novelraw Chapter 65 : Chapter 65
Chapter 65 : Chapter 65
Chapter 65: Moonlight Day (1)
Architects said.
That the capital Naflansee was the supreme work of art.
The city itself was considered a painting. It was the result of embracing both tradition and development, preserving what should be preserved and renewing what should be renewed. Like an oil painting carefully layered, like a bust carefully carved.
Then where was it?
The most artistic part of the capital.
The architects would pretend to think for a moment, then, with a map spread out, they would easily point it out. The northwest part of the capital, configured as a star fort, Naflansee District 3, or the place called Forebear's Scribble.
‘Why.’
The scenery there was difficult to describe in sentences.
Because artifacts from a time before letters were being preserved.
The roads that stretched gracefully like a noblewoman’s calf, the buildings like fruits borne in the midst of history. And as if putting a period at the end of a long figure of speech, the Sharma family’s Upanishads Museum, built using advanced technology.
The 3rd district of the capital was a repository of history and culture, and
‘Why always…’
he was falling towards it.
Abel, with a blank expression.
‘do I end up falling here.’
──Thud!
A blooming roar.
‘...I can’t do this.’
In the middle of the Upanishads Museum.
Under a tattered ceiling, Abel blinked his eyes blankly.
Dust scattered and tickled the inside of his nose. Only the ceiling and flooring were damaged; fortunately, no artifacts were damaged.
Did I fall into an empty exhibition hall? Abel thought as he got up. Empty glass cases were lined up on all sides, and at the end of the vertically stretched exhibition hall, there was a window.
A massively spread fixed window.
Dawn was seeping in from beyond it.
‘That’s a relief.’
Abel took a step.
With his beloved sword drawn, towards the window.
‘It would have been complicated if a soul had dwelled in an artifact.’
Swish.
Abel’s right hand slid over his beloved sword.
He slid it down the blade to create a wound. It was to release the ectoplasm that had dwelled in his palm.
“Reveal yourselves.”
Abel looked down at his right palm.
The wound where the ectoplasm had dwelled was throbbing. The blood-soaked skin split open, and stains resembling human faces rippled. As if trying to vomit a scream.
“O lost dead.”
Abel clenched his right hand.
He then aimed his fist towards the floor.
A drop of blood fell. A silence followed. Soon, a gust of wind blew in. Creak, creak. A cool wind pressure engulfed the exhibition hall. Even though there was no passage for air to enter.
Abel chanted the incantation.
The third chapter of the Underworld Theory, ‘The Thread that Connects the Labyrinth’.
A red ball of thread was gripped in Abel’s right hand. Threads began to extend from it. The threads, split into numerous branches, brushed against the empty air, then expanded as if they had tied something up.
He had bound the souls. ‘The Thread that Connects the Labyrinth’ was a spell that bound the dead, and what was connected to the ball of thread were the spirits that made up the ectoplasm.
Abel closed his eyes.
He cast ‘A Map Woven with a Wanderer's Steps’ to detect the souls. Creak, creak. The gust of wind grew stronger as if in defiance. The threads swayed along with the direction of the wind. The glass cases lining the walls shook, and while a faint tremor swept through the exhibition hall,
‘So it was.’
Abel’s eyes opened.
‘Heraclitus gave me…’
A eerie silence descended afterward.
The souls that had become silent were revealed.
‘the members of the Saint-Pierre family.’
Corpses, corpses, corpses.
Corpses hanged by red threads.
The remains were tied along the walls of the exhibition hall.
They were souls that had manifested in the form they were in at the time of death. Corpses with only their torsos dangling, their limbs cut off, were lined up as if they would let out a scream at any moment. As if the macabre collection of some nobleman was on display.
“I have a question.”
Abel walked through the gaps between the corpses.
“Who killed you?”
A moment of silence.
Only the sound of his shoes echoed bluntly.
Had he taken about four or five steps? The mouth of a corpse hanging next to Abel opened. Haa. After taking a breath, unable to abandon its instinct from life, it opened its dried lips and vomited a rotten voice.
- It was one with a face of steel.
He was wearing a mask forged from iron. Not only his expression, but also his emotions could not be discerned. But I caught a glimpse through the pale moonlight. A gaze riddled with a deep emptiness.
He hid his face by wearing a mask.
A classic method. Thinking so, Abel moved on. Soon, the mouth of another corpse opened.
- It was a person with no body heat.
Was he even a person? I couldn't feel any vitality at all. I brushed his hand, but it was absurdly cold. A corpse… no. It was as if I had touched a monster.
Is there a possibility that a monster orchestrated the crime?
Abel shook his head. It was too intelligent to be considered the work of a monster. Another corpse uttered with a dry smile.
- It was not a monster. He used a sword.
We exchanged a few blows. He handled several artifacts. It was a truly strange swordsmanship. He must not be from the Empire. He displayed a technique I had never seen before.
The possibility that the crime was committed by someone from outside the Empire.
It was a matter that could not be judged hastily. Especially if he was using artifacts. The cursed artifact that had charmed Dante was also made of foreign steel.
The Vianchiel Kingdom. A nation that fell hundreds of years ago. The material of the cursed artifact was steel from that place. He should not be optimistic about the relationship between the Parousia Denomination and the Vianchiel Kingdom.
- I will ask.
- Please.
- I will ask this of you.
Abel’s steps stopped.
A wide window blocked his view.
The early morning chill was engraved on the glass window. Abel caressed the fogged window, then looked back at the dead with an indifferent expression. The dead, bound by the threads, began to whisper.
- Can we go to the underworld?
- Why are we here?
- Avenge us. And guide us.
Revenge, salvation. Revenge, salvation. Revenge, salvation.
The cries of the dead were engraved in Abel’s ears. As the threads shook, an incomprehensible wind blew in. Abel opened his mouth, gripping the ball of thread.
“I am curious.”
There was something he had to confirm.
“How many have you killed so far?”
A perfect silence.
The cries of the dead stopped.
Abel continued without caring.
“I am a cleric. I have just disassembled the ectoplasm of an apostate. Thanks to that, I am talking with you. You must be members of the Saint-Pierre family. If you wish, I will avenge you. Guiding you to the underworld is also possible. The souls that made up the ectoplasm are so severely contaminated that they will soon become evil spirits…”
So answer.
I received intelligence that you were planning a mass murder.
I heard you also committed human sacrifice. Is it true?
To Abel’s question,
- Do not doubt.
- That's right. It's just slander.
- I have lived without a shred of shame.
The dead denied without hesitation.
- We have devoted our entire lives to our faith. We have lived humbly according to the doctrines written in the scriptures. To help the weak and be grateful for our lives. Is that not the teaching of the Main Gods?
- How could we reject that? Our political enemies have just schemed against the Saint-Pierre family; we have steadfastly lived according to the doctrines. With a heart of serving the World God.
- So believe us. We have the right. We deserve to reach the underworld in a safe state. Did an apostate turn our souls into ectoplasm? That is truly blasphemy.
Place your hands on the round table of the Pantheon.
Place your hands on the round table of the Pantheon.
Place your hands on the round table of the Pantheon.
The dead repeated the slogan of the Platinum Round Table Orthodoxy.
‘This is nauseating.’
Abel thought, frowning.
A creature is composed of a body and a soul. The body was matter, and the soul was spirit. Souls with only their minds left could not hide their lies. Every time they told a lie, their essence would be twisted, and their form would also be distorted.
‘They still have their uses.’
Abel thought, turning his back on the dead.
By now, the report would have been confirmed. He had submitted information about the beings he witnessed in Emilio’s mind, and about the Parousia Denomination. To the Brilliant Sun Royal Palace and the Papacy, through Fabien.
Iris would also have grasped the situation. She had eyes and ears planted everywhere. The Brilliant Sun Royal Palace and the Papacy were no exceptions. All that was left was Abel’s action.
“Find him.”
──Crash!
Scattering glass fragments.
The window that decorated the exhibition hall was broken.
It was because Abel had kicked it.
“The one who killed you has just arrived in the capital. Search for him from now on. When you are done, I will guide you to the underworld.”
They were useful scouts.
As they were freed from the constraints of the body.
Because they had become souls, they could fly, and it was also possible to pass through walls. Above all, they would be drawn to those they had a connection with in life. That was the instinct of a soul. Just as an evil spirit eventually achieves its revenge. Just as they appear beside those who hold regrets.
“Decide now. What will you do?”
As Abel’s question was aimed,
──Whoosh.
A feast of wind coursed through the exhibition hall.
The red threads stretched out along the direction of the wind. The dead had begun to move. The ball of thread in Abel’s hand shook, and the pile of dead were gone.
And so, Abel’s foot rose to the window frame.
It was time to begin the pursuit, but,
‘...How festive.’
Abel stopped his movement.
After dismantling ‘A Map Woven with a Wanderer's Steps’, he faced the vast scenery of the capital. Moonlight Day. The so-called birthday of the first Pope was to begin today. The capital was decorated more carefully than ever before.
Flower stems climbed up the outer walls of the buildings.
Airships and mana-powered vehicles began to flock from all over.
And an ardent prayer echoing from somewhere.
Abel pronounced in a blunt tone.
The end of the prayer.
“...Until the two eyes of the World God open.”
* * *
The Saint-Pierre family’s underground laboratory.
Drugs, spells, and prohibitions. All sorts of taboos were mixed in the damp air. Containers with organs, papers with unethical ideas, and even the singularly brilliant symbol of the Platinum Round Table Orthodoxy. There was no context, and not even a shred of order was present.
“We greet the great head of the family, Deserick de Saint-Pierre-nim.”
Suddenly, a voice came from within the deep shadows.
Deserick adjusted his glasses. He had been reading in his rocking chair.
“I apologize for interrupting your inquiry. I had an urgent matter…”
“Don’t mind me.”
A smile spread on Deserick’s lips.
After taking off his glasses, he showed the cover of the book he was reading. . It was a fairy tale based on the Hero’s prophecy.
“I was just enjoying some literature. To take a rest.”
“...That’s a relief.”
The figure of a man emerged from the shadows.
His tense demeanor was evident. What was this man’s name?
Deserick wondered with a languid expression. He was clearly a member of the family, but he must be someone not worth remembering the name of.
“Why have you come to see me?”
“Well, it’s just that…”
The man’s head lowered.
“I came to ask for your esteemed opinion.”
“Please speak comfortably.”
“I was wondering if we could discuss countermeasures. Regarding the murder case that is happening against the Saint-Pierre family, and the Arcturus family…”
Ah, so it was about that after all.
Deserick understood without difficulty. How many family members had passed away so far? Quite a few had lost their lives, but it must be something not worth remembering the number of.
“Do you like the story of the Hero?”
Deserick’s sudden question.
The man did not answer. He did not dare to answer. What use was the Hero? When the family members were dying one after another.
And so, creak. The rocking chair swayed and shook the silence. It was the ultimate mockery.
“I like it.”
Deserick closed the book.
The cheerful cover of glistened.
“Because it’s a story about salvation. It’s fine even if the prophecy is a lie. It means it doesn't matter even if the Hero doesn’t actually exist. It’s enough for it to become a fairy tale and be read to children.”
Life is a series of crises.
Sometimes we will face an overwhelming disaster.
Deserick whispered so.
“The Demon King seems to be the personification of all the disasters we must face. If that is true, we must respond with the heart of a Hero. We must stand firm with our respective holy swords. Even if the result is death…”
What does it matter?
It’s a good thing either way, he said.
Deserick muttered, shrugging his shoulders.
“Because the Main Gods would have watched over our lives.”
“But, my lord!”
The man shouted, clenching his fists.
The meaning of Deserick’s words was clear. All things operate based on the providence of the Main Gods. If one dies, it is their fate to die. If one must face fate, one should face it valiantly, but even if one is defeated, there would be no reason to be sad. It would be the result arranged by the Main Gods.
So, each should strive in their own way. That was the conclusion Deserick had reached as the head of the family.
“Are you going to just stand by and do nothing! If, by any chance, Fleur-nim loses her life…”
“Your joke is going too far.”
Deserick let out a sigh.
His light blue eyes turned towards the man. Deserick’s smiling gaze pierced the man’s features.
“Fleur is not a child who will die from something like this. My daughter has had an audience with the God of the Underworld, and she will become a leader of the Platinum Round Table Orthodoxy. While inheriting the Saint-Pierre family.”
Fleur was a child made for that.
A marriage not bound by status. The purity of both spouses possessing divine power. Fleur’s birth process was a prayer of both body and mind. For this, he had secured a commoner woman born with divine power and had intercourse with her.
“How dare you imagine that child’s death.”
How insolent, he said.
Deserick whispered in a firm tone.
“I-I’m sorry. I was just…”
“There is no need to apologize.”
Imagination alone can be free, he said.
Deserick admonished in a soft voice, as if singing.
A disposition that could not be grasped at all. If chaos were made into a person, would it look like that? The man thought with a rigid expression. Joy and anger, sadness and pleasure would all seem colorless. To the man named Deserick de Saint-Pierre.
“It wasn’t that unpleasant. Above all, after hearing the story…”
And so, Deserick’s way of thinking was illogical.
Because it was illogical, he could praise fate.
“In any case, it seems I must take action. Because Fleur must not lose her life.”
Issue a summons.
Deserick declared so.
“Let’s gather after the Moonlight Day is over. Wasn’t there a banquet scheduled, by the way? Those belonging to the Saint-Pierre family, and those belonging to the Arcturus family. Let’s all gather in one place and devise a countermeasure.”
“Thank you, my lord!”
The man bowed.
Deserick waved his hand. With a clear smile.
The man’s footsteps headed beyond the shadows. Deserick, left alone, took a breath. Inhaling the damp air to the fullest, he opened the book with an exceptionally clean expression.
‘I miss you.’
Creak, creak.
While the rocking chair swayed,
‘Fleur, my treasure.’
Deserick thought quietly.
Fleur de Saint-Pierre. His only daughter. The most precious being in this world.
“──Ahat!”
Suddenly, a laugh pierced Deserick’s ears.
Ahahat, ahahat.
As a smiling voice bloomed,
“You’re awake.”
Deserick looked around.
Children. There was a row of children restrained on experiment tables.
They were blind or deaf. Or children with an abnormality in one of their limbs. In the past, they were considered children of fairies and abandoned; now, they were boys and girls who were abandoned even knowing they were human children.
“It’s something that shouldn’t happen.”
The children’s appearances were all different, but
their expressions were strangely uniform.
“They are just disabled, yet they are abandoned; I find it hard to accept.”
The children were all laughing.
Opening their convulsing lips, intoxicated by drugs.
“But this life is inherited through the previous life. It seems the Main Gods considered you all sinners. That is why your bodies are not whole.”
Ahaha──!
Ahahaha──!
“...It really shouldn’t be.”
It was a cruel death for the children to experience.
To die trembling from the cold,
or to become food for beasts,
or to be killed by a monster.
“Your bodies are indeed prisons. The price for your sins would be none other than death.”
So they must be killed.
To be freed. The children from their prisons.
It was a long-standing tradition of the Saint-Pierre family. Disability was the severe punishment of the Main Gods, and it was the natural order for the children of fairies to be abandoned. In that case, they should be killed mercifully. In a fresh banquet hall, with fervent prayers, while administering drugs so that they feel no pain.
They should be sent to the underworld that way.
“Please bear with it for just a little longer.”
Deserick opened the book.
A fluttering page. The story of the Hero was revealed.
“You must be bored, so I will read you a fairy tale.”
Deserick’s lips parted slightly.
The story was recited. Imitating the deep voice of a man, imitating the stern voice of a woman. Sometimes imitating the monotonous voice of the Demon King. Deserick told the story as a hero, a queen, and a demon king.
And so, he prayed.
“...Until the two eyes of the World God open.”
Ahaha, ahaha!
──Ahaha!
──Ahahahat!
The blooming laughter of the children.
It was as bright as if they had heard the best joke.