The afternoon sunlight was poor. Snow grains drifting everywhere in the sky made it hard for the light to advance. Even after fighting its way through layer upon layer of obstruction and finally reaching the earth, most of it was scattered in every direction by the snow-covered ground, which reflected like a mirror.
Bands of light fell everywhere. Seen from afar, the mountain looked almost like a mountain of gold.
Halfway up the slope, several buildings stood enclosed by barbed wire. Wind and snow raged in all directions, and the savage howls of wild animals echoed through the valley for a long time. While Xiangzi and the others stood ready with guns in hand, hurriedly reinforcing their defenses and bracing for attack, another story was unfolding on the mountain's lee side, like a second line of narration crossing the first in a film.
On the shaded side of the Azuma range, the snow held a faint golden glow. At the mountainside, a trail of footprints chased after an elderly man like waves rolling one after another. His steps were neither too deep nor too shallow, just enough that fresh snowfall would soon erase them. If anyone came along afterward, they would never know anyone had passed that way at all.
As he walked, the old man hummed to himself. His cracked lips moved faintly, and an old tune from a century ago slipped from his mouth. He sang softly, only loud enough for himself to hear. Three or four meters farther away, the wind and snow would easily drown out his hoarse voice.
He sang of marching through the snow, walking over ice, unable to tell where the river ended and the road began.
A fitting song for the moment.
Still, the old man was bundled up well enough that he would not end like those "frozen idiots" from Hakkōda a hundred years ago, dead in the mountains.
Though his singing lacked melody, there was unmistakably emotion in it.
When he reached the end of the tune, he suddenly found himself missing the campfire at home: warm, bright, and with three figures seated beside it.
At that moment, he felt something brush against his eye. It was only the faintest touch, gone as quickly as it came.
Probably just a snowflake. Or the cold wind.
Snow fell in great drifting feathers, swept about by the gale, brushing the yellowed leaves still clinging stubbornly to the trees.
"This should do. Let these old bones rest a bit."
After walking a little farther, the tired old man stopped on the mountainside. Taking off his wide-brimmed hat, he braced himself against a slanted tree nearly bent double beneath the snow, shook the white off his clothes, and with it shed the pale speckles clinging to him like down. Even the frost on his eyebrows fell away.
Then he opened his pack and took out a thermos. He had walked a long time and was thirsty.
Inside was an orange vacuum flask he had already emptied. He turned it upside down, hoping for a drop, then searched for another.
Beneath a layer of army-green cloth was a second flask, a pink one, still full of water.
Thanks to all that wrapping, the water inside had not gone completely icy. It was certainly not warm anymore, but it was not frozen either.
He did not mind. This flask had been given to him by someone precious.
"A pink thermos… so that child, Kuriyo, tucked this in here. I never noticed these past few days."
Shaking his head, he pulled it out and unscrewed the lid.
He drank deeply.
At once his brows twitched in surprise, then eased into delight.
The water was sweet. Very sweet. As sweet as citrus nectar, as if sugar had leaked straight out of the jar and onto his tongue.
He knew perfectly well that he himself had not put sugar in the water before leaving home. That meant only one thing: someone else had slipped it in.
He did not need to think hard to know who.
His gentle, lovely, thoughtful granddaughter.
"Kuriyo…"
He murmured her name, staring at the pink thermos. It was another gift she had brought back for him from Tokyo.
It had been a long time since he had tasted anything sweet. The old man felt something shift inside him.
His hand rose to brush his cheek, but there was nothing there.
Candy and sweets had been scarce ever since he had fled into the mountains with the children. He had brought very little. Mostly it had only been fruit drops from Soyo, or something her friend had brought.
He himself could go without. He was old, after all. He could eat almost anything and bear it.
But for the children to save the last of their sugar for him…
Resting against the tree, he slowly sat down on a rock jutting from the snow. One hand closed around the old copper bear-fang charm hanging at his neck as he shut his eyes.
The light vanished, leaving only darkness. The wind howled, but warmth spread through his heart, and memory after memory rose before him.
A light-brown-haired girl.
Her smile. Her tears. Her reckless, unrestrained laughter. Her broken, sorrowful sobbing.
From the days when she had been tiny and crawling on the ground, to the day she had become a young woman…
The old man thought of so much, so much that his thoughts stretched even farther into the future, farther than he dared imagine. Perhaps his own short remaining life would never let him see that day.
He opened his eyes again and looked toward the distant mountains, though from here the little hunting cabin could not be seen.
There was something he wanted to say to his departed daughter and son-in-law. But his fist tightened around the thermos, and after a long silence, he managed only a single sentence.
"Don't worry. I'll take care of your child to the very end."
Something like sorrow seemed to leave his body with the breath he let out, drifting away on the pale mist of his exhalation.
He rose from the snow. Just then, the last of the afternoon sun broke through the clouds and shone upon him. A long shadow stretched from his feet as the old man, cloaked in the red light of sunset, began making his way downhill.
The sweet water had restored a little strength to him.
He set the thermos away, sealed his pack, and stepped onward.
Across soft drifts of snow, over rotting logs, around stubborn green shoots still pushing up through the white.
"It's time to keep moving."
He slung onto his back a hunting rifle with a name carved into it: a Golden Bear.
The old man brushed the snow from his waterproof trousers with his free hand. Only a few damp patches remained.
The name Saitō was carved into the stock.
The wooden stock gleamed with oil. He had maintained this old rifle so carefully that not a single stain showed on it. He tended to it like a loved one.
Though the model had been out of production for more than thirty years, he had still found spare parts to keep it in perfect shape.
If not for this disaster, he would never have taken out his treasured old hunting gun again.
He lifted it and checked the surroundings.
Good. Nothing unusual.
"The sky's darkening. Time to hurry home."
Home, here, meant the place where Kuriyo was waiting for him—not the lonely hunting cabin up in the mountains where he himself stayed.
The sun had already begun to sink, though it was only a little past four in the afternoon.
Today he had to get back quickly. He had been away for more than three days.
For hunting, he had camped in the cabin near the summit.
After settling Kuriyo and her friend, he had packed what he needed and headed out.
Why? Was food running short?
Yes and no.
They had enough basic provisions to survive for now, food and water enough. But winter was long, and he had to prepare. That was why the old hunter had gone up into the mountains: to gather food for the cold months ahead.
"Home."
He repeated the word as he walked.
He wondered what the two girls were doing right now. There was still food and water stored at the house, enough to last a while.
What worried him was their safety. The house, built of wood and stone, was surrounded by spiked fencing that ordinary infected could not get through. The basement would let Kuriyo and the other girl hide if anything happened. There were few humanoid infected in the mountains, and among the infected animals, only large predators like bears could truly threaten them.
And besides, his other "companion," Akamaru, was watching over his children.
His grandchildren.
The only descendants left behind by his dead daughter.
And infected animals usually did not attack in weather like this. They entered a low-activity state in such storms. That was why he had encountered so few infected animals these past days.
As for hunting? Normal animals also hibernated, of course—but some large ones still came out searching for food.
That was what he had come for: deer, boar, bears, ducks, pigeons, pheasants, raccoons, foxes, martens, badgers. If he caught even one, they could get through the winter.
Unless absolutely necessary, he would never go to dangerous places where people gathered. There were too many infected there. He was a hunter, not a soldier.
As long as Kuriyo and the others did not leave the house, they would be quite safe.
"One more trap, then I'll head back."
With that, he moved quickly downhill.
He had to hurry before night fell.
The snowfield, the half-buried branches, the withered stalks—all of it blurred past him.
At last he reached the last trap he had set.
No catch.
He let out a long breath. Another failure.
That meant the final hunting trap had come up empty too.
This trip would end with him returning home empty-handed.
His pack, though it pressed heavily on his shoulders, felt looser than it had when he set out. Aside from his tools, food, and water, the only real harvest this time was a handful of wild berries and pine nuts.
"If the snow keeps falling like this, even the road up the mountain will be cut off…"
His words trailed away, swallowed by cold air and disappointment. White mist poured from his nose and mouth, drifting into the darkening evening.
He finished the rest only in his heart.
Even for a hunter, the prey was hard to find now. Maybe he was no good at this anymore.
At least yesterday he had managed to bring down one deer. Otherwise he truly would have been returning with nothing.
When he finally reached the cabin, dusk had settled in.
The sunset still cast its last glow over the earth.
With over a hundred jin of venison on his back, the old man made his way down the slope.
"Kuriyo should be cooking by now. Hope she leaves me a bite."
At the thought, he gave a small chuckle.
It was enough just to imagine it—the smell of hot food waiting at home.
Just as he was picturing that scene, hurrying downhill with home on his mind, he heard something.
He dropped into a crouch at once.
The rifle came off his back in a single motion. Keeping low behind the brush, the hunter carefully parted the branches and looked out.
"…That's… wolves?"
For the first time in a long while, uncertainty showed in his voice.
He had spent nearly half his life hunting in the deep forests of the rolling Azuma mountains.
But he had never heard wolves here.
Age had weakened him, yes, and hunting had become harder with the years. But he still possessed the ears of a hunter. He could not pinpoint the exact source through the wind and snow, but he knew what kind of sound he had heard.
Infected wolves.
The thought struck him like a hammer.
Those sounds were coming from the direction of his home.
The place where Kuriyo was.
No. Bad.
Panic seized him.
His granddaughter was in danger.
He had to get back.
And just then—
Gunfire.
Sharp and unmistakable.
From the direction of the house.
From where Kuriyo was.
That decided it.
If he took the normal route down, it would take at least another hour to reach them. He did not dare waste that much time.
The old hunter found a less steep section of slope, strapped his burden tightly to his back, and prepared to descend the fastest way he could.
Sliding down the mountainside.
A dangerous method he had almost never used, even in his youth.
A failed attempt would not leave a body worth finding.
But the conditions were not yet enough for an avalanche, and so he dared it.
In his hand was an ice axe.
He adjusted his balance, angled his body, and made sure he could control both speed and direction.
"My old friend, it's your turn again."
He spoke to the axe as he gripped it.
A long gouge cut across the white sheet of snow, a mark that fresh snowfall might erase at any moment, and with it ran an old man's desperate resolve.
At the same time, back on Xiangzi's side, scattered bursts of gunfire were already ringing out.
The wolf pack had begun its assault.
Join here to read ahead.
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