Our time in Midgard is necessarily a struggle.
None can escape this fate.
Even the simplest organisms naturally fight towards a balance with the world.
When was the start of all this?
How have we come this far?
Only with courage can we find the strength to find the answers we seek.
We all need courage to face circumstance, to make our choices, and accept the consequences.
A fact that I believe in with every fiber of my being.
I just want to know one thing.
Tell me how much courage is needed to face a destiny that isn't yours.
Show me how to live a life that isn't mine.
•••
Prologue
A Nomad In The Northern Capital
Our story begins in the vast continent of Rune, the largest land mass on the planet Midgard.
Four distinct races of people populated Rune. The most common of the four races were the Normans—tall, fair-skinned and handsome people populating the hilly plains in the middle and northern portions of the land. Second were the Black Nomads—rugged, dark-skinned folk who were fiercely territorial over their Desert lands to the south. Third were the Orients—graceful, nimble slant-eyed people who inhabited the forested mountains to Rune's east.
And finally, there were the White Nomads.
The White Nomads had a skin color that was noticeably lighter than that of the Black Nomads, yet also considerably darker than those of the Normans and Orients. They were the smallest race of people inhabiting the continent of Rune, populating many sparse villages in the Desert alongside their Black Nomad cousins. For centuries, the White Nomads had lived an existence of semi-slavery under the dominant Black Nomads—until only six years ago, when the Black Nomads began an ethnic cleansing of their lands.
Believing their own race to be the most superior, the Black Nomads began purging their cities and villages of other races. None were spared from the killings—all Normans, Orients, and White Nomads fell to their ruthless, blind quest for superiority. It wasn't long before the Black Nomads expanded their bloody campaign beyond their borders, beginning the three-year cataclysm known as the Dune Wars.
•••
The White Nomad boy knew little of the world outside the Desert when he first set out into the unknown. He had neither goal nor destination when he left: only a reason to be alone, and a promise that could no longer be kept.
This was the boy's third winter in the wilderness. It was getting dark, and the cold was bitter. He had survived snakebites, wolf attacks, and bandits on his journey north. There seemed to be no end in sight—and for the first time in three years, he felt like finally giving up.
The boy stopped walking for a moment, feeling the pain that his worn-out shoes failed to spare his feet from. He weakly clutched his tattered gray cloak, trying to get whatever warmth he could from the damp fabric. He looked beaten. His voyage was going nowhere. The only reason he was alive was that no one—or nothing—had killed him yet. As he resumed walking, he wondered once again about the time when he would finally stop, lie down on the ground, and not get up again. He wished it would come soon, if only to end this hollow cycle of pain and regret.
These and other troublesome thoughts quickly became forgotten as the boy climbed onto the crest of a low ridge and saw, for the first time in his life, the bright lights of the Norman Capital.
Prontera Fort City.
•••
Mikieru Makimachi frowned.
The snow had been falling mightily on Prontera Fort City for the past three days, making his job as a Constable of the Prontera Chivalry anything but exciting.
As if my job wasn't sour enough, he thought, his eyes on the incessant rain of white. First a demotion, now this…
Through his round-rimmed dark glasses, he idly watched people scurrying in the darkening streets while he sat in a food trailer on the sidewalk. He still hadn't gotten used to life in the Rune continent's largest city. He used to be one of the best Clerics in the Pronteran Army, renowned for his courage and fighting prowess. His current occupation was an infamy for him, especially since he knew he did nothing to deserve it.
Mikieru was a war veteran at 27. He had served as a field lieutenant during the Dune Wars. The Mjolnir Alliance, which consisted of the Fort Cities Prontera and Payon, fought to prevent the anarchy from reaching their borders, and Mikieru was one of the first volunteers.
It was during the third year of the war when he and the rest of his Company were blamed for the failed and mistaken raids on friendly encampments, which were in truth due to the faulty commands of their superiors. Despite their sincere vindications, he and his fellow field lieutenants were pronounced guilty and recalled from the frontlines.
Back in Prontera, some of Mikieru's fellow lieutenants plotted to exact vengeance for the dishonor that had been done to them. Garrione, a powerful Knight whose ascension to Lordship was derailed by the accusations, led the scheme. Repeatedly, he asked Mikieru and the rest of the humiliated soldiers to join them in a plot that promised to be fail-safe.
The Cleric had refused. While he shared their sentiments, he was not willing to shed any more blood than they already had. Mikieru had even threatened Garrione that the authorities would know about the uprising if the Knight did not back down. Garrione agreed—but only to secretly launch an assassination attempt on several key military leaders soon after.
The attempt was largely unsuccessful, but Garrione and 150 of those loyal to him were able to steal away some of Prontera's finest mounts, armor and weapons, as well as several top-secret military documents from the Alliance desert HQ. The traitors then rode away into the night, not to be seen again for two years.
Mikieru was innocent, but some suspected he and Garrione shared the same motives. To avoid any further scandal, the Cleric chose to resign from his military position and instead took a local job as a Constable. He was to spend his days and nights patrolling the streets of Prontera, maintaining the peace. Mikieru somberly considered his military career over—and it confounded him to know that he had not done anything wrong.
The disillusioned Cleric sighed. He looked around him, taking in the wretched blight of the run-down Dolter district. Much of the rest of Prontera mirrored the disfigurement he saw here—a city that grew too quickly for its walls that they had to be torn down and rebuilt several times. To date, the crowded Fort City covered almost 1,000 square kilometers and had more than two million citizens—far too crowded for the Cleric's tastes. He knew very few, if any, of Prontera's citizens would want to live here if it weren't the crossroads of countless trade routes in Rune. He, for his part, was here only for the reason that he had nowhere else to go…
•••
A running figure flashed before Mikieru's eyes, breaking his thoughts. His eyes followed the runner, then another, into a small mob forming in an alley behind the trailer. From the sounds coming from the crowd, he could tell that a fight was going to break out.
Another fight, he thought, getting up and making sure his mace was at his side. We've been getting too many these past few days. He left the trailer and walked towards the crowd, leaving his dinner unfinished.
"Make way, Constable coming through," he called, slightly wincing at the word 'Constable' as he pushed his way towards the front row.
"Damn it, a Constable," he heard someone mumble.
"Just like them to ruin the fun," muttered another.
Mikieru stopped at the front row, beside a large man in a trench coat who eyed him shiftily. At the open space in the middle of the crowd, three male figures stood still. There were a few burning barrels in the vicinity, so the Cleric had to squint to see who they were.
Old Occultists, he thought, recognizing the black bandannas on the heads of the two larger figures.
The Old Occultists were a group of misfits who claimed to be the real keepers of peace and order in Prontera, citing the inadequate efforts exerted by the Prontera Chivalry to tone down crime and discontent in the Capital City. Mikieru would have agreed with them if it weren't for the fact that the Old Occultists actually caused more crimes than they claimed to preclude.
The Old Occultists did not recognize the laws of Prontera. Instead, they operated on a Martial Law system. As well as having their own rules, they also had their own ways of enforcing them. These included blackmail, extortion, thievery and, oftentimes, violence.
Mikieru squinted harder, trying to see who the third figure was. From behind his dark glasses he saw a lean boy, no older than thirteen winters, wearing tattered traveling clothes. While the sight of the urchin wasn't unfamiliar to him, Mikieru found it strange that the boy had, together, the tan skin of a White Nomad and blue hair only occurring in Normans.
A half-breed? Unlikely—it had long been known that, although all Nomads and Normans were undeniably Human, genetic differences prevented reproduction between the two races. Also strange was his presence here; Prontera had closed its borders to all Nomads after the Dune Wars abruptly ended in a stalemate three years ago.
The two Occultists glared at the boy. They stood a few meters on both sides of the child, offering him no escape. One Occultist had a smasher in hand; the other had a broadsword slung at his hip. In the boy's hand was a small bag containing a few coins of zenny, the currency of Rune.
"What is going on here?" Mikieru asked the man beside him.
"Just like you to ruin the fun, Constable," the large man replied, annoyed. "This Nomad was found walking the streets with a hood over his head, and somehow these Occultists guessed what he was. They also found some zenny on him, so now they're negotiating."
"Negotiating."
"Yes."
"Occultists do not negotiate."
"No."
"Which means the boy is going to get killed."
"You can see it that way; it's fine with us. The kid's gonna get worked in any case, so we might as well have some fun while he's at it. Do us a favor and let the Occultists do the job, eh?"
Mikieru looked back at the boy. The child's eyes were wide—confused, but not scared. It was obvious that the child didn't know what was going on and who his two tormentors were.
The Occultist with the smasher spoke up. "This is your last chance, brat," he hissed, pointing the mutilated club at the boy's chest. "For passage and your continued breathing, pay up."
The boy fidgeted, and answered with a quivering voice: "No."
"Fine," the second Occultist snapped. "We'll do this the hard way."
"You'll be sorry you messed with the law, kid," declared the first Occultist. He withdrew his smasher and positioned it to strike.
The boy's face tightened as he recognized the hostile stance the first Occultist assumed. Slowly, he put his zenny bag back into his belt and took out a small knife, with a straight edge and a 4-inch blade.
"Let me go," the boy warned, assuming a passive defensive stance. The knife was in his right hand, blade down.
The Occultists sneered. "Go to hell, Nomad filth."
Mikieru swallowed. He had seen children dying in the crossfire during his service in the Dune Wars. It was a sight that he did not have a partiality for, and he was not about to see it happen within the sheltered borders of this Fort City. He reached for his mace and opened his mouth to call a halt to the fight.
•••
At that instant his eyes met the boy's, and he stopped. Mikieru's hand touched no mace; his mouth uttered no sound. The boy was not afraid—his gray eyes made Mikieru feel, strangely, that everything would be all right.
•••
The first Occultist leaped forward, his smasher drawn back above his head in the prelude of a vicious downward smash. The men in the crowd gasped; the women screamed. Too late, Mikieru grasped the handle of his own mace; he knew that the boy's knife wouldn't be able to parry the heavy club.
Mikieru watched as the boy lunged forward, crossing his forearms above his head, catching the Occultist's arm at the apex of the smasher swing. The shocked thug stopped in his tracks, wide-eyed. The boy threw the Occultist's club arm down to his right, and the man lost his balance and tipped forward with a grunt.
The boy's right arm was drawn back; the Occultist's throat was exposed; the knife was poised to strike. Mikieru watched breathlessly as the boy threw his arm forward.
A loud crack echoed through the alley.
Instead of slicing the Occultist's throat, the boy's right hand curled into a fist and hit the thug between the eyes in a perfectly executed high punch. The Occultist flew backwards and landed on his back, unconscious.
"Whoa," Mikieru muttered, impressed at the boy's unorthodox counter-attack.
The second Occultist stood wide-eyed, disbelieving the way his superior was floored with a single punch. Shaking, he drew his broadsword and held it with two hands.
"You little stink-bug! I'll kill you!" the second Occultist charged, sword poised to deliver a thrust.
The boy quickly turned and assumed a fighting stance. Seeing that he couldn't block the sword thrust, he sidestepped, evading the sword blade by inches. Fuming at the miss, the Occultist swung his sword in a wild backhand slash. The boy ducked, calmly waiting for the blade to pass over his head. Then he saw the opening.
The boy leaped and slammed a closed fist under the Occultist's exposed chin. The man's feet left the ground in recoil to the powerful blow. With both of them in mid-air, the boy twisted his body and buried his foot in the Occultist's midsection in a turning back-kick. The thug flew backwards and hit the alley wall.
The boy landed on the ground, instinctively poised to meet another attack. The second Occultist made an effort to get up, but lost consciousness halfway up on his feet. The crowd made sounds of awe.
The boy stood up. The entire fight had not lasted thirty seconds. After making sure he had all his belongings in his pockets, the boy pulled the frayed hood over his head and started walking, quietly, into the dark alley.
"All right everyone, break it up," Mikieru called, motioning to the crowd. "Nothing to see here… anymore."
"Are you mad?" a drunk man called from the mob. "Y'can't have a Nomad in the Capital!"
The man made a move to lunge at the Cleric, but stopped when he saw the rest of the mob did not share his sentiments. The rest of the crowd dispersed, the men satisfied, the women relieved. Not a few turned to look back at the Nomad boy who defeated two Old Occultists with his bare hands.
"Er, never mind," the man stammered, withdrawing from Mikieru's stare. "The, er, Constabulary is gonna hear about this incident anyway, eh?"
When most of the crowd had gone, Mikieru turned to survey the scene. Two unconscious Occultists lay on the ground, and a shady silhouette was walking into the alley.
Intrigued, he followed the boy quietly, neglecting to make field notes of the incident as he was supposed to.
•••
The wind was cold in the alley. The boy mournfully clasped his traveling cloak, trying to keep warm. He had all but forgotten about the fight that took place only minutes ago. He was now thinking of what to do with his remaining money; whether to spend it on a room for the night, to buy some food, or to save it for tomorrow. He had been pondering the same choice long before the fight.
As he rounded a corner, he stopped, wide-eyed. In front of him, hunched beside a refuse bin, was a little girl of about ten, clutching a small bundle. From the sounds he heard, he could tell that the girl was holding a baby—a sibling. Seeing him, the girl tried to hush the baby. The boy's heart broke when he saw the freezing tears on the girl's face. These children had been caught in the worst part of the snowstorm and got lost.
These are orphans, the boy thought. Just like… like…
Coming closer, the boy knelt and touched the girl's face. It was as cold as ice. Quickly, he took off his coat and wrapped it around the two children. He threw his arms around them and pressed, instinctively trying to save their lives. The girl readily leaned her head on his chest, willingly accepting any semblance of help, even from a stranger.
Even from a Nomad.
The boy felt like crying. He did not pity the girl. She made him remember an event in the past… an event he had tried for years to forget.
•••
The boy heard a sound in the alley behind him, but he did not turn to look. If he were to be attacked, he would not defend himself. Whether or not he was going to die in this alley on this very night did not matter to him. The lives he was protecting on his chest was much more important, much more precious than his own.
"Kid."
The boy slightly turned his head to the side, in a gesture that indicated he was listening.
"You do not deserve to be out in these alleys."
The boy turned to look at the speaker.
"Come with me," the tall man said, offering a gloved hand.
The boy hesitated. The man stepped closer, and light reflected on the silver cross hanging from around his neck. The boy saw the cross—and knew that he could trust this man.
The boy carefully stood up, making sure the girl followed suit. He kept his arms around her even as Mikieru took him under his long coat. Together, they walked out of the dark alleys into the wide lighted streets of Prontera Fort City.
•••
"My goodness, where have you been? We were looking everywhere for you!"
The young women who answered the door at the orphanage frantically ushered the young girl and her sibling into the warm foyer of the dilapidated facility. One of them remained at the door, thanking the Cleric profusely.
"You have our deepest gratitude, Brother!" she stammered. "I will have to send word to call off the search for them. You have saved us a great deal of trouble!"
Mikieru nodded, brushing off the misguided gratitude. He moved a flap of his long black coat slightly, gesturing that he had one more child under his coat.
"Ah, and as for him… er…" the woman's voice trailed off when she saw the color of the boy's skin. She looked at Mikieru warily and swallowed when she realized he was waiting for an answer.
"Er… that is, I… I believe we're full up these days, it being winter and all," she stammered. "I am not sure if we could accept any more…"
Mikieru sighed and turned to walk away, gently nudging the boy to follow him.
"I… I will talk to my supervisor about it… I mean him… I will let you know if…"
The tall Cleric looked over his shoulder and nodded as politely as he could, fully knowing that she was not going to do the things she said. The orphanage was not about to take a Nomad in.
Mikieru walked slowly, making sure the boy kept up with him.
"So," he ventured after a moment. "What is your name?"
The boy looked down, as if trying to remember. "Shin-ju," he uttered.
"Shin-ju?" Mikieru repeated, raising an eyebrow at the Payonese-sounding name. "Shin-ju what?"
The boy hesitated. "J-just Shin-ju."
"You do not have a family name?"
Mikieru saw the boy close his mouth. He was not going to get an answer.
"I understand," the Cleric concluded. "Then I will call you Shin-ju from now on."
At the words 'from now on,' Shin-ju looked up.
"My name is Mikieru Makimachi," the Cleric introduced himself. "I am a Constable. Now tell me, Shin-ju: where did you come from?"
"From… from Morroc," Shin-ju answered.
"Is that so?" Mikieru bit his lip upon hearing the name of the Black Nomads' Desert stronghold. "How did you get here?"
"By walking."
"You walked here?"
"I didn't walk here, sir. I wasn't headed in any particular direction… I didn't even know the name of this place until you mentioned it just now."
"That is well. This is Prontera, and it is fair warning to tell you that Nomads are not welcome here, as those two clowns tried to show you a while ago. Then again, you are not a true Nomad, are you?"
Shin-ju looked up. "Why?"
"Your hair. It's blue. Nomads never grow blue hair."
The boy lowered his stare and sighed, shaking his head. "That's true. They said the same things to me back in Morroc three winters ago."
Three years ago? Mikieru thought as the boy continued.
"Could I help it if I was born like this? The Black Nomads never listen to me, though. Those men never listen to anyone outside their race. It's… it's the main reason why I left. It's funny to think that it's like I left Morroc only to go back to it. It's exactly like Morroc in this place, only with the sides reversed. People judging me by the color of my hair or skin, and people wanting to kill me for that reason… it's like I never left."
Mikieru couldn't help but smile at the boy's elucidation. "How old are you, Shin-ju?"
"Er… thirteen… I think."
"As I had guessed," Mikieru said, walking carefully down a sloped sidewalk. "I am twenty-seven, and here we are, talking as though we were both eligible for retirement. How's that?"
Shin-ju smiled for the first time. "I… maybe it's because you get to think a lot when you're all alone out there."
"Three years of being all alone out there, huh?"
"Yes, sir."
Mikieru laughed quietly as they rounded a corner. "Then I got just the thing for you. When I think, I get hungry… and if you have been thinking so hard for three years, I could only imagine the appetite you must have."
Shin-ju's smile faded when he realized Mikieru was taking him to a food trailer.
"Er, that really isn't necessary, sir," Shin-ju stammered, although his mouth watered when he smelled the scent of cooked food for the first instance in a long time.
"Do not worry about it," Mikieru answered softly, beckoning the boy to take a seat at the food counter. "Call it a reward for making my job a little easier to swallow today."
•••
Mikieru dolefully eyed the stack of bowls. He had underestimated the boy's appetite. Already, Shin-ju had eaten through five bowls of rice and two plates of spring rolls.
"Eat slowly," the Cleric solicited, as worried about his money as he was about the boy getting indigestion by eating so much after starving for so long.
Shin-ju put down his fifth bowl and took a sip of hot tea. "Thank you, sir," he said, quite happily.
Mikieru nodded, then cleared his throat. "Shin-ju?"
The boy looked up.
"Do you not get tired of wandering?"
Shin-ju thought for a moment, then nodded slightly. "Yes," he said.
"Then you would not mind staying in Prontera for the meantime?"
"I… I'd like to stay in one place for once… but I can't keep sponging off you like this forever."
"Of course not. You will work for me."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"As what?"
"As a janitor, for starters. I work at the Chivalry HQ, on the northwest side of this Fort City. We are a little short on maintenance crew right now, and the fact that it is wintertime does not help things. You ought to smell the place. In effect you will be supporting yourself. At the same time, you will get to meet people. Who knows? If all goes well, you might save up enough to go to school."
"School," Shin-ju repeated, smiling at the word. "That sounds… good."
"It is set, then," Mikieru said, pleased. "It will be a bit hard at first, but you will get used to it. I got your back."
•••
A heavy crash sounded behind them.
Mikieru and Shin-ju froze at the sound. Slowly they turned to see what made it.
Behind them stood a huge armored man, holding the handle of a very large Mace, its head planted on the ground. The man was wearing a black bandanna and had a glass eye. Around him stood seven other men, also wearing black bandannas. Two of them, slightly hunched and slightly bruised, stood behind the rest. All of them stared at Shin-ju with murderous eyes.
"Occultists," Mikieru muttered.
"Is this the brat?" the Head Occultist boomed angrily, veins pulsing in his bald head.
"Y-yes, sir," said the first bruised Occultist.
The Head Occultist stepped forward. "No one messes with the Old Occultists!"he shouted at Shin-ju. "You're coming with us!"
Shin-ju stood up and faced the mob, prepared to fight them if they attacked.
"Hold on," Mikieru calmly said, his back still turned to the mob. Shin-ju looked at him, stunned.
"Who the hell…" the Head Occultist roared.
"You want this boy?" Mikieru turned slowly. "Sorry, but he is… my Apprentice. If you want him, you will have to go through me first."
"Hah! The idiot Priest!" the Head Occultist guffawed, seeing Mikieru's silver cross. "You think you can beat me, preacher? What're you gonna do, feed me your breadcrumbs until I choke?"
Mikieru smirked. "What do you say we arm-wrestle for him?" he said, pointing to a broken wooden table in the alley behind them. "If I win, you leave him alone."
"Stuck-up little punk! When I win, we take the boy… but not before we dump your self-righteous carcass in the middle of the street!"
Shin-ju looked at Mikieru, dumbfounded. Mikieru looked tall and strong, but the Head Occultist was one-and-a-half feet taller and several hundred pounds heavier than him. The Head Occultist's arm alone looked three times larger than Mikieru's own. There was no way Mikieru would win in an arm-wrestling contest with this person.
The other Occultists prepared the table while their boss and Mikieru waited. Shin-ju looked on from behind Mikieru, worried. A small mob started forming around the scene. The owner of the food trailer hurriedly closed his shop.
When the table was ready, the Head Occultist immediately took his place and threw his right elbow down on it. The other Occultists stood behind him, grinning in confidence and amusement as Mikieru calmly stood up and walked to his place.
"I'll pray over your carcass," the big man mocked. "Hope you get a cool spot in hell!"
The other Occultists laughed. Mikieru said nothing.
Mikieru took his place at the table and placed his elbow on the table. His gloved hand touched the Head Occultist's gauntlet. Immediately they clasped hands.
"Shin-ju," Mikieru said without turning. Shin-ju looked at him.
"You give the signal."
Shin-ju hesitated, but obeyed. He took a spoon that the shop owner had left on the counter.
"When the spoon hits the gutter," he said slowly.
He threw the spoon upwards. The Occultists watched it rise, then fall. The Head Occultist and Mikieru waited for the sound to come. The crowd waited with bated breath.
A tiny ring came, followed by a resounding wooden crash.
"What the f—?!" the Head Occultist screamed.
Everyone around the two arm-wrestlers gaped at the big man as he tipped sideways off his seat, his legs flying well above his head. Mikieru sat motionless, elbow on the table, gloved hand empty.
The Head Occultist crashed to the ground beside him and rolled on his back. He sat up and looked, dumbfounded, at Mikieru. The Cleric was smiling. His elbow was still on the table, forearm upright. There was a dent on the table's surface—and it was shaped like the back of the Head Occultist's gauntlet.
Amazed, Shin-ju looked at Mikieru, trying to find the reason behind the surprising victory. He saw a bluish-white glow at the palm of the Cleric's black glove.
He recognized it right away—it was the Blessing Trance!
"Always think twice before underestimating a man of the Church," Mikieru told the Head Occultist. "I have ways to raise my strength to a point above even yours."
Shin-ju watched in awe as Mikieru slowly got to his feet, the glow in the Cleric's hand steadily spreading throughout his tall frame. It wasn't long before Mikieru's entire body wafted the bluish-white aura.
The boy had known of the Blessing Trance for several years. It was a self-enhancement Holy Art—a skill only achievable by Priests and their Apprentices—that enabled the user to increase his strength to perform feats impossible for the ordinary.
The Head Occultist stared at Mikieru in frustrated disbelief, nursing his arm, as his subordinates struggled to help him stand up.
Facing the Occultists, Mikieru took off his glasses.
"NOW GET LOST BEFORE I PUT YOUR SORRY ASSES UNDER ARREST!"
The Occultists froze when they saw his eyes—one iris a deep blue, the other an Elfish green—and immediately they recognized who he was.
"Holy crap—it's the Kitsune!" screamed the Head Occultist.
"RUN!" his subordinates screamed.
Mikieru, Shin-ju, and the crowd watched in amused satisfaction as the Occultists scampered away, their red-faced leader staggering in tow.
Mikieru, for the second time in the day, asked the crowd to disperse. Shin-ju watched the Cleric's tall frame moving about, arms raised effortlessly, voice calmly addressing the crowd. He saw in Mikieru what the Cleric's superiors found dangerous in him—a genuine goodness.
Mikieru turned his uncovered eyes to Shin-ju. The boy was beaming, very impressed. It had been too long since Shin-ju last looked up to anyone. And now, here stood a man whom he had just met for the first time tonight, and whom he was already intensely proud of.
"Sorry about that," Mikieru joked. "After you have stayed a little longer in this Fort City, you will realize that it's the same as the wilderness in many, many ways."
"I know," Shin-ju answered. "But the wilderness doesn't have you."
Their eyes met for a moment—Mikieru's green-and-blue irises and Shin-ju's lonely gray stare—and that was the final seal of their friendship.