the assault rifle strike repeatedly.
With each impact, a sound reminiscent of crushing ripe fruit—almost like an illusion—resounds.
Many times, meticulously, thoroughly, to ensure it never stands up again.
"—That's enough. It's already dead."
A mechanical crow takes flight from the witch's shoulder, revealing itself behind him.
Circling in the sky above the defeated body, it begins to scatter something— and the entire body of the enemy machine starts to disintegrate.
Biological components dissolve, and various-sized mechanical parts break down.
Seeing this—finally, he ceases the onslaught.
White steam rises from the tall body. Haran squints his eyes, wondering just how high the body temperature might be, and then opens his mouth.
"—There's still some soup left... Would you like to eat?"
Despite the one-sided nature of the ordeal, he probably burned calories during the trial, leading to hunger.
As the witch asks, he, bathed in tar and black catalytic fluid akin to splattered blood, replaces the magazine of his assault rifle.
"...I'll take it. I'm... hungry."
-----
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"—You really eat a lot, huh?"
"—Is that a problem? Using that makes me tired."
Combat rations, MREs, have a reputation, both good and bad. Not just their reputation, but also various nicknames.
Being able to stuff oneself after such intense combat is a kind of skill.
"—Panzerneun, wasn't it? A full moon..."
"—It's an item to turn us who's titled werewolves into what we're called. Well, after using it..."
"—You get incredibly hungry and fall into intense drowsiness. Some might even faint, wasn't that it?"
Seating himself on the ground, the tall figure watches the beautiful woman sitting beside him, voraciously consuming the meals laid out in front of her. She sighs.
"—Those not used to it might faint. I did too at first. If you haven't used it for a long time, you'll probably faint too..."
"—How long have you been using it?"
"—Who knows. I don't remember."
After packing the emptied pouch into the provided bag, the tall figure, lying on his back, rests his shaved head, revealed when he removed his helmet, on the knee of the woman sitting next to him.
"—I'll... take a little nap... for 30 minutes..."
"—If you don't wake up after 30 minutes, wake me up. Even if something happens, wake me up, alright?"
"—...Got it... Lieutenant..."
His eyes closed, and seemingly without letting out a snore, he entered a light slumber.
It felt as if a noble wolf had taken a liking to him alone—a surreal situation. The woman's lips gently parted, and her delicate hand gently caressed the shaved head.
"—Good night. My Rick."
A faint sound echoed as the woman inclined her upper body and brought her lips to the cheek with a light, almost imperceptible touch, touching the lightly bearded cheek.
-----
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"—Did you wake up?"
A voice descended from above. Sensing the feeling of something soft and warm supporting the back of his head, Moore's eyes, still trembling, slowly opened.
"...How long was I asleep?"
"About 30 minutes, Lazybones."
Feeling a pain akin to his entire body creaking—like muscle soreness, he sits up, despite it all.
It seems Haran had lent him her knee. He hadn't expected Moore, having polished off the remaining witch soup, to succumb to irresistible drowsiness and fall asleep so quickly.
"...Thank you."
He had been defenseless, sleeping on the ground. Haran smiles at him, sensing his disgust at this fact.
"For those who have overcome the trial, I should do at least this much."
"...It might cost you a lot."
Picking up the helmet that covered his head from the pouch placed beside him, Moore sighs and places it on his head.
"If you proceed straight on this path, you'll reach Paradise."
Moore stands up, immediately putting on his backpack and threading the sling belt of the assault rifle around his neck and under his right arm.
Climbing to his feet after Moore, Haran points to the cracked paved road leading from the current location of the test site to the wilderness.
"However, from here, you must go alone."
"...This is more like a trial."
A mere, slightly capable human, able to face the Rapture only to undertake solitary action on the surface.
On a personal level, Moore thought this was much more of a trial than facing a Rapture.
"Well... If we talk about whether you can do it or not... you probably can, but..."
"Hehe... Well then, go on. Someone who's been eagerly waiting for you to come is there."
As Moore, who was conducting a pre-march weapon check, pulls out the magazine and checks the remaining rounds, Haran speaks up. Moore tilts his head.
"...Someone eagerly waiting?"
"Yes. I'm sure they'll welcome you when you set foot in Paradise."
"...I don't have any acquaintances like that..."
Unfortunately, his circle of friends is neither wide nor deep. He doesn't even have friends.
Regrettably, since his commissioning, he hasn't received any updates on the current situation of the classmates he shared joys and sorrows with at the officer school. It's a heartless situation—
"—"
"What's wrong?"
"...It's nothing."
Moore, who had paused during the inspection, caught Haran's attention, and she inquired. Without delay, he resumed the inspection, pretending nothing had happened.
Having finished the inspection, Moore turns towards Haran.
"Thanks for everything."
"No need for thanks. Now, go."
Nodding, he turns away from the witch and begins walking towards the paved road.
On the way, near the site where he defeated the Blacksmith, Moore picks up a crushed cigarette butt, tossing it into a portable ashtray before stepping onto the cracked paved road.
----
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The warm sunlight pours down.
She walks through the grassland, remembering a low and calm voice saying that a parasol suits her. That handsome figure and the cute parasol handed to her didn't seem to match, and she couldn't help but remember the memory that elicited a wry smile.
Of course, she didn't mind.
Opening the umbrella gratefully received and using it—
"It's beautiful, ----wasn't it?"
With a strong need for approval, she could self-evaluate that such compliments were partly due to familiarity, but at that moment, her cheeks became pink.
As she advances through the beautiful green grassland, she catches sight of something foreign in her line of sight.
"Oh... he's finally arrived."
It seems he's finally come.
He made her wait quite a while.
She adorns herself with white wings, an expanded armament—Pina.
Spreading it out, she floats into the sky, appearing above the foreign object that should be the visitor in the middle of the grassland.
Lowering the altitude slowly, with a behavior reminiscent of an angel descending, towards the front—
"Welcome—"
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-----She loses her words.
The memories of that day and the night of separation flood back.
Her vision blurs. Her eyes moisten.
Her voice—doesn't come out.
"—!!"
She can't say anything. The words won't come out.
She feels like she might start sobbing. She doesn't want to show this face.
So, there's no choice but to act.
Standing in front of her—someone with a dignified face similar to that person from that day—she couldn't do anything but throw herself into his chest.
