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[156] The Second Encounter (4)
Amy realized Freeman was more tactical than she'd expected.
A master of Schema with a Compound Eye, and on top of that, a three-percent Anti-Magic field that even neutralized sniping.
It was a style that let him fight on his own terms at every distance—close, mid, and long.
"Were you hiding there?"
Freeman raised the gun loaded with mana-charged rounds and took to the air. The way he stamped off the trees to seize distance was so fast it felt discontinuous, almost like a series of cuts.
What followed was a chase—hunter and hunted trading places again and again.
Amy kept trying to snipe, but landing a hit on Freeman was a long shot. No matter how much she backed up the Red Eye, there was inevitably a three-percent error.
If she closed to mid-range she could put up some kind of fight, but that would just mean stepping into Freeman's home turf.
'There's no other way.'
Amy refused to give up and stuck to sniping. But Freeman, who didn't even need to dodge, was bored enough to yawn.
He didn't care what method she cooked up. The snipe would never hit, and if she tried to close in, he could just slip away with the Compound Eye.
"I've heard a mage's mental power has limits…"
Early on, a mage who doesn't have to swap out ammo has the advantage, but since no one can cast indefinitely, the longer it goes, the more the tide turns to the Gunner.
When the speed of her Flame Strikes slowed compared to before, Freeman finally moved to bag his prey for real.
Amy no longer had the mental power left to cast. Her head felt like it was being bleached. Omniscience-and-omnipotence just wouldn't latch on.
"Hah… hah…"
Even so, Amy wrung out the last shred of will. And at last, she cast the final Flame Strike.
Freeman watched the onrushing spell with composure. True to a ballistic expert of a Gunner, he had already recognized the impact point was drifting ever so slightly off.
Freeman raised both guns and set his index fingers on the triggers. The opponent wouldn't even be able to maintain Fly at this point. He could safely think of her as just an ordinary girl now.
Bang!
In that instant, a crushing impact smashed into Freeman's temple. For the first time, emotion crossed his face.
Bewilderment—and awe.
The Flame Strike had been off by a good ten meters from the target point. So how on earth could that shock have reached him?
His thoughts got no further. Struck on a vital point, Freeman crashed to the ground with a thud. Lying spread-eagle, flames began to blossom across his face.
'Marsha…'
Clinging to a tree and trying to make her way down, Amy finally couldn't hold out and fell on her backside.
The fatigue was immense. Her mind was more exhausted than an ordinary person pulling four all-nighters straight.
But since a gamble of a move had actually worked, she wasn't in such a bad mood.
"Haah! Haah! I did it. I won."
In Amy's final attack, the effective range of Sniper Mode hadn't even been a hundred meters.
If Freeman hadn't come closer, the Flame Strike would have vanished before it ever reached the target.
But Freeman had charged— and that was his losing move. Having given up as much as two hundred meters, what Amy attempted with her remaining mental power was a four-directional displacement variant.
She altered the trajectory within a zone that held only the Flame Strike and smashed Freeman with it.
With a method like this, three percent of Anti-Magic won't let you slip the blow.
Up to now, it was like she'd been throwing a rock—this time, it was the same logic as gripping it in her hand and striking him directly.
"Anyway, a win's a win. If I'd died, I'd have been too embarrassed to go to heaven."
Her friends would be in the thick of their fights by now; she didn't even have time to recover her wits. Hunched over, Amy started taking heavy steps toward the cliff.
Freeman's face was on fire. But he didn't let out so much as a groan.
From the moment pain snapped his consciousness back, only one thought occupied his mind.
'I have to get to Marsha.'
Amy's flames kept searing his skin, but Freeman's body was regenerating cells at a speed to match.
At the crossroads between pain and rest—neither living nor dead—Freeman recalled his childhood days with Marsha.
"Huh? It's Freeman. Coward Freeman."
"Eight-Brows Freeman! Aren't you going to cry? Come on, cry!"
Freeman was always the butt of jokes. Because he was a coward.
Of course, no one's born a coward. He blamed everything on his severely slanted, 八-shaped brows.
"S-stop it. I said it hurts."
"That's why I told you to cry. If we make you cry, Marsha comes. Pretty Marsha."
"Don't you dare mess with Marsha!"
"Idiot, Marsha's the boss of the alley—who's going to mess with her? Plus, Marsha's fun! Anyway, hurry up and cry. Hey! Hey!"
"Waaaah! Marsha!"
Freeman couldn't hold back tears and ran.
The kids were hell-bent on making him cry. Poking his face with sticks was nothing; when they got mean, they even threw rocks.
"Hey! Tell Marsha to come here! We're gonna play war."
They made Freeman cry so they could play with Marsha. Even so, Freeman always ran to Marsha's house.
Being shunned, he had nowhere else to go but her home.
Every time he came, he felt it again—how desolate the house was. Her father, a mercenary, hadn't brought in even basic furniture. When he went out to work, he'd often stay out all night, and when he returned, without fail he'd beat Marsha at least once.
When Freeman opened Marsha's door, she was sitting in a corner of the utterly empty room.
No bed, no desk, not even a common blanket—only a half-eaten piece of bread and a glass of milk had any place in the room.
"Marsha, sniff, the kids hit me."
She always wore her hair in a bob. But her face was pretty. With a gentle smile, Marsha welcomed Freeman.
"Ugh, don't you ever get tired of letting them do this to you? Why do you even hang around kids like that?"
"I don't hang around them. They hunt me down and bully me no matter what."
"Okay. I'll go tell them off. Where are they?"
Freeman wiped his nose and said,
"Can we not go? If you go out and your old man comes back, he'll hit you."
"Either way I get hit. I'll just tell them if they bully you, I won't play with them."
"No! You don't even want to play with those jerks—you force yourself because of me. I hate it when you smile at guys like that."
"Well, thanks for that. Then get a little stronger. Big words for someone who always needs help."
Marsha poked Freeman's forehead with a fingertip. Annoyed, Freeman ran to the door, flung his arms wide, and shouted,
"Still no! Don't go!"
"What's with you today? Try shouting like that at the other kids, too. Oh? Do you like me? Is that why you're jealous when I play with them?"
Freeman's face flushed crimson. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it in his ears, and he felt like he might dry-heave.
Maybe that made her laugh; Marsha waved her hand and said,
"Hey, I'm kidding, kidding. You've got the nerve of a bean…"
"Fine! I like you! So what? Girl!"
Marsha stared blankly at Freeman.
"Is it wrong if I like you? Did I ask you to like me back? My feelings are mine—why do you get to boss me around? Is someone like me, a coward, not allowed to like anyone?"
Clumsy at expressing himself, Freeman shouted, more worked up than ever, and before it got out of hand Marsha held out both hands to calm him.
"O-okay, got it. Sorry. Liking someone is obviously your freedom."
"D-damn it! Seriously! Even you treat me like an idiot!"
Marsha's tone—soothing him like a child—only made Freeman angrier. Marsha gave a little snort, grabbed him by the wrist, pulled him over, and sat him down in her usual spot.
"I wasn't treating you like an idiot. So cool it a bit."
Marsha threw on a rag-like, tattered cloak and readied to head out.
Having just screamed his head off, Freeman fell silent for a moment in embarrassment, then lifted his eyes timidly.
"Are you really going to play with them?"
"No, I'm just going to teach them a sharp lesson and come back. Then let's play together."
At Marsha's words, Freeman's face lit up.
"Really? You have to come back fast!"
"Okay. If you get hungry, eat the bread and milk. I already finished mine."
Once Marsha stepped out, silence settled again. Caught up in the room's poverty, Freeman's expression turned sullen once more.
'Dang, I was going to give her this and say it then.'
Freeman took a small hand mirror out of his pocket. He'd saved up for three months doing odd jobs to buy it.
Marsha didn't own anything beyond a single set of clothes. Her foster father took everything.
"She's still a girl—she should at least have a mirror. That old man is really something. How can he act like that with such a pretty daughter?"
Thinking Marsha would like it, Freeman smiled. But the face in the mirror was anything but smiling.
Those severely drooping, 八-shaped brows.
Because of these brows he'd been nicknamed a crybaby since he was little, and after ten years of living that way, he really had become one.
"Is it that weird? It's not that bad…"
Time passed, and Marsha and Freeman turned seventeen.
Freeman was still the neighborhood coward, but because he worked diligently, his reputation wasn't half bad.
Still, the only person he was truly close with was Marsha.
The reason he saved whatever money was left after living expenses was to buy gifts for Marsha.
Of course, no matter what he brought, it seemed her father would take everything, but whenever he gave her a present, Marsha was genuinely happy.
Freeman never begrudged any money if it could bring a smile to Marsha's face.
At some point, though, she seemed to have lost her smile. He had a vague idea why. Lately her foster father had been tormenting Marsha even more viciously.
Most kids grew up in similar home environments.
Freeman, too, lived with a drunk of a father who called him a cripple every day.
Then one day, he finally learned the truth—that the blows Marsha was taking were of a completely different nature from what a parent does to a child.
"Marsha? Marsha?"
Maybe it was fate that he went to Marsha's house that night. Her face earlier that day had looked far gloomier than usual, and it bothered him.
No matter how much he knocked, Marsha didn't come out, and his anxiety grew.
He had no choice but to climb in through the window. There was nothing to steal anyway, so in summer the window was usually open.
"Huh? Marsha? You were in your room? Then why didn't you answer…?"
Freeman froze at the moonlit scene inside.
Marsha was there on her knees, vacant, her soul gone.
A knife was in her hand, and the blood dripping from the blade ran along the floor and into a single, lifeless body.
"M-Marsha…"
Freeman snapped to and ran over. He didn't know where the courage came from, but if Marsha's mind had gone blank, he felt he had to act.
"Stand up. What on earth happened?"
After shaking her by the shoulders several times, Marsha came back to herself.
She stared blankly up at Freeman, then spoke words that shocked him.
"Dad… tried to force himself on me."
Freeman was speechless.
He'd thought the man seemed perverted—taciturn, shifty-eyed—but still, he was a parent, wasn't he?
When the thing he'd only feared might be true actually happened, a wave of revulsion surged through him.
"Let's run. He's a mercenary. If his comrades find out, they'll come for revenge."
Freeman was right. Marsha was sharp; the moment she heard that, she snapped to. They had to get out, even one second sooner.
Marsha let out a hollow laugh. She realized she had nothing to pack because she'd never owned anything. Leaving this place, there wasn't a single item to take.
Freeman grabbed Marsha by the wrist and pulled her out of the house. The two of them ran all the way to the edge of town without stopping once.
"Hah! Hah! We're good. I think we can breathe a little now."
"Yeah. He probably won't chase us past the town limits."
Panting, Marsha steadied her heart. She feared her foster father's comrades, but she was ready to flee to the ends of the earth if she had to.