If you asked whether living in a place like this could be called "comfortable," that would be pure nonsense. But it's also true that I had nowhere else to go. In Spirepeak City, the Ecclesiarchy's presence is obviously strong. Even a place like Hold Seven has their propaganda posters and sermon loudspeakers.
Clerics on patrol are rare, but not nonexistent. And based on what I'd previously overheard from Lady Inquisitor's communications, pretty much every other official and civilian organization in this city would be perfectly happy to clap me in irons. Only a massive, chaotic slum like this—where anything and everything mixes together—can provide me a little cover.
Right now, the only force I can say with certainty would keep me safe is the Inquisition. But ever since I got separated from Lady Inquisitor, I haven't been able to find a single one of their people. And to ordinary residents down here, their world contains only enforcers, the church, guilds, and gangs. The Inquisition? That sort of thing basically belongs to myth and legend…
It's not like I never thought about escaping the city. But how exactly was I supposed to run when I didn't know the place, didn't know the routes, and didn't know anyone? Besides, according to Granny Marta, as awful as life is in the lower levels, it's still better than the outer districts—yes, the same outer districts I saw on the way in, spreading out like cracks and veins around the base of this megastructure.
Because of the pollution from Spirepeak City's heavy industry, even though the outer districts are "outdoors," the air isn't much better than down here. On top of that, you still have to endure acid rain, sandstorms, and thunderstorms.
Most importantly, inside Spirepeak City, at least you don't have the low-temperature problem. In the outer districts, plenty of people freeze to death every winter…
It really does feel like being thrown back into the nineteenth century.
And even if I made it past the outer districts, beyond that is endless wilderness—supposedly a nuclear wasteland left behind by an even more ancient age. Alone, how far could I possibly run?
So I can only grit my teeth and survive one day at a time… and see whether reinforcements arrive before the hunters do.
If I don't want to lie down and surrender myself to fate, then my best option is to work my social angles. Find a thigh to cling to, someone who can keep me alive. Then see if I can get them to help me contact the Inquisition, or find a route to get me out of the city and far, far away.
Eating here, sleeping here, working here every day, I can honestly say I've already started treating myself as part of this "home." Like I'm running this crude little clinic with an aging mother and a lively younger sister in the middle of this filthy slum.
Younger sister?
Oh. That would be the girl known as "Little Spark." The one who, together with others, robbed me back then—and then had a conscience attack and helped save me afterward. She's a regular at the clinic now.
That day, I was holding a broom I'd cobbled together from an iron rod, getting ready to sweep the clinic floor again—already smeared with a fresh layer of soot—
Bang!
The clinic's front door let out a metallic shriek as someone shoved it open with brute force.
A mass of orange flame—wrapped in dust from outside—came storming in like a whirlwind.
The commotion was so loud that I instinctively hunched my neck and tightened my grip on the broom. It's the only weapon I have now. But when I looked properly, it wasn't some vicious robber bursting in.
It was a teenage girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen.
Her messy orange short hair looked like it had just been struck by lightning, every strand stubbornly standing on end. Those frighteningly large green eyes darted around, full of the sharp, feral cleverness of a stray cat, but also carrying a child's innocence. Across the bridge of her nose and both cheeks were freckles scattered like specks, bouncing with every little scrunch of her nose.
She wore a battered pair of work overalls that were clearly sized for an adult man, hanging loose on her. The pant legs had been cut off halfway so they wouldn't drag on the ground. She bared her teeth and yanked up the left pant leg, revealing a slender calf with a fresh injury—an absurd, almost comical contrast against the oversized, rough fabric.
"Granny! Hurry up and get me the disinfectant spray. Damn it, I ran into a tough one today!" she shouted, loud and frantic, her voice crisp like beans popping in a pan.
"Wait there, you little menace!" Granny Marta's cursing came from the back room. "If you've got lungs that strong, you're obviously not dying. I'll come when I finish mixing this medicine. And I'm warning you, Little Spark—if you dare rummage through my counter again, I'll throw you out on the spot!"
My heart skipped hard. The joints of my fingers turned white as I clenched the broom.
It's her.
The girl they call "Little Spark."
I didn't know what expression I was supposed to wear when facing the street brat who once knocked me out with others, stripped me of everything I had, and nearly left me to die in the street. Maybe I should've hated her. But when I remembered that she later ran here to warn Granny Marta and helped drag me back from death, and then I looked at those cute freckles and those lively green eyes…
I just couldn't bring myself to hate her.
She was like a tiny wildflower stubbornly blooming in a filthy sewer.
Not knowing what else to do, I decided to pretend I hadn't seen her. I lowered my head and continued battling a particularly stubborn patch of oily sludge on the floor.
"Yo? Who's this?"
Little Spark's huge green eyes swept over me like a radar, full of curiosity and assessment.
She didn't recognize me at all.
Which made sense. The current me and that former me—dressed in formal wear (even if it was caked in filth), soft-skinned and unlucky—might as well have been two different species.
"A new mute helper?" She actually ran over and sat on top of the medicine cabinet, a twig of some medicinal herb clamped between her teeth like she'd stolen it from somewhere. She swung her thin, scrawny legs and chattered nonstop. "Hey, big guy, you're holding the broom all wrong. Your hips have to sink, your wrists have to work. Otherwise how're you supposed to sweep that old monster's layers of ancient grime…"
A nameless irritation flared in me. I looked up and shot her a glare.
She froze for a moment, staring at my face. Then it was like something clicked.
Her mouth slowly fell open. The twig between her teeth slipped soundlessly to the floor, and then—
"Hahahahahahahaha!!!!"
She erupted into wild laughter like a string of firecrackers and literally rolled off the top of the cabinet. She staggered upright, bracing herself on the counter, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.
"It's you! That unlucky upper-level fancy-boy… hahahahaha… how did you end up looking like this—heeheeheehee…" Her messy orange hair whipped around like flames in the wind, and tears of laughter filled her big green eyes. She completely ignored my face—black as the bottom of a pot—and just kept cackling. "You're still alive… I just never thought you'd still be here, hahahahaha…"
…
From then on, every so often she'd show up at the clinic like a big orange cat, squeezing in from corners you'd never expect. Sometimes she brought scraps she thought were "useful." Sometimes she came purely to mooch a meal, and to stare at and mock me—the "fallen noble"—with utterly merciless delight.
Granny Marta always cursed at her, but never truly drove her away, as if dealing with a mischievous, half-wild daughter.
I don't know whether she felt guilty toward me, or whether she wanted to gamble on an "upper-level man," or whether she was just doing it for fun. But from her, I got some clothes I could wear (if you can call them clothes) and a bunch of strange little odds and ends, along with local customs and survival common sense, plus all kinds of news and rumors.
For instance, she said that up above our Hold Seven, around "Section Two" and the water-reservoir clusters, things had been as lively as a holiday. The church, bounty hunters, and local gangs were smashing into each other—drums and gongs, fireworks and fanfare, the whole spectacle…
That's when I realized something—ironically, getting robbed clean by those street brats may have accidentally helped me.
They probably sold my outfit to someone else for cash. And then the poor fool wearing my clothes ended up, by sheer bad luck, dragging the church's pursuit in the wrong direction…
It was a real-life "blessing in disguise." A single set of clothing became my stand-in corpse.
Who could blame them? The structure inside this true super-megaskyscraper is labyrinthine, and the population is packed like an ant nest. (Shrug.)
(End of Chapter)
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