Chapter 88
The inside of the White Dragon's mouth was cold. Monica clambered over its slimy tongue and fell farther and farther inside.
It was pitch-black, and she could not see a thing. Should she cast fire magic to check her surroundings? But she was more afraid of carelessly provoking the White Dragon and putting Cyril in danger.
The fall ended almost immediately, and Monica landed hard on something soft and fluffy.
Monica looked around, letting out a silly little "Eep!"
If she had fallen in the right place, this should be the White Dragon's stomach. But it looked very different from what Monica had imagined.
The space was far from spacious, filled with pale, faintly glowing, threadlike things crisscrossing in every direction.
The floor was covered in the same threads, which was what Monica had landed on.
The faintly glowing threads resembled spiderwebs, but when she touched them, they were smooth as silk and not sticky at all.
She tried pinching one between her fingers, but it did not seem likely to tear easily.
(...Is this mana taking the form of threads?)
Monica had seen anatomical drawings of lower-ranked dragons, but the White Dragon's bodily structure was completely different.
(Unlike lower-ranked dragons, are higher-ranked dragons made almost entirely of mana? Maybe they're closer to spirits...)
Veronica had said, "The White Dragon, Toure, can absorb information from anything it swallows whole."
If that was true, Monica might be absorbed as well if she stayed like this.
I have to hurry, Monica thought, parting the threads that obscured her vision as she searched for Cyril.
Because the space was narrow, Monica found Cyril almost immediately.
In the space slightly behind Monica, Cyril was sleeping against a wall of white threads. About half of his body was buried in them.
"Cyril-sama!"
Monica rushed over and tried to pull away the threads covering Cyril—but they were plastered to him and would not come off.
"W-why won't they come off?"
The threads did not stick to Monica's hands, yet they would not peel away from Cyril.
Monica created a tiny wind blade without chanting and tried to cut through the threads covering Cyril…but they did not budge. They were frighteningly sturdy.
(Why? Why are these threads stuck only to Cyril-sama, but not to me?)
These threads probably absorbed whatever had been swallowed and read its information.
Panicking, Monica desperately racked her brain.
The most simplistic and violent solution would be to attack outward from inside the White Dragon's body, tear open its belly, and escape.
But now that Cyril was already on the verge of being absorbed, Monica had no idea what would happen to him if she used high-powered magic inside a magical creature. If possible, she wanted to leave that as a last resort.
More importantly, she had been hotheaded earlier, but killing a dragon worshipped by the 〈People of Haila〉 would be politically unwise—which, of course, did not change the fact that rescuing Cyril was Monica's top priority.
(The fact that it swallowed Cyril probably means it can only absorb information from living humans... Complete death won't work, but suspended animation is fine... What else? There must be some other condition...)
Monica examined Veronica's words and actions one by one, then remembered what had happened in front of the altar.
When Monica had tried to wake Cyril from his suspended animation, the spirit had interfered and said:
'No. If he wakes up, Toure won't be able to absorb him.'
(...Could it be unable to absorb someone who is conscious?)
Indeed, Monica was conscious and had not been absorbed, while only unconscious Cyril was being absorbed.
...It was worth testing.
Monica started to reach toward Cyril's hand, which was half buried in the threads, but pulled her hand back.
Her right glove was stained red in places from gripping the rose vine.
Monica removed the glove from her freely moving left hand and clasped Cyril's hand.
Then she closed her eyes and focused her mind.
Deeper, deeper, deeper still—the beautiful world of magic formulas spread out before her.
Normally, Monica would lose herself in that world in a state of rapture, but now she kept herself in check and carefully, calmly assembled the magic formula she needed to awaken Cyril from the suspended animation Veronica had induced.
Monica's left hand began glowing a pale orange, and that radiance flowed into Cyril through their joined hands.
Warm mana melted away only the ice mana.
"Please... please work...!"
The hand she was holding seemed to have regained a little warmth. Was it merely the warmth of her own hand passing into it?
Monica tightened her grip. Cyril's fingers, drained of strength, still did not so much as twitch.
"Please wake up... Cyril-sama..."
＊ ＊ ＊
(...Someone is crying.)
Cyril knew that voice.
It was the sad way the girl cried—choking back her sobs, her throat trembling with little hiccupping gasps, her head bowed as if to stifle her voice.
That girl was shy, timid, and, more than anything, terrible at relying on others.
She could never bring herself to say, "Help me," and would bow her head as she carried everything alone. In truth, Cyril could understand that just a little.
Cyril, too, had been a child who was bad at relying on others.
He had been afraid of causing trouble, afraid of disappointing people, afraid that they would stop expecting anything from him—and because he could not say those two words, "Help me," he had overexerted himself and developed mana overabsorption syndrome.
That was why, if that girl ever reached out a hand for help, he had decided he would take it—properly.
──P-please... don't hate me...
With those words, the girl had grabbed the hem of her own clothes.
He knew that was the utmost effort the timid girl could manage, but even so, it had been frustrating.
When he had meant to take her hand but ended up pulling her into his arms instead, he had wanted to punch himself, wondering what he was doing...
"Cyril-samaaa... ngh... hic... waaaah..."
The girl was still crying.
When Cyril felt a faint warmth at his fingertips, he instinctively squeezed that hand back.
"That's why I told you I would never hate you..."
When he said it aloud, he was startled by how hoarse his voice sounded. It was as though he had forgotten how to speak for years.
After clearing his throat several times, he lifted his heavy eyelids and saw a pair of round eyes peering down at him.
Tears poured from those eyes, running down and wetting Cyril's cheeks.
"Cyril-sama! You're awake! U, uwaaaaah... h-hic, sob..."
"...? Moni."
"Thank goodness... ngh... heh..."
Monica's face was such a mess that he could no longer tell whether she was crying or laughing.
Only then did Cyril notice that something resembling white thread was draped over him.
When he raised his upper body, the threads fluttered down around his feet on their own. What was this? And where were they, exactly?
Cyril waited for Monica to calm down, then spoke to her.
"Where exactly are we?"
"Inside the White Dragon's stomach."
Cyril froze for about three seconds, then lightly pressed a finger to his temple.
"I'm sorry, but could you say that again?"
"We're inside the White Dragon's stomach. Um, Cyril-sama, you were... eaten..."
Cyril's last memory was of the night in Sazandoll, when he had chased Monica into a seedy establishment and lectured her in a private room. He vaguely remembered hearing Raul shout something like "Heave-ho!" afterward, but that could not have been important. Probably.
In any case, he should have been in Sazandoll. So why was he inside a dragon's stomach? And not just any dragon's—the White Dragon, a legendary creature.
As Cyril struggled to make sense of it, Monica spoke with an equally troubled expression.
"Um, an ice spirit kidnapped you to save the weakened White Dragon, Cyril-sama, and made the White Dragon eat you."
Monica's rough explanation made very little sense, but the words ice spirit caught his attention.
Come to think of it, he vaguely remembered someone speaking to him amid the jolting of the carriage.
Cyril raised his strange-feeling left hand. A silver bracelet he had never seen before was fastened around his wrist.
The bracelet was somewhat broad and had the appearance of a shackle. A violet stone was set into its center. It was a spirit stone, used to form a contract with a spirit.
As Cyril examined the spirit stone, the ground beneath them shook violently. At the same time, a cry like Ooooooh... reverberated from overhead along with the shaking. Was that the White Dragon's growl?
Monica raised her left arm, wiped her tear-streaked face, and looked up.
Only then did Cyril notice that Monica's right arm was wrapped tightly in white cloth, with a green vine extending upward from the palm of her hand.
Her gloved right hand was gripping the vine tightly.
"...? That vine..."
"Oh, yes! It's a lifeline! Let's escape right away. Um, e-excuse me."
With that, Monica hugged Cyril—or rather, clung to him.
That was when he realized it. The thing Monica had called a lifeline was a rose vine. Looking closely, he could see it was densely covered in tiny thorns. Monica had wrapped it around her own arm and was gripping it tightly.
Monica's right arm, wrapped around Cyril's body, was covered in white cloth. Understanding what the fresh blood seeping through it meant, Cyril hurriedly opened his mouth.
"Wait, that's—!"
"I'm going!"
Monica gave the vine in her right hand a few small tugs, and it went taut with a twang. Someone outside was pulling it upward.
Monica activated flight magic and gave the ground a light kick. The two of them shot upward with tremendous force.