The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. A lone butterfly, its delicate wings shimmering with faint blue light, hovered over a purple blossom. Though the sky was bright, the bioluminescence clung to its wings like remnants of a dream, pulsing gently with each movement. It drank from the flower’s nectar, its tiny legs gripping the petals, its body swaying with the soft rhythm of the wind.

The grass whispered in the breeze, bending under the weight of morning dew. The wildflowers, painted in hues of violet and gold, swayed lazily, their fragrance mingling with the scent of sun-warmed soil. The land stretched wide and open, an unbroken sea of green and gold beneath a sky streaked with drifting clouds.

Then—like a streak of fire—a creature tore through the silence.

A bird, its feathers a blazing shade of orange, shot past the butterfly with impossible speed. The air trembled in its wake, a shockwave rippling through the grass, flattening the delicate petals and sending the butterfly into a startled ascent. The flowers bent violently, their stems straining against the force, and for a moment, the world seemed to reel from the sheer velocity of the creature’s flight.

No ordinary bird could move like that. Its speed was unnatural—terrifying, even. A force that did not belong to the quiet, tranquil morning.

And then, as the tremor settled and the grass slowly righted itself, another sound crept into the air.

A rhythmic creaking. The steady roll of wooden wheels against the dirt path.

Somewhere beyond the bend in the road, a cart was approaching.

Chapter 1: The Dust Road.

The year was 1601 (Post-Menma). The Earth, once a cradle of technological marvels, had regressed into an era that mirrored the pre-medieval age. Gone were the roaring engines of cars, the thunderous echoes of guns, and the soaring wings of airplanes. The great towers of steel and glass had crumbled into dust, their remnants swallowed by time. Humanity had lost the light of science and invention, but in its place, they had gained something extraordinary—something that defied logic.

The very air pulsed with unseen energy, alive with Menma, the virus that had reshaped the world. It was everywhere, lingering in every breath, clinging to every surface like an invisible mist. For centuries, it had woven itself into the fabric of life, a silent force that granted those who survived its touch abilities beyond nature’s design. These powers, known simply as Menma, were as unpredictable as the people who wielded them. Some saw them as blessings, others as curses, but one truth remained: the world had become a place of mystery, where the line between survival and extinction was as thin as a whisper.

A lone, dusty road stretched endlessly through the countryside, winding like a scar through rolling fields of wildflowers and golden crops. The wind carried the scent of earth and sun-dried grass, mingling with the faint fragrance of distant blossoms. Along this path, an old wooden cart rattled forward, creaking with every uneven bump. The horses pulling it—two aging beasts with shaggy coats—moved at a sluggish pace, their breaths coming in steady, labored huffs. The cart itself was a patchwork of worn wood and frayed fabric, its canopy riddled with small tears where sunlight speared through in golden shafts.

Inside, the stifling heat pressed down like an invisible weight. Dust hung thick in the air, stirred by the uneven journey, coating everything in a fine layer of grit. A young man sat on the left bench, his back stiff with growing discomfort. His short, unruly black hair clung to his damp forehead, and sweat glistened on his pale skin. Dressed in a loose black jacket and simple gray trousers, he cut an unremarkable figure—aside from the irritation flickering in his dark eyes. Every jolt of the cart sent another wave of frustration coursing through him, the relentless shaking threatening to unravel his patience.

Across from him, on the right bench, lay a girl, motionless as a statue. Her long, flowing black hair, streaked with deep blue strands, cascaded over the wooden surface like liquid silk. A thin blue cloth, resembling a blindfold, covered her eyes, obscuring whatever expression might have been hidden beneath. Her skin was porcelain-pale, luminous in the dappled sunlight, and her lips—naturally rosy—were slightly parted, as if caught in an unspoken breath. She exuded an eerie stillness, an unnatural calm that seemed at odds with the chaotic motion of the cart.

The scent of aged wood, sunbaked leather, and faint traces of sweat mingled in the air, blending with the rhythmic creak of the cart’s wheels and the steady clop of hooves against the dusty path. At the front, guiding the horses with weathered hands, sat an elderly man. His white hair fluttered in the breeze, and though his back was bent with age, there was a quiet contentment in the way he hummed an old tune under his breath. To him, this was just another peaceful day on the road.

For the young man, however, it was anything but peaceful. The sweltering heat pressed against his skin, and the cart’s endless jolting was a slow form of torture. Two hours had passed since they had set off, and his patience had worn thin. With a sigh of exasperation, he finally broke the silence.

“Old man,” he said, his voice carrying a strained edge, “it’s been two hours already. Shouldn’t these horses be faster than this?”

The driver glanced back through the small wooden window, his smile unwavering. “My apologies, young sir. These horses are twenty-four and twenty-six years old. They’re not as spry as they used to be, and their Menma isn’t what it once was.”

Menma. The word lingered in the air like a whispered legend. It was more than just a virus—it was life itself, the unseen force that had reshaped the world. When Menma first swept across the Earth, it didn’t stop at humans; it seeped into every living thing, rewriting nature’s rules. Some animals became stronger, faster, their abilities harnessed for labor and companionship. Others… changed. Some grew monstrous, their Menma-enhanced instincts turning them into nightmares that lurked in the wilds.

The young man frowned, momentarily forgetting his frustration. “Twenty-six years? That’s past the average lifespan for a horse. Why haven’t you replaced them?”

The old man’s grip on the reins tightened slightly, but his expression remained gentle. “Replace them?” he echoed, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. “Many have told me the same. But to discard them simply because they’ve grown old… that’s not something I can bring myself to do. They’ve been with me for so long—they’re like family.”

For a moment, the young man said nothing. His gaze drifted to the driver’s white hair, fluttering in the wind like a banner surrendering to time. He had expected some practical answer—cost, availability, convenience. Instead, he had been met with something else entirely. These horses weren’t just tools; they were reminders of years gone by, of journeys taken and burdens shared.

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He lowered his head slightly, trying to ignore the constant shaking of the cart.

His thoughts turned to the girl across from him. Not once had she moved since the journey began. The cart rocked and swayed, yet she remained undisturbed, like a figure carved from stone. Even her breathing was so faint it was barely noticeable. He studied her with growing curiosity.

How can she be so calm in this infernal heat? he wondered. Is she even awake?

A mischievous thought crossed his mind.

I wonder… if she’d be angry if I suddenly threw up on her...