73. The Hunt in Progress

Gilgamesh did not stay long before he bid farewell and left.

Rather than feeling flattered by the courtesy shown by the King of Heroes, what truly caught Kurama’s attention was the unmistakable delight in Gilgamesh’s eyes as he departed.

—It seems that the king among kings is quite satisfied with his newly found “toy.”

Kurama wasn’t sure whether this “toy” referred to Kirei or to Kariya. Rising to his feet, he walked slowly to the living room’s floor-to-ceiling window.

The place that had lately been “claimed” by Diarmuid was now empty.

The Lancer had grown accustomed to slipping away whenever the King of Heroes visited. Kurama knew this was not only because Diarmuid and Gilgamesh were incompatible, but perhaps also a subtle protest from the steadfast and restrained servant.

“What a headache,” Kurama murmured, gazing out at the moon, which had somehow acquired a sinister crimson hue. The fox spirit smiled lightly and shook his head.

“Diarmuid,” he called softly, uttering the servant’s true name.

As always, the call was answered instantly.

Yet the handsome youth who appeared before Kurama, eyes lowered, was not as responsive as he had been before his encounters with Gilgamesh.

He stood silently, straight and upright, his gaze cast down, beautiful lips pressed tightly together in a thin line.

This silent refusal left Kurama at a loss. Yet inside, a small thread of genuine remorse tugged at his heart.

“I did not mean to hide anything from you,” he sighed softly, taking two steps forward, coming within reach of the servant.

Bathed in moonlight tinged with an eerie crimson, his gentle and apologetic expression was seen clearly by Diarmuid.

It caused the stoic servant’s handsome face to show a trace of hesitation.

“…I do not object to your decisions,” Diarmuid said after a pause, seeing the gentle, tolerant smile still on his master’s face. He pressed his lips together, deciding at last not to keep his feelings silent—he had had enough of the bitterness brought by miscommunication and the torment of endlessly guessing his master’s intentions, never able to truly glimpse them.

“But, Master… my lord, what is it that you are thinking?”

He raised his eyes, meeting the emerald gaze before him—more transparent than any he had ever known.

“I swore to grant all that you wished for, yet now I find myself utterly ignorant of your desires, of your heart…”

“My lord, is it that I cannot truly understand you, or…”

—or is it that you have never entrusted me with your true trust?

Diarmuid bowed his head again, his expression unchanged, but a deep weariness and self-doubt flooded his heart, dimming the once radiant eyes that had shone when Kurama publicly acknowledged his resolve and persistence. Now, they were hollow, painfully so.

Kurama sighed silently.

He realized he had overestimated Diarmuid’s emotional resilience.

The servant’s steadfastness, composure, and confidence had led him to overlook the profound impact of past betrayals—how those scars made him ever cautious with a new master.

If Kurama’s actions had eased most of Diarmuid’s inner turmoil, allowing him to accept himself as servant and knight, then that unexpected encounter with Gilgamesh, and all that followed, had been a blow—an unforeseen wound to a heart not yet fully healed.

While this was the result of many accidents, Kurama could not escape responsibility. No, perhaps Diarmuid was right—it was Kurama’s lack of trust in him.

Not in Diarmuid as a man, but…

Rubbing his temples in frustration, Kurama truly did not know how to explain such convoluted matters to his servant.

Yet his silence was interpreted by Diarmuid as silent rejection.

The black-haired spirit curved his lips in a bitter, self-mocking smile. For a moment, his handsome face lost its luster, darkening with disappointment.

Kurama’s helplessness and remorse only deepened.

Suddenly, a soft sensation touched his cheek. He turned to find Mokona reaching up, its tiny face shining with a smile so healing it could dispel all worries and gloom.

“Kurama, Mokona is fine now.”

The white fluff nuzzled his neck, its voice bright.

“But…” Kurama began to protest, only to be stopped by Mokona’s shake of the head.

“Diarmuid is a good person. Mokona doesn’t want to see him sad.”

And more importantly, doesn’t want to see Kurama troubled.

Mokona’s smile remained, but its eyes, no longer squinted in mirth, grew serious, conveying its resolve to Kurama.

Kurama sighed again—he realized he had sighed far too often today.

“Alright, if Mokona insists,” he relented, ruffling the creature’s head.

He looked up at Diarmuid, who was still bewildered, and his face resumed its gentle, ambiguous smile:

“I hope, after this, you won’t regret your resolve.”

He spoke softly, meeting the Lancer’s anxious, uncertain gaze.

***

Though Kurama had long known that the King of Heroes’ treasury held treasures such as the Vimāna, a radiant boat of gold and emerald, he could not help but marvel when invited to board it.

“This is truly… a luxury unmatched in heaven or earth, King of Heroes.”

It was not flattery, but a sincere admiration for the spectacle.

The golden-haired spirit shot him a mocking glance.

“Should I reduce its size for you?”

He did not respond directly, reclining lazily on the sole throne of the boat.

Kurama raised a brow, studying him carefully until Gilgamesh nearly lost patience. Then, he exaggeratedly placed his hand over his chest and bowed grandly:

“Much obliged, O King!”

Gilgamesh curled his lip in disdain.

“If not for… hmph.”

He broke off, adopting a “magnanimous” pose as if above petty squabbles. With a thought, the colossal golden vessel rose once more, soaring towards the heavens—

Yet, for all its thunderous ascent, it drew no attention.

Perhaps… because they were far from Fuyuki’s city, close to that forest flanking the highway, the Einzbern woods, as if forgotten by all.

From the shining boat, the endless green waves below seemed boundless; from the outside, there was no trace of illusion or magical barrier. Staring too long at the overlapping foliage induced a kind of visual fatigue, so Kurama withdrew his gaze, pouring himself a cup of warm tea.

He had invited Gilgamesh to join him and Mokona for evening tea, but the golden-haired spirit had snorted and refused without hesitation.

“Don’t misunderstand, Kurama. Allowing you and that little creature to sit and drink tea on the Vimāna is a great favor already. Do you truly expect me to join in your childish and tedious activities?”

Very well, Kurama did not insist.

The winter night was cold and bleak, made even more chilling by what was to come. Kurama himself could withstand it, but Mokona must not be left to the cold.

Carefully tending to Mokona with warm drinks and snacks, Kurama quickened his movements.

Gilgamesh snorted again, casting a sidelong glance at the silent black-haired Lancer standing behind Kurama, his expression mocking.

“Mongrel, you haven’t avoided me this time? Do you think yourself fit to meet the king, or has your master finally taught you your place?”

Gilgamesh was well aware of Diarmuid’s previous evasions, but could not care less about the reasons. He asked not out of genuine curiosity, but merely to provoke him.

Diarmuid, familiar with his malicious nature, did not respond.

He stood quietly behind his master, his gaze calm and gentle, watching as Kurama wiped a crumb from Mokona’s mouth, his face serene.

Gilgamesh raised a brow again, but said no more.

The golden vessel hovered calmly above the Einzbern forest, seemingly in no hurry to seek its target, as if waiting for something…

A foul, bloody scent drifted on the evening breeze.

Kurama and Mokona’s hands paused, while Gilgamesh and Diarmuid turned their eyes to the ground below.

There—at the forest’s entrance—a series of figures appeared.

Leading them was a strange-looking man clad in a black robe etched with blood-red patterns, followed by a dozen children, none older than elementary school age, walking unsteadily as if sleepwalking—clearly under magical control.

Kurama’s brow furrowed imperceptibly.

Years spent in the demon realm had long since changed him from the ordinary boy living in a peaceful, lawful world, with a normal sense of justice and compassion. Yet the sight before him still stirred disgust and fury—

Even though his own hands were stained with blood, Kurama’s killings were always purposeful and principled; he had never taken life without reason.

Unlike him, as a fox spirit who had to learn to survive cruelty and slaughter, Caster and his master Ryunosuke, even when human, had casually inflicted suffering, indulging in the cruel theft of life for their own twisted pleasure.

To Kurama, this was utterly incomprehensible.

Gilgamesh, though he had initially frowned in distaste, now watched Kurama’s smile fade and Diarmuid’s lingering anger and disgust, his own expression serene, calmly stating—

“Heh. So this is this world.”

Kurama and Diarmuid fell silent.

Unpleasant as it was, the King of Heroes spoke the truth—beauty and cruelty both, that is the world.

“And don’t forget, this is a hunt.”

The golden-haired king spoke softly, his gaze piercing the shadows to the heart of the forest—the magical castle.

There, the girl spirit transformed into a gust of wind, racing toward the forest’s exit.

—The hunt for Caster was underway.

Yet between prey and hunter, the boundaries had blurred, almost imperceptibly…