Amid streets drenched in the stench of death and littered with ruins, two figures wandered among the corpses.
"Three hundred... three hundred and one... three hundred and two..."
"And the total?" Ron asked.
"Three hundred and two per square kilometer."
Ron nodded. He had anticipated something like this.
"That's even lower than the population density of some rural regions. This is definitely abnormal."
He recorded the number in a small notebook before frowning at the pen in his hand.
The ink had run dry.
"I don't think this is the first time I've encountered a situation like this."
He spun the pen between his fingers and glanced toward a corpse hanging from a bloodstained wall nearby.
"Hmm..."
Changing direction, Ron walked toward it.
Since he lacked ink, he intended to use the dead man's blood instead.
Just as the tip of his pen was about to touch the crimson stain, a whistle echoed through the empty street.
"That's filthy."
Ron immediately stopped.
His eyes shifted behind him.
Standing beneath a black parasol was a graceful figure shielding herself from the brilliant sunlight.
She wore an immaculate white dress adorned with elegant ornaments and expensive jewelry.
Golden hair shimmered beneath the pale light, flowing gently in the wind with an almost arrogant brilliance.
"...Is there a problem with that, Your Highness?"
Ron sighed as he looked at Janeus, who seemed to be casually strolling through a city of death as though she were taking an afternoon walk.
"Hm. I don't have a spare pen. It's only temporary."
"A spare pen?"
Ignoring her reaction, Ron dipped the pen into the blood anyway.
He was worried he might forget these observations later.
The notebook existed for precisely that reason.
To preserve information.
Ron didn't know whether the Ground possessed omniscience.
If it truly knew everything, then none of his efforts would matter.
Still, doing nothing would be worse.
"Very well. My apologies, departed one. If possible, I hope your body remains intact long enough for someone to bury you properly someday."
The pen absorbed the blood.
Ron filled a few pages with crimson writing.
Then he turned away.
As he walked, he continued scribbling notes into the notebook.
Unfortunately, such suspicious behavior did not escape the princess's attention.
"...What's that?"
Janeus pointed toward the object in his hand.
Only then did Ron glance up.
"Oh, this?"
He raised the pen.
"You've probably never seen one before. It's called a fountain pen. A Jinlus exclusive."
A faint smile appeared on his face.
"I haven't released it to the public yet."
He casually spun the pen between his fingers.
Unfortunately, he spun it a little too hard.
Red droplets immediately sprayed outward.
Some landed directly on his face.
"...And that is precisely why I haven't started selling them."
Ron awkwardly pulled out a handkerchief and attempted to wipe away the blood.
The effort proved mostly futile.
The blood had already begun drying against his skin.
"..."
Janeus said nothing.
She simply continued walking.
Leaving Ron behind to deal with his own mess.
"...Sigh. I traded an entire firearm blueprint for this?"
Ron muttered to himself.
From his pocket, he produced a gold coin and placed it inside the bloodstained handkerchief.
He wrapped the cloth tightly around the coin.
Then tossed it into the air.
For a brief moment, the bundle twisted and reshaped itself.
By the time it fell back into his hand, it had become a sturdy walking cane.
There was a reason for the transformation.
Their destination was close.
The Southern Train Station.
More importantly...
Ron trusted Janeus about as much as he trusted the corpses lining the streets.
At the moment, everything was prey.
Including himself.
Including the princess.
Especially the princess, who somehow knew the code phrase needed to wake him.
"Isn't that right?"
The moment the words left his mouth, Ron moved.
The cane shot forward like a spear.
Straight toward the corpse hanging from the wall—the same corpse he had just expressed sympathy for.
THRUST.
"GHHK—!"
The dead man twitched.
Or perhaps he had never been dead at all.
"Stop struggling."
Ron twisted the cane deeper into the man's chest.
"Just rest."
The victim convulsed.
A sickening crack echoed through the street.
Then flesh tore apart.
The heart slipped free and fell directly into Ron's waiting hand.
Ron examined it carefully.
Turning it over once.
Twice.
Then he wrapped it in cloth and placed it inside his coat pocket.
Carefully.
Methodically.
As though collecting evidence.