Chapter 9

31

-In the end, I successfully struck a deal with that human and let him go. More precisely, it was compensation: he had to do a few things for me. I felt I had been the victim from beginning to end. Mr. Nightmare had slipped into my dream, and I had entertained him graciously. I was only here to help an ally with the Descent of the True Creator, with no intention of causing complications. Yet he had knocked down my things. Of course, that was not important. What mattered was why he had failed to restrain his curiosity and insisted on taking a look while picking them up.

He had seen something he should not have, and he had to be punished. Not only because it would expose me, but also because Roselle had made an agreement with me while lucid: I could not circulate the contents of his diary, especially the parts concerning secrets and the cosmos.

I also needed to help him keep watch over people who could read his diary and spread it indiscriminately without understanding its dangers, creating panic and chaos, unless Roselle himself had authorized them.

That was my deal with him.

He hoped the humans and low- and mid-sequence Beyonders of this world could live safely in ignorance. At the very least, the genuine compatriots from the old days who arrived later would not suddenly lose control, go mad, die, and explode into a floor full of flesh while laughing over his diary.

Of course, I could share his diary with others to a certain extent, but they could not pass it on, and I could not teach anyone Chinese. That gray notebook was already a hundred years old, material I had used to teach Richard back then. Why was it still in my world of consciousness? Did I care about it that much? Or was this the work of "someone" or "something" again? That would not do. They needed a warning.

Frankly, I regretted having nurtured him back then. My only goal had been to have him gather the remnants of the Temperance Faction for my use, take away some of the Chained God's anchors, and oppose the Rose School under the Mother Tree's control. I had wanted an obedient subordinate, just like their name: Marionette. Yet he always had ideas of his own, such as leading my religious order into charity work. Through the prolonged influence worshippers exerted on their god, he had given me a whole mess of anchors whose purpose I could not fathom.

He had even established a charitable foundation nearly two hundred years ago and secured substantial funding from Roselle, who was already Consul at the time.

What Devil was doing charity work? Oh, it was me. Never mind, then.

32

I remembered that, when he had still been more human than god, he had always stubbornly insisted on teaching me Chinese, then nitpicked my accent because he thought it lacked flavor.

"You still long to hear your native language," I said.

"Of course." He threw the question back at me. "Don't you?"

"I don't mind it much," I answered honestly. "The Loen Kingdom is very similar to my homeland in the seventeenth century. Even the polluted fog that lingers all day after the Industrial Revolution is becoming more and more alike. It feels just like home. Your alienation probably stems from this world being Western overall. If this were an ancient Eastern country, you would surely feel a sense of belonging."

Roselle pursed his lips. "You have a point, but your translationese Chinese is so awful that all I want to do is laugh when I hear it."

"Your spoken English is terrible, too. I hear your country has proficiency exams for English majors. I doubt you passed." I gave as good as I got, trading blows. "The writers and inventors whose works you mangled would surely line up to beat you up. The queue would stretch all the way from Trier to Backlund."

"Fuck, let's stop talking about that." Roselle hurriedly waved his hands. "Matilda's pregnant. I'm going to have a third child! Hurry up and congratulate me!"

33

But, but-I knew someone was influencing me.

If I were not wearing a Devil's skin, if I were in my true body instead of this avatar, as weak as a single hand of mine, if I descended with my true status, that quill and its current wielder would have shattered and died utterly the moment they wrote the first word about me. But there were not that many ifs. For now, I could only swallow the humiliation and bear it.

-After all, the Abyss Angel had never been welcome. I liked running around everywhere and acting on my whims, without the reserve expected of a Mythical Creature, and I was always disrupting the games between gods. I still strode brazenly across the earth as I had in the Fourth Epoch, never shying away from human eyes or caring that my arrival heralded catastrophe and bloodshed.

That Mr. Nightmare also bore traces of distortion. He had just happened to enter my dream and just happened to knock down my notebook. I did not know what the wielder wanted, or what purpose there was in using me to manipulate a Sequence 7. But if he thought he could use me simply by offering me a blood sacrifice, the last person that foolish and naive had been Roselle. So I gave him a warning.

Roselle was probably cursing me every day in his mausoleum now.

Although his inventions were found throughout the world, people used the light bulbs and various devices he had developed, watched his operas and read his novels, and nobles and commoners alike played the games he had created, everyone who worshipped him was classified as a cultist. His only anchors were my charitable organizations, which had accepted his funding back then, and a handful of senior members of my religious order-they thought he and I were on good terms, and indeed we were. The children in those charitable institutions thanked Emperor Roselle in their weekly prayers, reciting his name as well as mine. These tiny anchors scattered across the world were his last lifeline.

The Black Emperor's paltry, self-deceiving conscience had saved him.

He was awake. I knew it. I was delighted that he was awake, because only then could this great Consul, this emperor who had made a deal with a Devil, listen to the prayers of children and the weak in his lightless mausoleum, struggling on the brink of death day after day between lucidity and madness, recalling again and again the sins he had committed and the oceans of blood he had created with his own hands.

...What a delightful sight.

34

Dunn pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a small yawn, feeling rather listless that day.

Still, that was perfectly normal. He had spent all of yesterday investigating the Demoness-related case with Klein Moretti, and had accompanied him to the morgue to perform Spirit Channeling on Madam Sharon. But Madam Sharon's spirit had vanished without a trace; they had still arrived too late. In the afternoon, he had been busy writing a report to the Holy Cathedral and assisting the police with the crime scene to prevent copycat crimes. In the early hours, he had gone straight to the asylum to visit Hood Eugen, and at night, he had still had to patrol Tingen's dreams as usual to digest his Nightmare potion. With such a packed day, fatigue was understandable even for a Sleepless.

To perk himself up and make sure, Dunn silently recited the food he had enjoyed in last night's dream: pan-fried lamb chops with lemon juice, sweet, fragrant milk tea with plenty of milk, steak with black pepper sauce, fish and chips, expensive Highland black tea, smoked salmon sandwiches, milk sponge cake, biscuits...

At that thought, he checked himself out of habit and discovered that, though his body was tired, his mind was actually in better shape than ever! The Nightmare potion seemed to have completely merged into his body, and he felt his control over his powers had reached an unprecedented peak!

I've completely mastered my potion! All my efforts lately haven't been wasted. Klein's method really does work... A flicker of delighted surprise appeared in his deep eyes, before a figure flashing through his mind calmed him again. Still, the ever-steady Nighthawks captain could not conceal his joy. He rose from his chair and paced back and forth around his office several times.

"Knock, knock, knock!" Someone knocked on the office door, and Kenley poked his head in. "Captain! Old Neil brought some treats from Mrs. Celeste. There are your favorite pies and frozen desserts, made especially for you by Mrs. Celeste. Come out and have some! You were late last time!"

Dunn's face lit up with delight. Though he maintained his reserve and composure as captain, his steps involuntarily quickened a little.

Kenley cheerfully pulled the door open and stepped aside, leading his captain toward the lively lounge. As they went downstairs, Dunn glanced out the window on an inexplicable impulse and happened to see a gentleman passing beneath the Nighthawks' building. Their eyes met by chance. Dunn instinctively nodded to him, and the man amiably touched the brim of his hat in greeting.

Kenley and Dunn soon disappeared from the window.

Edward released his hat brim and looked at the small building bearing the sign "Blackthorn Security Company," murmuring to himself, "So this is the place?"

"So this is a Nighthawks base, and the heroes who thwarted the Descent of the True Creator plan are here?" he said with a hint of appreciation. "That's how it should be. That's good. When catastrophe arrives, someone must always struggle desperately. Clinging to hope as they sink inch by inch into certain doom-that is perfection. I'm growing more and more tempted to make this city my own."

He tilted his head and listened for a while, hearing that Nightmare say in a steady voice with joy beneath it, "I've mastered the Nightmare potion. This month, our Nighthawks team may submit a second special application." Then came a clamor of cheers, teasing, the sounds of shoulders being clapped and embraces exchanged, muffled congratulations from mouths that seemed full of food, and one name mentioned over and over-"Daly."

It was followed by "Madam." A human woman. His love?

Thinking back to last night, all he displayed was a sense of justice and an outstanding spirit of self-sacrifice, Edward thought with interest. But those voices were too jumbled. Human voices were always a chaotic mess with too little value, so after listening for only two seconds, he stopped paying attention.

"All right, the Nightmare can help me monitor the Nighthawks' movements, and I'll know immediately if anything unexpected happens. My business is more or less finished. Next, should I pay that outrageously audacious human a visit?"

In a house with a red chimney and a garden, the former Archbishop of Evernight was leafing through a notebook, secretly delighted by the newly added sentence: "...It was understandable. Dunn encountered the Abyss Angel in his dream and unfortunately displeased him. As a result, he was subjected to extremely subtle control and suggestion, which met Ince Zangwill's expectations." Just as he was beginning to relax, he suddenly sneezed and felt a chill.

TBC

*Thank you all for your support! No overambitious goals-plot comes first. Finishing the story will count as a success.jpg

*With the help of effective anchors and an Outer Deity, Roselle did not remain asleep as he did in the original. Instead, he spent half his time awake and half asleep, though he was mad for half of his waking hours. Carving headstones for Edward Vaughan in his tomb was one of his few activities, and the one that best helped him remain lucid.

It was now September 5, four days before the Descent of the True Creator.