As soon as the cockpit opened, Estee Lauder rushed toward the flames. Compared with ordinary trees and undergrowth, the places where humans lived—full of dry, flammable objects—were always the first to ignite. Naturally, the fiercest fires raged where the survivors' settlement had stood.
From the looks of it, the divine machine had not captured anyone yet, which gave Estee Lauder a faint hope.
But she could not rule out the possibility that the God-Messenger's purpose in setting the fire was precisely to wipe out the survivors.
"Is anyone there? Is anyone still alive?"
Estee Lauder called out as she pushed through the smoke and heat. If not for the cloak Aslan had given her—with its fireproof and waterproof enchantments—she would have been in dire straits. Even so, the edges of the garment were already stained black by the smoke.
She pressed on toward the heart of the settlement. Scattered along the way were fragments of broken tools and daily necessities, and—worse—bodies burned to charcoal under the magic beams. Once, these blackened husks had been living humans.
Estee Lauder gritted her teeth. She had seen such sights before.
"Here! We're here!"
A hoarse shout rose from within the flames. In a collapsed underground dwelling, a middle-aged man clutched a child tightly, shielding him as best he could. The boy's expression was strange—neither relieved nor grateful. He seemed unsatisfied with being saved, yet in his eyes flickered the clear wish that the man protecting him would not die here.
Estee Lauder rushed over. With a swing of her forging hammer, enlarged to its true size, she smashed aside the debris pinning them down and scattered the flames that threatened to engulf the pair.
"What about the others?" she asked, pulling them free.
The man shook off soot and ash, checked the boy in his arms, and answered, "Those on watch outside saw something wrong early, so most of us evacuated. But it's just spring—food is scarce—so some stayed behind to save supplies. That's when the messenger of God descended.
If I hadn't happened to find this boy in the underground shelter, I'd have died like the others, burned to ash by that thing's gaze."
The "underground cave" he described was little more than a hollow dug beneath the roots of great trees, the roots themselves serving as natural supports. Cramped though such spaces were, they stayed warm in winter and cool in summer, with forest food and water nearby. Sometimes, interwoven root systems made larger chambers possible. Other times, the ground weakened, and an animal could stumble straight through the surface—terrifying, if the beast was dangerous.
In a way, the man reflected, he owed his survival entirely to the boy. The tree roots had kept the flames at bay just long enough. If he had been on the surface, he would already have been reduced to charcoal by the messenger's burning eyes.
He looked at the fire around them, at the indistinct shadows of fallen villagers, and pressed his hands together in a silent prayer. Even knowing the gods did not care for human souls, those in the West still prayed that the dead might find relief in the next life.
And to them, the easiest path to peace was rebirth in the distant East.
Once Estee Lauder confirmed no more survivors remained, she prepared to guide the man and child to the others who had fled. If possible, she would help them rebuild. But realistically, that seemed impossible. This settlement had already been marked by a messenger of God. Rebuilding here would be foolish.
The only real choice was migration—to follow her to other human gathering points. There were always a few places that could take in survivors in groups, though the journey itself was perilous. Yet staying meant certain death. Those who wanted to live had to understand what must be done.
At the mouth of a cave hidden by dense vegetation, more survivors were waiting. To them, the red mecha that had felled a messenger of God was nothing less than a miracle. Whether or not they understood its connection to Aslan and Estee Lauder, they placed their fragile hopes on it.
When they saw the boy carried from the flames, a woman—his mother—rushed forward and pulled him into her arms. Around her, the survivors had already begun discussing departure. Some, clinging to desperate optimism, spoke of staying. Most, though, chose to leave. For the few who refused, no persuasion would be enough.
The boy frowned at his mother, who was hastily gathering their things, and stepped back.
"I'm not leaving," he said flatly.
The words froze the young woman in place. She stared at him, uncomprehending.
The boy lifted his chin and met her gaze.
"I don't want to be displaced anymore."
-End Chapter-
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