Chapter 13

46

The Monarch of Decay opened one eye and dragged the countless roots that made up his entire body roughly a light-year away, leisurely settling atop a sun that had gone out and grown cold as ice. This was the most comfortable spot he could find in this star system. The death of its star would inevitably drag the entire system into lifeless silence, though one planet was still struggling.

This was the fourth time in two hundred years that the "self" on Earth had contacted his true body. The frequency was a little high, but he could understand how that self felt. The second contact had provided the coordinates of his location at the time, in anticipation of a visitor at the level of a true god-but the "Black Emperor" had not come. His "self" had been stood up, and that streak of light had headed toward the moon. Thus came the third contact: the consciousnesses of his true body and vessel switched places, and the "self" on Earth approached the "Black Emperor" for a brief, cordial conversation in the cosmos. When the consciousnesses switched back, he sensed the "pleasure" lingering in his organs of thought.

Joy, pity, schadenfreude.

Sorrow, sympathy, boundless tenderness.

Abandoning humanity did not mean losing the ability to feel joy, anger, sorrow, and delight, but his slumbering true body had not experienced such happiness in a very long time.

And that joy reached its peak when he witnessed the Black Emperor's fall. The pleasure of participating in and watching a true god's death was second only to personally bringing decay to a planet. Across countless miles, the ecstasy that the tiny vessel could not withstand was conveyed to his true body in the cosmos, making even the stars at his fingertips tremble.

He wanted so very, very badly to find the site of his resurrection, take the "Black Emperor's" ruined body from his mausoleum, and solemnly cradle this shadow of order in his palm. He wanted to admire his suffering born of humanity, admire the madness brought on by corruption, and prolong and savor it forever. But Earth's sky was shrouded by Evernight's curtain. Even an Outer Deity's eyes, capable of seeing through dimensions, could not accurately locate the final tomb through layer upon layer of concealment.

The Mother Goddess of Depravity faced him from afar on the moon. The two Outer Deities' gazes met briefly, then turned away. Neither the incomplete Pillar nor the Great Old One who had lost half his Sefirah had any intention of provoking trouble. They quietly awaited the arrival of that day.

The Monarch of Decay stroked the planet in his palm. The living beings upon it, unable to live yet unable to die, wailed praises to his name.

His other hands each held a pale, lifeless planet or a flower the same color as his eyes, but his three-hundredth hand was empty. He ought to put something there. When his "self" had first contacted his true body, he had said that a female human child on Earth had divined the heavens and made a bet with him. So he had drawn lots and crushed the planet in his three-hundredth hand, sending the fragments of that small planet skimming past Earth through its atmosphere. They became the most magnificent meteor shower of the night and left astronomers collectively tearing their hair out.

The eye in the palm of his four-hundred-and-thirty-fifth hand opened. Its blue-green pupil, symbolizing destruction, turned the hand toward Earth. The Southern Continent was a suitable size; it could fit in a bottle. If he wanted to carry the Northern Continent away, he would have to break it apart and pack it separately. But the best option would be to hold the entire Earth in his hand, just like the souvenirs he had casually taken during his past wanderings.

The fourth contact was a brief exchange within their thoughts.

His "self" said, "I've surveyed every accessible place on Earth. The mysterious Western Continent has been sealed by the Lord of the Mysteries, and I haven't found my Sefirah. Perhaps I need to visit the 'Forsaken Land of the Gods.'"

The Monarch of Decay replied, "All right."

His "self" added, "I can't go to the Forsaken Land of the Gods without a reason. It is the True Creator's divine kingdom, after all. Do I have any options?"

The Monarch of Decay thought for a second. A torrent of information and knowledge rolled through his mind and was conveyed to his "self" in an instant.

The first option was infiltration, but infiltrating another god's divine kingdom would clearly cause conflict between gods, and his "self" had no intention of abandoning his current identity yet. The second was to create a catastrophe in the Forsaken Land of the Gods. The "True Creator" would send someone to investigate, but he had his own Angels and might not send his "self." The third option was to wait and see, looking for an opportunity to enter naturally. That would probably require a long wait, however. The chance might only come when a war between gods began.

"Then let's wait and see," answered the consciousness on Earth. "I'll help him complete the ritual to descend upon the world first."

47

Lanevus gently pushed the door open and entered the room. The person seated by the windowsill silently looked over, giving him a fright.

"What did you go out for?" I asked him. "Good morning, Deceiver. It isn't time for you to leave yet."

"...M-my lord."

It was as though an electric current had coursed through him. The con man lowered his head in terror, his fingers uncontrollably scratching his arms. Whenever those eyes watched him, he could not help recalling everything he had suffered in that warning dream, and his whole body began to ache faintly. "I didn't-I wasn't trying to run away! You've been meditating for two days. I only went out to look into the Nighthawks' movements! I absolutely wasn't-"

"I believe you're a man who knows what's good for him."

I adjusted for the time difference in passing, recalling that the last time I had gone out was when I had casually bought a newspaper reporting that pirate's death. Setting down the book that had lain open in my hands for dozens of hours, I answered calmly, "There's no need to be nervous. Why are you nervous? You successfully fulfilled the prerequisites for the Descent of the True Creator and received his reward and flesh. Once it succeeds, you'll be a Blessed. Or are you still afraid of something utterly unreasonable?"

"Y-yes," Lanevus stammered. "I'm only his follower, an insignificant human. How could I serve as-as-"

"As long as he can descend successfully, he probably won't care about such trivial matters," I said. "Show your worth. Since you can't escape, do your job, then pray for the god's favor."

Left with no choice, the Deceiver drew a deep breath, quickly composed himself, and began his report. "...When I previously tried to flee Tingen, I left behind many clues and loose ends. Those traces misled the Mandated Punishers and the Machinery Hivemind into believing I had already escaped. The Nighthawks found that letter in my residence, but they probably haven't realized what, uh, the 'bomb' actually is yet. Please forgive my stupidity and ignorance at the time."

I nodded. "Continue."

"The Nighthawks are investigating Madam Sharon's case. You may not know much about it, but in short, the current clues point to a struggle between Beyonder gangs. The Nighthawks haven't uncovered anything. The police have already published a notice in the newspaper classifying it as a vicious murder."

That was right. While contacting my "true body," I had indeed sensed a faint, prying gaze. It seemed to be high-level divination, but it was pitifully weak, and the connection had broken before I could trace it back. At such moments, my state happened to reach a special point at which I possessed the standing of a Great Old One. That reckless diviner would lose their life in an instant and see nothing before dying.

Lanevus finished his report, which was largely accurate. I looked out the window. Two buildings and two streets separated this place from the Nighthawks' base, the "Blackthorn Security Company," yet I could still take in everything happening there through the Nightmare's eyes and ears. After sorting through the additional information in my mind, I found that the following events had occurred at the Nighthawks' base over the past forty-eight hours:

1. The Nightmare's special application had received a response from the Holy Cathedral. Someone would soon come to evaluate him, and he was about to advance to Sequence 6.

2. Within the small building, terms related to "Daly" and "Miss Daly" had been mentioned twelve times, twice by the Nightmare himself. The verbs most frequently appearing around them were "confess," "invite," and "meet."

3. They had been dispatched twice to investigate the Demoness incident and found nothing. They had also helped the Mandated Punishers search for Lanevus's whereabouts, again finding nothing.

4. The fabrications that 0-08 and its Scribe imposed on reality had alerted the Nighthawks to the existence of "coincidences," and they were consciously resisting them.

5. The Demoness's death had been classified as some sort of ritual to please a Devil.

While drinking tea, I spent half a second mentally considering the phrase "a ritual to please a Devil." In a sense, it was entirely correct. The Scribe had used the Demoness as a blood sacrifice, begging me to leave his hiding place and this city, but I had refused and punished him. I had left only traces of a clash of Beyonder powers at the scene. It might indeed have been a little bloody, but there were far too many Pathways and people with a taste for bloodshed. A fight between Beyonders or a conflict between secret organizations would have been understandable conclusions. How had they arrived at a "Devil ritual"?

Had the high-level divination not failed? Or had someone realized this was a mid- to High Sequence "Devil" feeding? The latter was more likely... I slowly looked over. The Nightmare was talking to his teammates, and his gaze happened to sweep across each of their faces: the Midnight Poet, the Clown, the Corpse Collector, the Mystery Pryer... Each bore traces, to varying degrees, of distortion in their fate, especially the Midnight Poet and the Clown. They should be the two mentioned in the notebook who always escaped danger unscathed. The one explicitly marked as "having a secret" was-the Midnight Poet.

I could pay him a little attention... Or should I just kill him while I'm at it?

Following the Nightmare's perspective, I watched the two young survivors walk downstairs side by side. Someone knocked on the reception room door, pushed it open, and entered: a tall, blonde woman. She wore a ruffled hat and a long dress, and had green eyes. Her belly bulged as though she were at least seven months pregnant.

The Nightmare could not see it, nor could the Midnight Poet or the Clown. An almost tangible aura of resentment and despair gathered around the woman, especially her belly, contracting and expanding like gray mist with the breathing of the fetus inside. It had not yet been fully absorbed. The child saw me, opened his eyes, and giggled toward the Nightmare. The mother, who had not yet lost consciousness, also turned her head in confusion under the child's influence and nodded to the Nightmare. His body instantly went taut.

I blinked at him as well. The Scribe was even more impatient than I had imagined. How on earth had he survived this long?

"Good afternoon, my ally's child," I said. "Of course, you'll soon be my ally himself."

Then I turned my head. The Deceiver thought I had been talking to thin air and kept stealing glances out the window. "You may leave."

Lanevus froze, then sprang up as though he had been granted a pardon, grabbed his suitcase, and dashed out the door so quickly that he seemed afraid I would change my mind on the spot. I watched his figure disappear down the street, then looked toward the Blackthorn Security Company again and leisurely picked up my teacup and saucer.

"Don't forget our deal," I said.

48

Inside the reception hall of the Blackthorn Security Company.

Leonard had already recovered from his earlier stiffness. With nothing unusual showing on his face, he began discussing the newly discovered house Lanevus had rented.

"Really? He never told me..." Megose frowned slightly and gave a perfectly normal reply. After speaking, she grabbed her blonde hair, pulled out an entire handful, and casually tossed it into the nearby trash can. Again and again she pulled, her face faintly contorting.

Leonard went blank for a moment and swallowed with difficulty, cold sweat seeping into his palms once more. When Megose suddenly clawed her face open, tearing away a long strip of blood-soaked flesh and exposing her stark white teeth, he could not help tilting his head to listen. His face immediately turned ashen.

He forced out a smile and said to Megose, who kept clawing at her face and tearing away flesh, "I'm going to the washroom."

Behind the partition at the end of the corridor, Dunn watched Leonard talking with Klein and nervously preparing for battle. Suddenly, he slipped into a brief daze. His empty hand instinctively reached for the holster at his waist, feeling that he ought to eliminate the two companions obstructing the Descent of the True Creator, as agreed. But in the next second, he returned to normal, naturally patted the hem of his clothes, and joined in the tactical planning.

Dunn Smith tugged at his collar and said firmly, "I'll go out first with Saint Selena's Ashes. Wait ten seconds-remember, count silently to ten before coming out to fight. When the time comes, no matter whether I'm in good shape or bad, you mustn't waste any time. Aim at Megose and the baby in her belly, and unleash your strongest attacks."

With that, he turned away and walked tall toward the reception hall, carrying the urn, and toward the evil god's offspring waiting there.

TBC

*It's time for another battle section, and the author is slacking off.

The first contact in two hundred years: Bernadette, who had just become a Sequence 5 Astronomer, made a bet with Edward over whether there would be a meteor shower on a certain date.

Edward: There isn't one, true, but there could be. Want to see it?

*There was no far-reaching scheme, no terrifying scenario imagined by the Hanged Man. He was simply bored (...) In peaceful times, he was bored enough to make bets with a little girl and throw away his collectibles. In winter, he even had snowball fights with the Gustav Family. Then everyone conspired to turn Roselle into a snowman, earning Matilda's lavish praise. After Roselle crawled out, he put on a display for the children of reliable adults (Mythical Creatures) engaging in a friendly brawl. (...