Limited Extra Time - Chapter 93

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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A long exhale escaped my lips.

Smoke billowed from Cullen, rising into the sky and dispersing. I’d vented my frustration, yet an oppressive weight still lingered in my chest—so much so that I found myself wishing I’d gone out on a Magical Beast subjugation instead.

Damn it.

No matter how hard I tried to compose myself, composure eluded me. Beyond my failure to convey my feelings, I couldn’t shake the image of Carina Leopold’s trembling frame, her flinching form. It haunted me, replaying endlessly. Had I truly been so terrifying? Except for that first encounter, I’d made every effort to be gentle with her. From some point onward—I couldn’t pinpoint when—I’d done my utmost to treat her with tenderness.

What troubles you so, sir?

Get lost, old man.

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“My, it’s been quite some time since I’ve heard such words. She was a lovely and well-behaved young lady. From her bearing and comportment, I’d have wagered she was of noble birth—am I mistaken?”

Solai Leonhardt harbored little fear of Millaiyen.

When intimidation tactics only elicited feigned surprise or deliberate indifference, what more needed to be said?

“You’re right. It seems circumstances forced us to sever ties, but there it is.”

“I see.”

“Those who carry deep wounds naturally fear taking that first step forward. Everyone does. When pain exists, one dreads experiencing it again.”

At Solai’s words, Millaiyen drew deeply on his cigarette in silence.

Smoking dulled his senses and loosened his tension—a welcome respite, though impossible during subjugation operations.

“She’s fallen ill.”

“Ill, you say…”

“That’s why I asked her to gather funds for treatment. Once she does, she should recover. Yet she keeps insisting on leaving. I don’t understand why.”

“What manner of illness?”

Millaiyen’s mouth fell shut. Well, he’d only heard fragmentary knowledge about it, so he didn’t know precisely.

Periel seemed to speak in roundabout ways as if hiding something, and Winston was no different. So there wasn’t much he truly understood.

“A disease that makes you lose something, one piece at a time, if it continues.”

“In what manner, exactly?”

“….”

Indeed, in what manner did the pain manifest?

Like being torn at?

Like being wrung out?

Or perhaps like someone stabbing with a blade, over and over?

Millaiyen’s lips curved into a hollow laugh, the smile deflating as quickly as it had come.

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“I know nothing.”

If only someone with no connection to those three—a complete stranger—knew even a little about the Painter’s Disease.

“How did it get severed?”

“It stopped moving.”

“Stopped moving?”

“There aren’t many who know of it in the Northern Territory, but there exists a rather peculiar disease called the Painter’s Disease.”

At the memory that surfaced, Millaiyen’s eyes widened.

Now that he thought about it, there was such a person. After he’d delivered goods to the Studio, he’d never properly met with him again. That man had experienced the Painter’s Disease from beginning to end.

In the end, he’d lost his arm.

“I have somewhere to be. Enjoy the banquet for a while longer, then disperse.”

Millaiyen didn’t even wait to hear a response before leaping over the terrace railing.

The moon had just risen, night falling in earnest. Before anyone could stop him, Millaiyen was already mounted and riding away into the distance.

“At last, he looks appropriately his age.”

Solai Leonhardt let out a low chuckle.

The urgency and restlessness that made him seem his own age somehow rendered him less like a lord and more like a man—a person, truly.

Solai turned away after watching Millaiyen Pestellio’s figure grow distant. The Northern Territory was already deep in winter.

Executing decisions immediately was one of the defining traits of northerners. Whether one called it impatience or a lack of perseverance hardly mattered.

Either way, they could neither postpone nor wait for what they had decided.

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The night streets held few people. This allowed Millaiyen to drive his horse swiftly without obstruction.

He tethered his mount near the Paint Shop where he had once gone with Carina Leopold, then slipped into an alley.

Knock, knock.

He rapped on the door, but no answer came from within. Yet judging by the building’s structure, this place likely served as both shop and residence.

Millaiyen’s brow furrowed in frustration.

Bang, bang, bang!

Abandoning courtesy, he pounded with his fist. Just as he was about to move on, sounds of movement came from inside.

“I apologize, but we’re closed for the evening.”

“I’m Pestellio—the one who came here before and asked you to prepare a studio.”

“…Your Excellency?”

Only then did I hear the lock click open, and the wooden door creaked ajar.

The one-armed man I’d seen before stood there with a puzzled expression. He let out a short sigh.

“My apologies for the late hour. I have an urgent matter to inquire about.”

“Ah, no trouble at all. You paid so generously back then that I’m managing the shop quite comfortably now. Though it’s far more modest than the Lord’s Manor, please do come inside.”

I stepped inside, following him as he shifted his body slightly to the side.

The scent of oil paint still permeated the space. Yet now that familiar aroma had become so ingrained that it conjured her image in my mind.

“It concerns the Artistic Plague. It may be somewhat uncomfortable for you to discuss.”

The man’s footsteps toward the counter faltered momentarily. The cloth attached to his missing arm fluttered back and forth.

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“The Artistic Plague… You’re talking about that young lady from back then.”

“Yes.”

“…Forgive me, but would it be alright if I smoked a cigarette? I’m not confident I can manage this sober.”

Though it was an old story, those moments had been horrifying nonetheless. A sensation of blood draining away day after day.

Millaiyen nodded, and the man fumbled to pull out a cigarette and placed it between his lips.

The cheap cigarette released a harsh stench the moment he lit it.

After drawing in smoke several times in succession, the man finally lifted his head.

“What would you like to know? I must warn you, I know nothing of any cure.”

“I wish to know everything about the Artistic Plague. And how you came to lose your arm.”

“You’re quite direct, aren’t you.”

Millaiyen withdrew a purse heavy with gold coins from his pocket and placed it on the counter.

The man staring at it let out a hollow, deflated laugh.

“I’m giving it to you because I feel sorry for making you dredge up painful memories. There’s no other meaning to it.”

“…I understand.”

The man drew deeply on his cigarette again. Only when he exhaled like a sigh and the cigarette had grown short did he finally speak quietly.

“I was a case of someone who caught the artistic affliction rather late in life.”

His subdued voice opened slowly.

“I was a painter who had made something of a name for myself. Unlike those who start young, I began a bit late and came into my own a bit late as well.”

Leaning against the wall, Millaiyen quietly absorbed his confession-like story.

Perhaps he might find some clue to how she behaved, or so he thought.

“If I’m being honest, I was just about to take

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flight. People had begun to seek out my paintings, however rarely, and my name would occasionally surface somewhere.”

A faint smile graced the man’s lips as he spoke. But it was fleeting. In an instant, his lips twisted.

Around that time, my hands began to convulse. There was a throbbing pain, and sometimes sensation would go numb. Occasionally, I couldn’t sleep at night.

For a painter, the hands are life. Even when I tried to dismiss it as just occasional spasms, the intensifying pain wouldn’t let me rest.

Recalling those memories haltingly, the man placed a second cigarette between his lips. Scratch—with his one remaining hand, he struck a match against the tree and lit it. He brought the burning match to the cigarette in his mouth.

Finding it strange, I sought out the Physician. What happened next, you can imagine. I was diagnosed with the artistic affliction. Everything went dark. Just when my paintings were beginning to see light.

Frustration emanated from his contorted face. Millaiyen still said nothing. He understood well that careless comfort sometimes touches the other’s wounds. I searched for every possible medicine to cure the artistic affliction, tried every method. To raise that money, I painted again and again, and was busy investing in everything I heard about—superstitions, miracle cures, anything.

It was all just a wheel. A spinning wheel of daily life. I painted, sold the paintings, and searched for cures. The fact that I had the artistic affliction only made my paintings more valuable.

Everything was just a treadmill. Round and round on that treadmill. Paint, sell, search for medicine. The affliction made the art worth more.

In the end, there was no way to cure the illness. The only way to dull the pain was to set down the brush.

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I couldn’t bring myself to do that.”

The man gazed down at his remaining hand.

A hand so dulled that even faint pain went unfelt. He could only register sensation if the wound were severe enough to blister from flame.

“As long as I could move my hand, I painted. Before long, the pain that had only plagued my left arm began to spread to my right. As if the agony itself were migrating through my body.”

The man drew deeply on a harsh cigarette.

He wanted to inhale more, to absorb and absorb until memory itself dissolved completely. Often, the past felt like a noose tightening around his throat.

“Then one night came—a night mercifully free of pain. My left arm moved as though it had sprouted wings. I worked through the darkness and completed a masterpiece by dawn.”

A bitter smile settled at the corners of the man’s mouth.

“But when I woke near noon the next day… my left arm no longer moved.”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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