-Side Story Chapter 1-
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The season's inaugural snowfall descended upon the town a mere couple of days ago, and in no time, the entire place transformed into a glistening winter wonderland. The bustling town was abuzz with a variety of activities. Families ventured forth in search of firewood to keep their hearths warm; workers scurried to the nearest stores to acquire spirits to ward off the chill, and the woodland creatures had wisely embraced hibernation, awaiting the arrival of spring like it was the season's grand opening.
Yet, nestled on the town's periphery, an imposing mansion stood resolute. While the mansion's sheer size might lead one to assume it was a hub of activity, it was, in fact, the most solitary of abodes, housing a solitary occupant for many moons. You might typically ponder the reasons behind such a decision, but the townsfolk had long relinquished their inquisitiveness in this regard.
They didn't need to scratch their heads for details, though; they knew the occupant well. He was an elderly gentleman who had run a handyman service for years, attracting clients from afar who sought his expertise. Most of the town's folk remained blissfully ignorant about the specifics of his work, as it never brought any problems to the town, and thus, no one felt compelled to interrogate further.
Now, with the arrival of winter, curiosity stirred in many. Would the old man endure the cold alone this year? Some even contemplated paying him a visit, just to check on his well-being.
Meanwhile, the old man himself was basking in pure bliss. He sat in his cozy home, listening to the radio's melodies while preparing to bake a batch of cookies. His feet were snugly ensconced in thick slippers, protecting them from the icy floor. With a stockpile of firewood prepared well in advance, he felt that this winter would be a breeze to weather.
Fully aware that the cookies would take some time to be ready, he poured himself a piping hot cup of tea and wandered out to the terrace, wrapped in multiple layers of woolen clothing. Settling into a comfortable armchair, he sipped his tea, relishing its fragrant warmth, before retrieving a pipe from his pocket.
"Ahh, now this is the life," the old man sighed contentedly as he puffed on his pipe. It was a rare occurrence to have such serene, uninterrupted days that stretched for more than a week, and he intended to milk every moment of it.
He had a visage adorned with well-earned wrinkles and a gentle countenance. His once-dark hair had now turned a distinguished shade of gray, neatly combed, and he sported a well-maintained mustache. His hazel eyes meandered through the forest in his backyard, as if in search of something, but finding nothing, he sighed wistfully.
"Seems like they've all tucked themselves away for the season. A real shame—I would've loved to treat them to one last feast."
The old man closed his eyes, allowing the enchanting sounds of nature to tickle his ears. While the chill outside was undeniable, he relished the opportunity to immerse himself in this rare tranquility.
It had been more than a week since he'd last been vexed by Sparda. Despite his friendship with the man spanning more than half a century, Sparda had always managed to rub him the wrong way with his often tactless actions—although, oddly enough, he reserved his good manners for others.
So, the fact that Sparda hadn't pestered him in ten days was indeed a welcome respite. Yet, a sense of trepidation lurked beneath the surface. It felt like a ticking time bomb, except he had no clue when or where it would explode.
He'd learned the hard way that embracing too much of a good thing often invited an even greater misfortune—a lesson that his active days had etched deeply into his memory.
And right on cue, a resounding knock reverberated through his front door.
"Who on Earth could that be?" the old man mumbled to the empty room. Lacking enthusiasm to investigate, he opted to remain seated and quiet, hoping the unwelcome guest would get the hint and leave.
But the knocks persisted and grew even louder, eliciting an exasperated sigh from the old man.
Summoning all his age-tinged strength, he laboriously pushed himself up, acutely aware of the years etched into his bones. The journey to the main entrance felt like an arduous trek, and the banging on the door only fueled his irritation.
"Alright, alright, I'm coming," he grumbled, advancing as quickly as his aged legs would allow. A decade or so ago, he could have covered this distance in mere minutes, but now, it felt like a ten-minute odyssey. Of course, he could have restructured his mansion for more convenience, but that would entail relocating the objects stored within, and he cherished having them close at hand.
As he slowly creaked open the door, he was met with an unexpected sight: nearly a dozen children.
"Now, who might you be?" the old man inquired, curiosity and annoyance warring in his voice.
A boy, slightly older than the others and unmistakably the group's leader, stepped forward and asked, "Excuse me, Sir… is this the Morrison Handyman Agency?"
The old man nodded affirmatively. The visible relief and radiant smiles on the children's faces intrigued him.
"Are you…" the boy hesitated, his nerves apparent, "Are you Mister Morrison, Sir?"
"I am indeed a Morrison, son," the old man replied, his demeanor not without a hint of mystery. "You'll need to be more specific than that."
The boy extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and appeared to read something written on it. "Umm… Mister Phillip R. Morrison?"
"Indeed," confirmed Morrison, his eyes narrowing with a trace of suspicion. "Now, I've shared my true name with only a select few I trust, and most of them have long passed on. So, young man, who told you about me?"
"Uhh… this," the boy held out the handkerchief. "We received this from someone. We don't know his name, sir, only that he instructed us never to discard the handkerchief."
Morrison accepted the handkerchief and, upon seeing the embroidered emblem of a longsword and a katana crossing over a shield, along with the Latin inscription below, he immediately recognized the sender.
Gladius Meus Custodiet Lumen in Aeternum.
"Sparda..."
How many times had he emphasized that his mansion wasn't an orphanage? Yes, it was sizable, but that hardly qualified it as an ideal residence for children. Sparda should have known that better than anyone.
Morrison sighed deeply, suddenly feeling as if he'd aged several more years within moments.
Morrison considered his options. The most sensible course of action would be to contact the nearest orphanage and arrange for them to pick up these children. It was the responsible thing to do.
Glancing at the children, he couldn't ignore their dire condition. They appeared dirty, disheveled, and thoroughly exhausted. Some showed clear signs of malnourishment. The thought crossed his mind: could the already strained orphanages provide these children with the care and resources they needed, especially after the toll of the recent war?
The truth was, they couldn't. The orphanages were stretched to their limits, grappling with their own challenges. And this was the heart of Morrison's dilemma. Allowing these children to reside in his mansion carried risks, not for him, but for them. However, he couldn't find it in his heart to shoo them away, knowing all too well what it felt like to be in such a precarious position.
Internally, he cursed Sparda. Where was that man, anyway? If he were present, Morrison wouldn't be weighed down by these concerns regarding the children's stay in his mansion.
"Sir?" the eldest boy hesitantly called out. Morrison could see the children growing agitated and apprehensive, their initial optimism fading as they anticipated the worst.
Morrison, despite his reservations, decided to put on a warm smile.
"Well, lucky me. It just so happens that I've baked an abundance of cookies. It's an old habit of mine. Back when I was a decade younger, I could've devoured them all, but now, I doubt I can. It's fortunate you've come," Morrison declared, gesturing for the children to enter the house.
"Cookies!" the children rushed inside excitedly, leaving Morrison with the older boy.
"Oh, and the kitchen is straight at the back!" Morrison hollered, before turning back to the boy. "Now, why are you still standing there? Come in before you turn into a snowman!"
"Thank you, sir."
As Morrison shut the door, he inquired, "By the way, where's Sparda?"
"Sparda?" the boy replied, his expression perplexed. The name didn't ring a bell.
"The man who gave you that handkerchief," Morrison clarified.
"I... I don't know, sir. He was trying to save us from demons, but there was a blinding light, an explosion, and everything went chaotic. I... I'm afraid he might have... passed away, sir."
Morrison chuckled. "Son, what's your name?"
"Nils, sir," the boy, Nils, answered.
Morrison nodded. "Nils, how old are you?"
"I turned fourteen last summer, sir."
"Fourteen, huh? And you've already experienced that world and met Sparda. You'll lead a remarkable life, young man," Morrison praised.
Nils winced, recalling the harrowing memories of the demons. "It was hell, sir."
"Oh, I don't doubt it. But you see, there's someone out there that even Hell feared. And that someone is one tough son of a gun. Everyone has tried to kill him—humans, demons, god-like devils, you name it. Even I, back in my younger days, put a couple of holes in him. Didn't even faze him."
"Really, sir?"
"Oh, yes."
"What... what is he, sir?"
Morrison threw the question back at Nils. "You tell me. When you saw him, what did you think of him?"
"He's like... just an ordinary man, sir."
"That's the greatest compliment you could give him," Morrison smiled, content. "The main thing is, you don't need to worry about Sparda. He'll return, sooner or later."
"If you say so, sir," Nils replied. He then asked, "What should we do next, sir? Where do we go from here?"
Morrison pondered the questions. "You've got a knack for asking intriguing questions. Give me a little time to think it through. But, for now, you might want to join your friends before they devour all the cookies," Morrison said before adding, "By the way, as the oldest, I'll need you to help keep an eye on your younger companions. You're free to explore and use any of the first-floor bedrooms, but understand that you are not, under any circumstances, allowed on the second floor without my permission," Morrison stated, his expression turning serious. "Is that clear?"
"May I ask why, sir?"
Morrison let out an exasperated sigh. "Do you know the saying, 'Curiosity killed the cat'?"
"I... no, sir," Nils shook his head.
"It means that there are things better left unknown," Morrison explained. "But, if knowing ensures your full cooperation, let me tell you. Come closer and listen carefully."
Nils leaned in to hear Morrison's revelation, and the shock on his face was evident.
"There is a gateway to Hell sealed upstairs."
Nils stood as still as a statue, visibly horrified.
Morrison casually walked ahead, and beckoned Nils to follow him. "Come on, now. We shouldn't leave your siblings on their own."
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Author's note: Next upload is -Hayase Yuuka Substory 1-