Food and the Ghost Philosopher

Food and the Philosopher Wraith

Food is important.

Without food, there is no foundation for a person's most basic survival. In truth, if they cannot fill their stomachs, even the most well-dressed civilized man will eventually devolve into a brutal beast.

To put it in simpler terms, even the vengeful wraith of Nostramo needs to eat.

After all, he isn't a real ghost, so how could he not eat?

The cold wind whistled past, whipping up Karyl's cloak and black hair. Wraith crouched on the other end, staring blankly down below. If he wasn't executing a mission, this was the expression he wore most of the time.

But then again, a year-and-a-half-old child should have that kind of expression, shouldn't he?

Generally speaking, a gargoyle on the edge of a high-rise is an excellent vantage point, offering a view of the many sights below. However, by choosing it, one must also endure the cold it brings.

"It is lonely at the top," as the saying goes; perhaps that is the truth of it.

Karyl took a deep breath and picked up a large glob of black, viscous substance from the plastic tray in front of him. It looked like poison or some unidentified object from a sewer, and as for how it tasted...

Honestly, sometimes Karyl wished he still lacked a sense of taste.

Wraith turned his head. He watched as Karyl's expression shifted from solemnity to a strange, twisted grimace after a difficult swallow.

This made him tilt his head involuntarily.

"Why do you eat that stuff?" Wraith asked, puzzled. "And you always eat it."

"Because I am an ordinary person—furthermore, I don't have the means to improve our diet. We have no money, Wraith."

Karyl swallowed the thing stuck in his throat with great difficulty and replied, "The most important point is that I need to eat, and I must eat at least once a day. Unlike you, once every three days is enough."

Wraith thought about this for a moment and nodded.

He didn't hear any malice in Karyl's words, at most a faint mockery, and that mockery was even directed at Karyl himself.

Besides, it was true that Wraith only ate once every three days.

Karyl closed his eyes and sighed—the terrible taste of the nutrient paste made him want to retch.

He had just finished a job that lasted six hours, and this was the small reward he received during his brief rest.

He had cleared out a building equipped with air filters on the top floor. Aside from a few innocent people, most of those inside were corrupt officials and the thugs and bodyguards they had hired from gangs.

Karyl killed them, but he didn't distribute the money they had hidden to the poor. He dispersed them and then set a fire to burn all the money to ash.

That kind of money—the commoners couldn't take it, and it was better if they didn't.

"Do you want more?" Wraith asked.

"Of course. Cherishing food is a virtue," Karyl replied.

His expression remained calm, but that didn't mean he actually wanted to eat it.

In fact, he was very grateful now that this nutrient paste turned into a viscous fluid after being soaked in water. If it were the other kind, he might have needed to start a fire.

That pale yellow nutrient paste was as hard as a brick. A knife couldn't cut it, water couldn't soften it; to eat that stuff raw, you'd have to be a Serrated Beast from outside the city, capable of biting through steel.

However, Serrated Beasts had plenty of people to eat; they wouldn't touch this stuff.

"Why not eat rats?" Wraith asked, frowning. "If you are worried about germs, you can remove the internal organs and roast them over a fire until they are charred."

Karyl's cheek twitched.

"Wraith, don't tell me you've been secretly catching and eating rats lately! I clearly go out and bring back plenty of nutrient paste every three days!"

"Nutrient paste doesn't taste good. Rats taste good, and the rats are big."

Wraith turned his head, beginning to evade the subject. "Besides, they usually travel in packs. You can get quite full just by catching a few."

"That is not a reason for you to eat rats!"

Karyl said sternly, while simultaneously grabbing a handful of the black, viscous substance with his fingers. The sensation made his stomach churn, yet he ate it anyway.

He didn't even hesitate.

No matter how bad it tasted, it was still food. And in a hellhole like Nostramo, it was relatively clean, all things considered.

"But I think rats are a bit better than nutrient paste, Karyl," Wraith persuaded him, hesitating. "You really should consider rats."

"You listen to me, Wraith: you are a human! And humans do not eat rats!"

"You're lying. I know many ways to cook rats. If humans didn't eat them, who would have invented so many ways to make them delicious?"

As Wraith spoke, he smacked his lips, seemingly trying to reconstruct the rat dishes in his mind through imagination.

"I am not lying."

And besides, is there something wrong with the guy who created you?

Karyl frowned in disbelief.

Why would he stuff knowledge about how to cook rats into your brain?

"But those rats really look delicious."

Wraith said. He crouched there, turning his head with a touch of longing to look at the scenery below the gargoyle.

The neon lights split the sky as they always did, and vehicles roared past in the distance. The bronze gargoyle they were perched upon was fortunate enough to have escaped the corrosion of acid rain.

Wraith liked it; he was stroking its head, feeling the regularity of its form.

His body heat was gradually warming the gargoyle, and bit by bit, the spots he touched were no longer quite so icy. This positive feedback made Wraith happily linger with his hand there for longer and longer.

Karyl noticed this. Based on his understanding of Wraith's habits, he knew that, barring any surprises, Wraith would choose to overlook the city from this spot for the next several days.

His behavior was naive and childish, just as a child would act.

Yet Karyl knew that hidden beneath this facade of innocence was a monster that only needed time to grow into something capable of overturning the entire world.

As for Wraith, he did not respond, and Karyl was terrified that his own imagination might kick in at a time when it shouldn't.

Eating nutrient paste was already a form of torture; if he were to imagine charred rats or skinned, steamed rats while consuming it...

His face twitched.

"What about them?" Wraith suddenly asked.

His question put an end to Karyl's imagination, which made him heave a sigh of relief.

"Who?" Karyl asked.

"Them. The people living in the shantytowns."

"You want to ask what they usually eat, is that it?"

Wraith nodded.

Karyl glanced at him, then shoved the last piece—or rather, the last glob—of nutrient paste into his mouth. After doing so, he didn't forget to tuck the plastic tray into the inner pocket of his coat.

He wasn't the type to litter, and besides, throwing things from such a height was dangerous.

Just like that, while struggling to swallow the stuff that was so foul it made his taste buds go numb with fear, Karyl gave a garbled answer to Wraith's question.

"Most people eat the same thing I do. This stuff only became widespread in Nostramo over the last decade. They say it's because some high-ranking noble decided there was no need for the workers to eat too well."

After saying this, Karyl cleared his throat, hoping to make it feel a bit better and escape the torture of that viscous texture.

Of course, his efforts failed.

Meeting Wraith's gaze, he added, "As for whether they can get full, that depends on how hard they work. If they're willing to work over 18 hours a day, then yes, they can still get full that day."

Wraith's eyes widened. He didn't know much about the world, but the knowledge he did possess was enough for him to understand exactly what this meant.

"Is that why so many people commit suicide?" Wraith asked in a low voice.

Karyl smiled. You still haven't seen the truth of this hellhole, he thought. People use suicide to escape their misery not just because they aren't fed or clothed, but because they can't see a shred of hope.

And the nobles didn't even care—to them, if the workers died, they died; not consuming resources was actually a good thing.

"No, it's not just that," Karyl said. "That's only part of the reason, at best."

"Then, is it because of the gangs?"

"They are merely accomplices."

"So... it's the nobles' fault?"

"In a sense, yes." Karyl shook his head.

"But the root cause still doesn't lie with them, Wraith. You once said you felt this world was sick, but you have no idea what a normal world looks like."

Wraith was silent for a moment before offering his rebuttal: "I have seen fragments. Those worlds are not quite the same as Nostramo."

Not quite the same, indeed, Karyl thought.

"What makes them different from Nostramo?" Wraith asked blankly. "Do you have the answer, Karyl?"

I do. Of course I do.

I have ten million answers I could tell you; I could even write a book to tell you what should be done.

I have had too much time to ponder this question. The years I've spent drifting through this world have allowed me to see too many things.

And these things are heavy enough to turn a ghost who only wants to die into a philosopher.

But I cannot, Wraith.

Staring at him, Karyl spoke softly: "Some questions have answers you must find for yourself, Wraith. I cannot tell you. Everyone's attitude toward the world is different, and I don't want to influence you..."

Even though I already have. I am sorry.

"Besides—break time is over."

Karyl stood up, his expression shifting in an instant. He tightened the straps of his cloak and flicked his arm, a dangerous silver light glinting at his wrist.

"Who is it today?" Wraith asked.

"The Crimson Finale. Remember to greet them later, Wraith; they were generous enough to lend us two motorcycles last time."

Karyl burst into loud laughter and leaped straight off the gargoyle, with Wraith following close behind.

The gargoyle stared coldly at it all, the faint warmth Wraith had left on its head fading away at a rapid pace.

An elderly woman walked into a dark corridor, her back hunched. She had a head full of white hair, was somewhat stout, and walked with a slight limp.

The woman held a large silver tray with gold-inlaid edges, piled high with food. There were three perfectly pan-fried, massive steaks, soft white bread, thick soup, and an entire piece of exquisite pastry.

The aroma was intoxicating.

If this were in the underhive, thousands upon thousands would likely slaughter each other for such a meal, paying a heavy price just for a single bite.

Embedded deep within the flesh of the woman's back was a black metal base, from which extended a delicate, pitch-black mechanical arm. A candle burned slowly atop its three sharp, mechanical fingers.

She walked down the corridor, the faint candlelight gradually dispelling the darkness. The woman walked slowly, but not due to age or infirmity. She did so deliberately.

The walls on both sides of the corridor were hung with portraits of men and women in fine, ornate clothing, their faces pale and caked with powder. The dead were encased in exquisite frames, their edges featuring magnificent reliefs that reflected the candlelight.

They all stared with hollow eyes, watching the woman. She returned the gesture to each one, with the utmost respect.

Fifteen minutes later, she finally left the corridor. Carrying the tray, the woman stood before two heavy, gilded, relief-carved doors and struck them heavily with her forehead.

A dull thud echoed out, and after three strikes, the doors opened automatically. She stepped into a brand-new, cavernous room.

Thick, dark red carpets, eighteen crystal chandeliers, and an abundance of heavy furniture and decorations made the place look magnificent—it was more of a small palace than a room.

"My respected Count."

The woman bowed deeply, her white hair sliding over her already red and swollen forehead, her voice pious. "Your lunch has arrived."

"Place it on the table."

A voice rang out from the other end of the room, carrying a hint of nonchalance and the authority that comes from long-held power—it is worth noting that, aside from these qualities, his voice was very hoarse.

Keeping her head low, the woman moved slowly, relying on memory to reach a long mahogany table. She set the tray down, then walked straight to the doors, intending to leave.

But the voice spoke again at that moment: "In twenty minutes, summon Jando, Lena, and Irene. Their playtime is over. The Skraivok family has a mission for them."

"As you command, my Count." The woman turned back, bowed respectfully, and then struck the doors heavily with her forehead three more times; only after they opened did she respectfully depart.

Her forehead had begun to bleed, but no one cared, not even herself.