Chapter 256: Chapter 256

Upon hearing that Jenkins had been sent by Papa Oliver, the lumberyard owner eagerly shook his hand. He immediately launched into a pitch for a type of wood that released a fragrant aroma when burned—a rare commodity in an age where spices were worth their weight in gold.

But Jenkins had no intention of being played for a fool. Papa Oliver had warned him, so he wasn't about to go home with a load of wood that had simply been soaked in a concentrate of fresh flower petals and left out to dry.

The ground around the lumberyard was unusually damp, and each step felt as though his soles were sinking into the earth. The yard itself wasn't large, but business was brisk; a steady stream of other customers arrived after Jenkins.

Most were men with the air of butlers, though there were also a few middle-aged gentlemen like Jenkins, there to negotiate prices themselves.

Jenkins haggled with the owner for a long while before finally settling on a price for his winter firewood, the man feigning reluctance all the way. They both compromised: the owner agreed to find workers to level and waterproof Jenkins's basement floor to protect the wood from dampness, while Jenkins, in turn, would cover the delivery fee.

Only after Jenkins had paid the deposit and signed the contract in the owner's wooden cabin did both men break into simultaneous smiles. As for who truly got the better deal, it was impossible to say.

Jenkins rarely ventured out of the city, so he decided to explore the area a bit before heading back. The owner, of course, had no objection. He explained that most of the forest was public property, managed with tax revenue. Any profits were funneled directly into urban infrastructure projects. For instance, when the Nolan-Pasadena United Railway Company secured its funding, the Kingdom had used profits from this very forest to support the venture.

At the turn of summer to autumn, he explained, plenty of people came for picnics and hunting, so his establishment doubled as a supply station and equipment rental. But now, in late autumn, visitors were scarce. The portly owner beamed, rubbing his hands together. "Need a hunting rifle and a permit?" he asked. "I can sort you out right here." Jenkins, however, was already starting to feel a familiar pang of concern for his wallet.

Take Jenkins, for example. He happened to have the time, happened to be in the mood, and recalled Papa Oliver's advice to "spend more time outdoors." So, after parting with another pound and three shillings, he was equipped with a full set of hunting gear from the lumberyard owner.

The price was quite reasonable, actually. The bulk of the cost was for the stiffly printed "Hunting Permit." After all, the forest belonged to the city, the city to the kingdom, and the kingdom to the Crown.

Poaching in the Crown's forests was an offense that a simple fine couldn't absolve.

Jenkins had practiced with hunting rifles back at the Oil Ink Mister Club, but this double-barreled, single-shot shotgun was a nightmare to handle. It even came with a rusty ramrod that had to be used to clear the muzzle before every shot. To make matters worse, the barrel was smoothbore; where the shot flew was left entirely to the whims of fate.

He ventured deeper into the woods and fired a few shots, only to lose the one rabbit he'd managed to spot. With that, he abandoned the hunt. His original plan had been to let Chocolate, with his keen nose, serve as a makeshift hound. But upon realizing the kitten was smaller than the rabbit, he grew concerned that his tiny companion might get bullied by some vicious, oversized bunny. So, he let Chocolate settle comfortably atop the pack on his back.

The pack had also been provided by the owner, stocked with spare ammunition, rope, a towel, a water flask, flint and steel, a signal flare, and other necessities. It was certainly worth the one-gold-pound fee. On this count, at least, the owner seemed to have a conscience.

His plan was to spend most of the morning and afternoon in the woods, then head back to the city. Once there, he would get his pocket watch repaired, drop by the detective agency, and finally, pick up the reply from Aediran at the bar.

As noon approached, Jenkins crunched over a carpet of fallen leaves and stopped beneath a large, gnarled tree to have his lunch. He hadn't ventured too deep into the woods, partly from a fear of getting lost, but mostly because his sole purpose was to clear his head.

"Canned meat and some dried beef."

He pulled the food from his pack. Chocolate gave the rations a disdainful look before scampering up the tree trunk. The kitten was still young, but his balance was superb, so Jenkins had no fear of him falling.

Sometimes, you just can't predict your luck. Jenkins had just pried open the can and was debating whether to risk a taste of the suspicious, gooey meat paste within when a strange sound reached his ears:

It sounded unnervingly like the cries of the maddened A-12-02-4219, though with subtle differences. This sound was higher, crisper, more staccato.

Jenkins immediately tossed the can aside and drew the pistol at his hip.

The air out here was a world away from the city's grime, but a faint mist still clung to the trees, thick enough that even the late-autumn sun at its zenith couldn't pierce through.

The sharp, staccato laughter drew nearer. Behind him, Jenkins could hear Chocolate rustling in the leaves, but he paid it no mind.

A few minutes later, a humanoid creature the size of his palm, with transparent, cicada-like wings, emerged from a distant patch of tall grass.

Jenkins kept his pistol raised. If anything, his guard was up even more now.

The term 'sprite' referred to a class of non-human creatures with a vast number of subspecies. They weren't the graceful, pointy-eared humanoids known for their archery, but the wicked, twisted little things of myth and legend—the ones that lured travelers to their doom deep within the forests.

Among their countless subspecies, there were a few benevolent, orderly types—the sort you might find in children's stories—but they were exceedingly rare. The ones humans were most likely to encounter were beautiful in appearance, but malicious to the core.

One theory suggested that sprites were born from the very soul of the forest, manifestations of its lingering grudges. This, however, was unsubstantiated. The more common belief was that they were simply supernatural creatures, relics of a bygone age.

The cackling sprite drifted slowly toward Jenkins. With his gun still raised, he got a clear look at its features. It had a pale face dominated by long, narrow, yet remarkably expressive eyes with vibrant green pupils. Its mouth, no bigger than the tip of a bullet, opened and closed incessantly.

It halted about ten meters from Jenkins, crossing its matchstick-thin arms over its chest. Then, with a sudden downward pull, a rainbow-hued beam of light expanded outward, enveloping her in a shimmering bubble.

Jenkins felt a piercing pain in his ears. He kept the pistol steady in his right hand as he reached up with his left. When he touched the side of his head, his fingers came away wet with blood.