The noonday sun floated high above the Scottish Highlands.
Here, the sea breeze sang an endless song; deep blue mountains were veiled beneath a violet sky, its edges gilded with streaks of pink cloud. It was as if this sky was a size too small for the vast Highlands beneath it. From afar, smooth gray boulders spilled from mountaintops into emerald fields, while countless Scottish lochs shimmered across the land, mirroring the changing heavens.
Amid this heavenly scenery, an old hunter and a young boy were running side by side.
"This is the place," the old hunter said, pointing toward a small, roughly built hunting cabin by the lake.
"Alright. Thank you for guiding me here. I'll take care of it—you can rest easy," replied Favia.
After accepting Paracelsus' request, Favia had come straight to Scotland without rest, tasked with resolving what the locals claimed to be a "vampiric" incident of unknown nature.
At this time, Scotland was still an independent kingdom, not yet united with England. But due to a royal marriage decades earlier, relations between the two nations had become friendly. Later, when the English royal bloodline died out, the Scottish king was forced to take the English crown as well. This union eventually led to the creation of the Kingdom of Great Britain in 1707.
Since the relationship between the two realms was improving, travel between them had become common—at least among the upper and middle classes. As for ordinary folk, given Britain's complex geography and the lack of a nationwide map, most either stayed in their hometowns or ventured only as far as London in search of opportunity.
According to Paracelsus' message, upon arriving in Scotland, Favia quickly met with the hunters who had sought the alchemist's aid. From their accounts, he learned the full story behind the so-called "vampire."
It began not long ago: four young hunters, flush with profit after a successful hunt, stayed the night in a cabin. As they joked that the only thing missing was a woman's company, a knock came at the door.
Startled, one opened it—only to see blood dripping from the ceiling. Then, from the darkness above, something pale and terrible stared at their necks.
Panic-stricken, the hunters abandoned their earnings and fled on horseback into the night. One of them, glancing back in terror, swore he saw the creature's feet—shaped like those of a deer.
"Sir Favia, are you sure you don't need our help?" the old hunter asked, bowing awkwardly to the boy. "We might not be a match for whatever that thing is, but we can at least lend a hand."
As lifelong hunters, they'd heard—and sometimes seen—the strange and the supernatural. They knew when to joke, and when to stay away.
And asking for help? Impossible. Most magi were arrogant beyond reach, too proud to meddle in the "trivial" affairs of commoners.
That was why these Highland hunters turned to Paracelsus—a rare "heretic" among magi who healed the poor and walked among the common folk. He had once traveled through Scotland, tending to their sick, and thus earned their unwavering trust.
So when they met Favia, sent in Paracelsus' stead, they didn't mock his youth—they only wondered how best they could assist him.
"It's fine," Favia said, shaking his head with a smile. "Trust me, I can handle it alone. It's just an animal with special traits—nothing too serious."
"Is that so?" The old hunter scratched his head, sighing. "Sorry about that... I thought that relic would help. Seems it didn't..."
He was referring to a treasured green cloak said to conceal its wearer's presence. It was a relic passed down from the group once known as Robin Hood.
In the Type-Moon world, Robin Hood was not a single man, but a lineage—a name borne by many.
Long ago, some of these "Robins" had journeyed north to Scotland, where their descendants became the Highland hunters of today. When Favia first met the old man, the latter had eagerly offered the heirloom cloak for use in the mission. Yet strangely, it proved useless—as if its power had long faded, or perhaps the legend had been false all along.
"Don't worry," Favia comforted him. "Maybe it just lost its magic over time."
He didn't truly believe that. After all, Robin Hood was destined to exist as a heroic spirit in the future. But why the "Nameless King" who left this cloak no longer influenced the world—why neither magus nor man could now feel its power—remained a mystery.
Could it be that only those who were "Robin Hood" could use it? That didn't make sense either, since the old hunter himself was one of their descendants, the current leader of Scotland's hunter guild.
Disheartened, the old man said no more, quietly turning to leave.
Favia opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
After all, this was their faith—and seeing it crumble before their eyes must have hurt deeply.
He sighed and turned his attention toward the hunting cabin.
The Scottish Highlands, for all their untamed wilderness, were breathtaking: rolling green plains stretched endlessly, not dense forests like Scandinavia, nor barren wastelands, but soft undulating meadows of grass and moss.
Sparse and stoic vegetation dotted the land; the bare rocks and crisp air were constant reminders—this was an island's plateau.
Amid such beauty, time slipped by unnoticed. Night fell swiftly.
And that was when Favia finally saw it—the so-called "vampiric creature."
A red-haired, humanoid fairy with deer-like hooves instead of feet, dressed in a ragged, patched-up long dress, running frantically toward the cabin.
She seemed especially embarrassed about her hooves; the fabric around them was mended the most, as if she were desperate to hide them.
Favia thought to himself how utterly defenseless this fairy looked, and almost ended it right there—until something stopped him.
He watched as she entered the empty cabin, scattered what seemed to be blood from nowhere, then realizing it was deserted, sat down at the doorway... and began to cry as she stared up at the moon.
...A fairy crying? That wasn't something you saw every day.
Curious now, Favia abandoned his plan to kill her immediately. Over the next few days, he observed her behavior. By leaving coins around the cabin, pretending to "flee in terror" as previous hunters had, he discovered something odd:
Whenever she found money, the red-haired fairy would light up with joy. But if there was none... she would simply sit at the door again and cry her heart out.
Why? Why did she care so much about money? Was it mere greed? It didn't feel like it.
Ah well, she hadn't actually hurt anyone—just frightened a few hunters. He decided he'd play a small prank to scare her off for good, send her back to the Inner World where she belonged.
Having settled on a plan, Favia prepared a little trick. He brewed a sweet syrup, fed some to a few hedgehogs, caught a turtle, and set up a harmless illusion around the cabin.
By nightfall, he was confident: when the red-haired fairy showed up, she'd be scared half to death—and never come back.
Thus, the matter would be resolved neatly.
That night, rain fell without warning. Raindrops drummed against the earth, branches trembled, and the world was swallowed by darkness and sound. Amid that restless silence, one voice pierced through—the fairy's weeping.
"The human world is so scary... so scary... I'll never come back... ever..."
"But... if I don't have money... everyone will bully me again... and won't play with me..."
Her sobs melted into the rain, fragile and lonely beneath the vast Scottish sky.
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