Chapter 2

5

A human once said that ideals and reality were always worlds apart.

More than a thousand years had passed since my feet first touched the ground, and the seventh god had ascended the divine throne. I had watched my good friend, the one and only Black Emperor, fall from the heavens, and witnessed a glorious age born in his hands. I had witnessed war sweep across the land, its people struggling to survive in despair, leaving behind the desolate, decaying sights I loved best. And now, in this peaceful age, I sat at a window seat in an inexpensive café in Backlund, waiting for the person the editorial office had arranged to meet me.

Yes, I was an angel. I was working.

My job was to provide plays and novels for theaters and magazines. I worked because I was bored. I had already achieved my goal of proving myself a devil, so the complete destruction of my previous cult was no great matter. The cult I had reestablished in the Fifth Epoch had grown unchecked in the gaps between war and peace, acquiring properties and businesses. That undoubtedly required a great deal of money, and since Roselle Gustav's death, they had not had money to spare in a very long time. My ally was also very poor. He was not quite unable to put food on the table, but funds were often tight. Evil cults were always poor.

Once, while he was lucid, I asked, "Are all evil gods this hard up?"

He answered with a hint of melancholy, "Things were passable in the Second and Fourth Epochs. Since the Fifth Epoch, many means of acquiring resources and money have been regulated. Funding has limited the expansion of cults and their followers."

Just then, I heard one of his followers praying and considerately relayed the message. "Your saint says they lack operating funds and would like your guidance."

He fell silent for a moment, then from his august lips came such incoherent ravings as "sown,z,ow@nswo!nsn,dskunjinkaokunjinkaoijwj!sns,#

"-it appeared poverty had driven him mad this time. Yet mixed into the chaotic ravings were the Russian words for "no money," "asking me won't help," and "go make money." In this way, he ignored the prayer and tried to escape reality.

How miserable. How were Rose Bishops supposed to make money? Perform tricks with Flesh Magic? So I said, "I'll sponsor a small plantation."

"All right," he answered immediately, without a second thought. Then he paused and resumed his ravings in a transparent attempt to cover it up.

6

The person the editorial office had arranged to send seemed to be a currently bestselling novelist. I had met her once. Her dispirited, self-destructive appearance and her soul, once tainted by forbidden substances, could inspire a little affection in a devil. The only blemish was that she did not truly enjoy depravity. Beneath that seemingly lifeless exterior lurked an extraordinarily strong will to survive, which was particularly annoying.

The wind chime at the entrance rang. I raised my head and watched the young woman with long, slightly wavy brown hair walk briskly over and sit opposite me.

"Good afternoon, Miss Fors Wall."

As a courteous gentleman, I rose and took the initiative to greet her. "It seems you've brought a sufficiently interesting story."

At that, she gave a faint, weary smile. Her dark circles and arrival more than half an hour late betrayed the fact that she had been scrambling to meet a deadline. Miss Fors took her seat, pulled a thick stack of manuscript pages from her bag, and placed it on the table.

Quite a lot. I glanced at the stack, a full three centimeters thick. Although I could acquire all the information in an instant, playing a human meant I had to pretend to read every word, neither too quickly nor too slowly. I also had to display the appropriate human reading behavior through various expressions and gestures along the way. I hope this story really is interesting. I accepted it with a smile, adjusted my glasses, and began to read. I need to finish this quickly. Later today, I still have to report to my mad ally about the Descent of the True Creator, and communicating with him often means wasting a great deal of time listening to his ravings.

For this purpose, he had specifically given me a Sealed Artifact, both as protection and as a symbol of our alliance. It was a small upright cross, an item he had possessed when he was still the Sun. It could effectively ward off the effects of corruption and ravings, including all sorts of filthy spirituality.

It was an impeccable gift, but...

But I was a devil.

At least, on the surface, I was a devil. Giving me a Sealed Artifact like this and asking me to keep it on my person made my first reactions upon hearing the news, He doesn't trust me, and He's testing my true pathway. As a result, I remained cautious for at least ten years. Only later, through everyday conversations, did I confirm that he had never thought that deeply about it. He simply had not thought at all.

Wearing it on my chest would make me look too much like a clergyman, and I was not a follower of the Hanged Man. In the end, I chose to turn the little Pure Cross into an earring.

7

Fors Wall reached up and rubbed between her brows. Her eye sockets ached a little, too. Of the week she had been given to meet her deadline, she had spent the first six days taking it easy. The price was staying up almost all of last night, and she had still been writing furiously half an hour before coming here. Procrastination was incurable. It would never be cured in this lifetime. Scrambling at the deadline was the only way she could turn things in on time.

She gave a small yawn, hoping to finish the discussion quickly and go home to catch up on sleep, then narrowed her eyes at the collaborator sitting across from her.

Mr. Edward Vaughan was a writer with a modest reputation in Backlund. He often accepted commissions to write operas, and occasionally wrote novellas to order. Most of his works, however, were quite formal, with underlying tragedy and considerable satire. They had been popular in earlier years, but nowadays most people preferred lighthearted comic operas or more entertaining plays. His audience was often limited to equally solemn academics and stuffy gentlemen.

I'm not confident about working with an old stick-in-the-mud like him-er, no, a serious senior colleague... The female writer, whose greatest talent was catching readers' attention with romance novels, scratched her head. Sigh, but the pay for collaborating on this script is excellent. If we can finish it successfully, I can start planning my New Year's trip at the end of this year. Maybe I can even take Xio along...

"Miss Wall."

His quiet call interrupted her wandering thoughts.

"Miss Wall."

Fors startled and looked up to find him watching her. His eyes were pitch-black, gleaming dimly behind his lenses like a stretch of void. His dark irises almost merged with his pupils, making them difficult to distinguish.

"Yes," she said, a little awkwardly. "What is it?"

"According to your plot, of a pair of lovers deeply in love with each other, the male lead meets an untimely death, and the female lead, overcome with grief, resolves to avenge her beloved." Mr. Edward adjusted his glasses and laid a page of the manuscript flat on the table. He had read it very carefully. "But the poor female lead has limited abilities, and in the end, it is only when their friend comes to help that the murderer is brought to justice... Miss Wall, I recall that the editorial office requested a comedy."

"It is a comedy." Fors straightened in her seat, slightly embarrassed. "That friend catches the murderer with her help and makes sure he receives the punishment he deserves. Doesn't that make it a comedy? Ah, I'm sorry. This is my first time writing a play. Perhaps my understanding differs somewhat from yours..."

"Young lady, an ending like that hardly counts as a comedy."

Mr. Edward Vaughan offered his assessment. "...It lacks tension and explosive force. If she seeks revenge, why shouldn't this poor lady kill her enemy with her own hands? She may be weak, but she is not frail. The power of hatred and love will make her immensely strong. If she succeeds, everyone will applaud her beautiful figure, bathed in her enemy's blood and weeping with joy. If she dies in the attempt, it becomes a moving tragedy. The weak defeating the strong and righteous vengeance are audiences' favorite plots. I believe you must have seen The Return of the Earl. I'm very fond of it, that famous play by Emperor Roselle."

"You're right." Fors thought for a moment. "This is my first attempt at writing a script, and I forgot the differences between novels and plays, so I wasn't bold enough. I'll go back and revise it... Do you have any other suggestions?"

"No, miss. Your prose is excellent. It is only your cautious, conservative approach that has allowed the plot to hold it back." The middle-aged gentleman with dark brown hair wore a gentle smile that made people involuntarily relax and want to draw closer. He neatly gathered the manuscript pages, unchanged, and returned them to Fors. "I very much look forward to the final result of our collaboration."

If a theater buys this script, I'll receive at least thirty percent of the proceeds. That's nearly a hundred pounds! Wonderful, it looks like this year's New Year's trip is sorted. Not only can I bring Xio, I might even have money left over! Of course, the most important thing is to hurry home and sleep. Delighted, Fors answered immediately, "Thank you, Mr. Vaughn."

8

"You are the essence of withering."

"You are the great existence behind the curtain of shadows, you are the sovereign from the Land of Deep Black."

Amid the overlapping prayers, one voice rose above the others. Edward calmly stirred the coffee beside him, added a sugar cube and a spoonful of milk, then raised it to his lips and took a small sip. His pure black eyes looked out at the street beyond the glass wall, reflecting the passing crowds like mirrors. After Fors left, he had remained there, drinking coffee and admiring the city's afternoon scenery while waiting for his ally's summons.

"You are the Eye That Watches Over Living Beings, the merciful Edward Vaughan."

Edward turned his head, casting his gaze far toward the source of that prayer. In an almost lightless room, a person stood quietly in the shadows, head bowed in prayer. Judging by his build, he was male. A strand of long hair slipped from the edge of the hood covering his face, and the little of his features that showed looked soft and eerily beautiful, almost feminine. This was an acquaintance. His ally had no shortage of mad followers, and this man certainly ranked among the foremost.

Mr. A sensed the gaze from afar and continued praying without a change in expression. "...Your esteemed Highness, Abyss Angel, my Lord delivered a divine revelation just now. The time has come, and he invites you to his sanctuary for a conversation."

Edward nodded and responded, "Understood."

Dismissing the scene of prayer, he silently recited the True Creator's honorific name. Then he felt chaotic ravings thunder beside his ears. A thread of his consciousness crossed an immense distance, was precisely located by his ally, and was drawn away. When he opened his eyes again, he stood in a divine kingdom of the deepest shadows. Ceaselessly writhing flesh and severed limbs formed the floor beneath his feet, while dismembered human bodies and bones covered in corrosive marks lay piled everywhere. On a distant peak stood an inverted cross taller than the mountain itself. The evil god hanging upside down upon it was covered in blood. A blood-red Vertical Eye rolled up and down for a few seconds, then fixed on him.

"Good afternoon, my ally."

Edward was accustomed to this. Using his black walking stick of unknown material, he pushed aside the fleshy tentacles trying to coil around his legs and feet, his gentle smile remaining in place. "You seem to be in good condition right now."

The True Creator's voice boomed. Flesh prostrated itself, and corpses trembled. "How... are things?"

"Very smooth," Edward said. "The seed has been planted, and the mother's emotions are stable. But the Assistant is not behaving, and there are still traces of distortion in fate. I'll continue watching it all for you."

9

"Oh, right," I said after we finished our detailed exchange of intelligence. "While you're in good condition, would you like to try the cake I've recently learned to make?"

At that, the True Creator's red eyeball shook violently. Before I could say anything more, he threw me out, along with the entire patch of space I was standing in. I did not even have time to pitch it a little further. What an excellent way to end a conversation. I'll use it again next time. I returned to the café and heard his roars coming intermittently from the sanctuary, echoing in my ears:

"No!"

"Disgusting, England... disgusting, eat it yourself!"

How rude. I drained the cold coffee, rose to settle the bill, and felt full of confidence in my performance as a human.

TBC

① The script alludes to Daly, but you can imagine for yourselves what exactly will happen.

② Edward's cooking is delicious. He makes it taste awful to play the stereotypical "Englishman." Even the True Creator is scared after eating it. The True Creator: Stop being human.