Kays Translations

Chapter 12: Grandpa Wolf

A string of unexpected mishaps forced what had been a joyous, harmonious seaside outing to come to an abrupt and premature end.

With a half-deflated rucksack slung across his back and his left hand clasping the slender, fur-soft fingers of the little fox girl, Marlon walked silently along the path that led them home.

He spoke not a word. His head was lowered, shadowed by a weight of thoughts that pressed down upon him—thoughts of how he had somehow become a mind sorcerer, capable of performing the impossible: summoning, of all things, a bright yellow Bumblebee sports car into reality.

That incantation—those simple syllables whispered half in jest—could it truly hold such power?

He had merely entertained the thought absentmindedly, almost like a passing whim, and yet the Bumblebee had materialized before his eyes as though conjured from the ether itself.

This is too… far too unscientific! he thought, his mind reeling.

If, in that moment, his imagination had not settled on the image of a car but rather on something utterly absurd—say, one of those infamous adult film actresses from the islands, caught mid-performance—wouldn’t he have instantly become the laughingstock of White Sand City?

That mortifying idea made him wince.

Unbidden, his thoughts drifted back to a darker memory: not long ago, after attending his poor aunt’s funeral, he had collapsed into a strange and prolonged coma. Within that unconscious abyss he had dreamt a dream so bizarre, so vivid, that it refused to leave him.

Even now, the dream recurred from time to time.

In it, he found himself raising a candle that bloomed with starlight, its faint glow illuminating an enormous pair of crimson gates that soared skyward, seemingly without end. Drawn by the muffled roar of countless voices, he would press his eye to the narrow gap between the doors—only to glimpse a world within, dazzling and chaotic, full of incomprehensible figures.

And always, just as the chant of “Master! Master!” swelled to a deafening crescendo, Marlon would jolt awake without warning, heart hammering in his chest.

Perhaps it was because the dream felt too real. Or perhaps it was because he had experienced it too many times.

But now, replaying it in his mind, Marlon realized something chilling: within that chorus of “Master!”—within that thunderous call—he had heard the same electric, buzzing broadcast voice that had spoken when he summoned the Bumblebee car:

“My—mast… Bumblebee, t—you—serve.”

Could it be… that his psychic incantation not only called forth the car, but also had the potential to summon forth the myriad beings hidden behind those crimson doors?

If so, who—or what—could emerge?

His thoughts spiraled in a feverish tumble:

The comedians and tricksters of old tales. The heroes and antiheroes from every story he had ever known—Captain Jack Sparrow, swaggering upon his black ship; the mighty Hulk, green and unstoppable; the solemn and unyielding Ip Man, radiating martial grace; Gandalf the White, staff blazing as he transformed before his very eyes.

Then came the heroines: the clever Huang Rong of the ’83 series, Audrey Hepburn—the angel of the mortal world, luminous and gentle; Alice, blade in hand, cleaving through hordes of undead; Lara Croft, fiery and unyielding, her body a weapon in itself.

And beyond them, armies of Autobots and Decepticons; Iron Man soaring through the skies; Gundam mechs and EVA units bristling with power…

If all of these could be called forth, just as he had summoned the Bumblebee—how magnificent, how utterly overwhelming would that be?

The mere thought made Marlon’s pulse race, his lips almost shaping the spell again.

But reason stayed his tongue. He was no longer by the sea, secluded and free to experiment. He was now walking through the crowded streets of the slums, where children played barefoot in the dust and crippled veterans lingered in the shade, all of them casting warm, respectful glances toward him.

Born in these very slums, Marlon was no stranger here. He had donated heavily to establish orphanages and veterans’ homes; in White Sand City’s poorest quarters, there was scarcely a soul who did not know his name.

To attempt a summoning here, in the open, to call down an Iron Man or a Gundam before the eyes of the masses—no, that would be sheer lunacy.

Besides, he had yet to explain anything about his newfound powers to the fox girl or the others.

“Cousin Marlon,” a young, piping voice broke through his thoughts, “are you really going to the masquerade ball tonight?”

It was little Anvi, curiosity shining in his wide eyes. Fortunately, the boy’s question was no longer about the miraculous car.

“Yes,” Marlon replied briskly, pulled back to the present.

“Oh…” Anvi pouted, perched atop the broad back of the giant wolfhound with painted markings. Dissatisfaction clouded his expression, and then—quite suddenly—he blurted out, “Cousin Marlon, that old man from before must have been Grandpa Wolf in disguise!”

“Grandpa Wolf?” Marlon blinked, bewildered. What sort of creature was that supposed to be?

Anvi explained earnestly, his childlike logic tumbling forth: “Yes! Grandpa Wolf! Little Red Riding Hood was eaten by Grandma Wolf, and then Grandma Wolf was killed by the hunter you sent. So obviously, that old man was Grandpa Wolf, coming to trick you and get revenge!”

Marlon couldn’t help but chuckle at the boy’s wild imagination. Children truly did see the world differently—just as The Little Prince had once said, their vision was a kaleidoscope of colors and wonders beyond adult comprehension.

After his laughter faded, Marlon donned the air of a responsible elder. “Anvi, tonight you must be obedient. Listen carefully to Sister Adela, and study well with her.”

Anvi, however, cast a wary glance at the beautiful Adela, as though she were not a gentle tutor but one of the terrifying demons from Marlon’s stories—“Tiger Granny,” the child-eating witch who devoured naughty little ones.

Adela, for her part, remained composed, her voice calm and measured: “As for tonight, Young Master Marlon, you should concern yourself less with children’s tales and more with your attire. At the masquerade ball, you must wear something that draws every eye, and of course… you will need a suitable lady as your partner.”

Her tone was practical, professional, as though the near-disaster on the beach earlier—when the Claw Druid Master had mistaken her for a descendant of the Infernal Demons—had never even occurred. Already, she had returned to her duties as his personal maid, her focus unwavering.

“A striking outfit? A lady companion?” Marlon repeated, dumbfounded. He had assumed the masquerade was little more than a diversion—a mask, a few idle conversations, and nothing more.

“Do you still feel as though you live in an empire?” the Claw Druid interjected dryly, his voice tinged with scorn. “Upper society thrives on such charades. To them, aristocratic life means parading in gowns and jewels, arm-in-arm with powdered women, reveling at their endless balls. It is decadence dressed as tradition.”

The druid’s disdain was plain. A man devoted to nature could hardly stomach the extravagance and filth he saw in nobility.

Even as he spoke, however, his gaze was not on Marlon but upon a figure approaching them from the opposite direction: a thin young man draped in a heavy, roughspun cloak with a deep hood, entirely unsuited for the warming season.

Beneath that shadowed cowl, no one could discern his face. Yet from the druid’s keen eyes, it was clear—the man’s hands, hidden within wide sleeves, were cradling something spherical, something shifting in color with a soft glow.

A crystal ball.

A tool for scouting.

And its light pulsed as if alive.

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