After executing that distinctly unrefined kick to the barrier, Jeanne scooped up Fafnir and sprinted forward with every ounce of her strength. Within the blink of an eye, they dissolved into the maze of the city blocks, vanishing as completely as if they had never set foot near the facility.
Driven by the need for a swift getaway, Jeanne remained completely oblivious to the fact that her backward strike had launched the iron barrier clean off its frame. Not that a full awareness of the damage would have prompted a grand reaction from her anyway.
At most, she would have simply grumbled about her failure to properly regulate her strength, before rationalizing that a crumpled entrance might force those sluggish guards to watch the sector with a bit more vigilance, thereby adding a layer of protection for the sleeping mastermind.
"Whoa~! Faster, Jeanne! Faster!"
As they flew across the streets, Fafnir nestled comfortably in Jeanne's arms, thoroughly delighted by the fierce wind whipping past her face. Far from feeling any discomfort, the young dragon found the breathless pace incredibly entertaining and even began gesturing for Jeanne to accelerate.
This was a refreshing novelty for Jeanne. Based on her past experiences transporting other individuals at high speeds, her passengers invariably suffered from severe motion sickness or breathing difficulties. Not a single soul had ever reacted with such pure, unadulterated glee.
The youngster looked entirely in her element, leaning into the rushing air without displaying the slightest hint of physical distress.
Then again, the resilience made perfect sense the moment one remembered that despite her youthful appearance, Fafnir was a dragon through and through.
Jeanne's mind drifted back to the time she had hoisted an adult Talulah onto her shoulder and dashed through these very streets, even while deliberately holding back her strength. By the time they ground to a halt, that particular dragon could only lean heavily against a brick wall, green around the gills and looking as though she were about to lose her lunch.
When you contrasted the two, it was truly staggering to see such a massive divide between members of the exact same species. Reflecting on how her own mature, dignified dragon leader fell so utterly short compared to a mere child, Jeanne couldn't help but sigh at the embarrassment.
Wait, that isn't right, she corrected herself. Fafnir belongs to our household too, so she isn't exactly 'someone else's child.' Long story short: Talulah, you are truly a disgrace to your bloodline!
(Talulah: I can solve advanced calculus problems. Can you?)
After putting a massive distance between themselves and the facility, Jeanne finally ground to a halt. She set the young dragon back onto the cobblestones and took a series of deep breaths to quiet her racing heart.
As she instinctively rested a hand against her chest, the coarse texture of her current shirt garnered a look of distinct disdain. To think this shop-bought cloth costs a pretty penny, yet it doesn't feel half as comfortable as the garments I weave with my own two hands...
And just like that, the elusive piece of the puzzle clicked into place, and Jeanne realized exactly what she had forgotten!
The custom tunic she had meticulously sewn from her own holy shroud was still draped over the Doctor's shoulders! She had completely neglected to reclaim her property before the machine sealed shut!
Because she had been deeply anxious regarding the strategist's failing health throughout the journey, Jeanne hadn't demanded the garment back before they set out, choosing instead to mention that returning it right before the treatment began would be perfectly fine. Yet, she had grown so utterly absorbed in their final conversation that the matter had slipped her mind completely.
Jeanne pressed a hand to her forehead, her expression turning thoroughly bitter. Now that the Doctor was safely nestled deep within that automated vault, there was zero possibility of prying open the canopy to strip the garment off a sleeping patient.
That tunic had cost her an immense amount of time and meticulous effort to craft! She treasured it so deeply that she rarely permitted herself to wear it, keeping it carefully preserved at the very bottom of her travel trunk as a prized possession.
Granted, part of her reluctance to wear it regularly stemmed from the fact that a deep crimson top was slightly too conspicuous, failing to harmonize with the standard black-and-white palette of her daily wardrobe.
Even so, that fabric was thread she had personally spun, a garment she had sewn stitch by stitch. Now, it was destined to keep the Doctor company inside that dark container for the foreseeable future, entirely beyond her reach.
Well... if it cannot be helped, I shall simply have to weave a replacement once we return to the base!
Besides, her tailoring skills had progressed noticeably of late. She would undoubtedly be capable of producing an even finer garment, so she might as well consider the lost tunic a commemorative gift for the mastermind to discover upon her eventual awakening.
Let us simply hope that ancient machine possesses some sort of physical enhancement function, Jeanne mused with a wry grin. Otherwise, when we finally pull her out of suspension, the chest area of that tunic is going to look dreadfully loose and hollow, which would be a thoroughly pitiful sight.
Refusing to dwell on the lost garment for too long, Jeanne scooped up Fafnir and prepared to depart the sector. A brief wave of uncertainty washed over her as she considered her next step—should they immediately chart a course back toward the frozen tundra, or was there another matter to attend to?
Settling behind the wheel of her transport, Jeanne drifted into deep thought. Suddenly, a specific sanctuary she had noted during her previous visits flashed across her mind, and she decided that paying the location a swift visit would be highly appropriate.
Deep into the midnight hours, tucked away within the most destitute, decaying quarters of Chernobog's slums, sat a hidden clinic entirely unknown to the general public. It was a sanctuary dedicated to sheltering and treating the infected population—the hidden headquarters known as Azazel.
Within the shadowed interior of the facility, Hellagur, the commanding figure of the organization, sat hunched over his desk. He was reviewing a mountain of paperwork, his weathered features twisted into a tight frown that betrayed a deep, underlying anxiety. He had clearly run into a massive roadblock.
"General Hellagur, you must permit yourself to rest," a nurse tasked with his care murmured, noticing the lamplight still burning bright through the window. Stepping into the office, she offered a quiet reminder to the veteran commander, who hadn't secured a proper night of sleep in days. "Though the current state of Azazel is undeniably grim, if you continue to push yourself at this rate, your own health will fracture long before the clinic does."
She understood better than anyone that the weight of Azazel's future was pressing heavily against his shoulders. Yet, she firmly believed that preserving the general's physical well-being was of paramount importance, for he was the guiding light steering their entire movement forward.
"I am aware. I shall conclude these affairs shortly... You may head to your quarters first. This particular matter demands my undivided attention."
Hellagur kept his gaze anchored to a specific letter resting before him on the desk, his mind locked in a fierce internal debate over whether to accept the proposition. The primary cause for his hesitation was the sudden, unannounced emergence of this mysterious group, coupled with their grand promises to provide unconditional aid to Azazel... The entire affair felt incredibly suspicious.
Most damning of all was the organization's chosen title. They called themselves "Infinite Love Mutual Aid Society"! What kind of sane, professional network would ever select such a bizarre moniker for themselves?
As the two continued their hushed conversation, the distinct, rhythmic rumble of a vehicle engine suddenly echoed from the courtyard. In the dead silence of the slums, the sound was as conspicuous as a thunderclap. Hellagur instantly shifted into a stance of absolute alertness, rising from his chair to grip the hilt of his long blade.
This wasn't a case of groundless paranoia. A forgotten wasteland like this sector rarely played host to motor vehicles, unless a detachment of the Imperial Gendarmes had successfully unearthed their trail and marched forth to purge the nest.
Yet, the moment Hellagur stepped through the primary threshold, even a veteran of a hundred campaigns found himself entirely frozen in place. Standing before him was a very familiar face, accompanied by... a child who looked remarkably like another acquaintance.
Staring at Jeanne, Hellagur voiced his confusion, thoroughly baffled as to why the silver-haired maiden had materialized on his doorstep in the dead of night, and who the young child beside her could possibly be. The structural resemblance to Talulah was uncanny.
Jeanne was equally surprised to find Hellagur still awake. After swapping a pair of warm greetings, she smoothly clarified the purpose of her visit, explaining that she was merely passing through the urban sectors and decided to drop by on a whim to see how the clinic was faring.
Hellagur nodded slowly, accepting the explanation. Though the old general couldn't entirely suppress the intense curiosity swirling in his mind whenever his eyes drifted toward Fafnir, his disciplined nature as a commander allowed him to maintain a composed front without pressing for details.
As they retreated into the privacy of the office to converse, Jeanne quickly learned that Azazel's current predicament was anything but stable. In truth, the entire population of Chernobog was currently walking on a knife's edge.
The political theater within the empire had reached a boiling point, with the friction between the Emperor and the aristocracy spilling out into the open. Every local governor across the territories was operating under a cloud of intense panic, and the cities under their administration reflected that mounting dread.
How did these grand political shifts affect a quiet clinic like Azazel? Jeanne understood the dark reality all too well. When a local governor found himself crushed by immense psychological pressure, what better way to vent his mounting malice than to inflict suffering upon the defenseless? Nothing provided a depraved mind with greater satisfaction than watching the vulnerable bleed.
Naturally, the governor had turned his sights toward Azazel, reasoning that crushing the fragile hope of the infected population would provide a magnificent release for his frustrations.
Fortunately, the local administrator and his subordinates were thoroughly incompetent. The simplistic plots they engineered—which Hellagur viewed as amateurish at best—were easily dismantled by the old general's strategic wit.
"Setting that administrative nuisance aside, a highly unusual development occurred a few days ago," Hellagur remarked, rubbing his temples as he shared his thoughts with his trusted partner, hoping the girl might offer a fresh perspective on the puzzle. "A nameless organization dispatched a formal missive to my desk, claiming they harbor a distinct desire to assist our cause. I harbor a deep concern that this is merely a trap orchestrated by the governor's office to dismantle our network from within."
"A nameless organization?" Jeanne raised her glass to take a slow sip of water. The moment the words left Hellagur's lips, her eyelids twitched violently, and a thoroughly bizarre sensation began to bloom within her chest.
"Indeed. A highly enigmatic group operating under the banner of 'Infinite Love Mutual Aid Society.' Prior to this letter, we possessed zero intelligence regarding their existence. For an organization to surface out of nowhere, sporting such a ridiculous title while offering grand partnerships, feels incredibly suspicious—"
"PFFFNNT—!!!!!"