[539] That Problem (3)
* * *
Two women appeared on the ruined road.
Baknyeo, ranked ninth in the Council of Ten, who had just arrived in Apocalypse, and Shura, ranked seventh.
Where Baknyeo wore rags that left half her chest exposed, went barefoot, and had her hair roughly bound with a turban, Shura was immaculate in a dark green dress and heels.
Baknyeo might look the part in Apocalypse, but it was Shura—the apostle Banya—who truly belonged in a world of falsehoods.
"No one's living here. Where's Shirone?"
Baknyeo's calm voice carried clearly even over the gale.
"Are you doubting my coder?"
"Because no one's alive."
Baknyeo stopped dead after saying it.
Shura, who'd been watching her oddly, lowered her gaze when she heard water running on the ground. Her nose wrinkled when she saw urine trickling between Baknyeo's legs.
"It stinks. Do you ever wash?"
"When it rains. Everything gets purified."
Shura's eyes turned to the city Baknyeo pointed at.
Over the downtown, black clouds lay like rags across the sky—neat as if measured—and water seemed to be squeezed from them and fall. Nature's processes could be beautiful from a distance, but to be walking beside someone through them was misery.
"Anyway, Shirone's here. You don't need me to code the language, do you? Won't be necessary."
"Words convey nothing."
It was Baknyeo's own kind of insight, but coming from her—whose temperament was the opposite—Shura took it as an insult.
"Right. A beast's head would never understand. I don't know how we ended up on the same team."
The roll-call vote on whether to include Shirone in the Council of Ten had been tied five to five. Supporters argued Shirone's powerful incarnation magic; opponents noted he was an apostle Banya, not an Eternal. Still, the Council sent two officers because they'd received intelligence that Miro had gone to recover Shirone's information. If an ancient mind like Elysion could be recreated here in Apocalypse, it would be a huge boon for the Council—hence Shura and Baknyeo were dispatched.
"Adrias Miro."
Shura spoke the name, picturing her face.
"Just so you know, I was sent to seal Miro. If you tangle with her, no matter how skilled I am, the other side can't handle it. So don't try to hold me back."
"You can handle Miro?"
Baknyeo's casual question dropped, and after a long pause Shura answered.
"There's a filthy monkey running about."
"...."
The same silence, but the air around them quivered as if ready to explode.
Baknyeo spun, and a dark afterimage of her Bakdo sliced through the scene. Shura lifted a finger to her throat and, without a sound, stopped the Bakdo.
"No. Especially here—this is my world."
"...Want to take it all the way?"
One of Shura's eyebrows twitched.
Tch. Talking to a beast—what was I thinking.
Sura Yacha Baknyeo—ranked ninth, low on the list, but once she lit up even higher-ups hesitated to oppose her.
"Enough. Let's split here. Doing anything with you is madness. Try to manage on your own."
Shura flared an aura and vanished in an instant. Baknyeo walked toward the city as if nothing had happened.
"I'm hungry."
It was the only feeling she had now.
* * *
"Curia, please, snap out of it!"
Malta's voice was loud enough to spill beyond the engine room, but Curia looked at him as if she couldn't understand what he was so worked up about.
"What's wrong with you? Are you insane?"
"I'm not the crazy one! This is a fake world! A lie!"
"Humanity is gone! Just being with you is enough for me! So please—wake up!"
Malta, near exploding with frustration, drew a rough breath.
Why wouldn't she see it?
This was only a virtual world beneath the under-coder. At first he'd thought that if he told her plainly she'd accept it and return to how she'd been. He'd expected his wife to understand and come back. Of course she was clever, so he'd suspected denial—but no matter what he tried, she couldn't accept the virtual world a hundred percent.
"Malta, I love you. I don't need anything if I have you. So now—"
Curia wrapped her arms around Malta's neck and kissed him.
Her scent, her touch.
Malta's eyes closed without him realizing it as he absorbed her information with his whole body.
Information! Information! Damn information!
He snapped his eyes open and shoved her down.
"You're not my wife! You're a fake!"
"Ha—honey..."
Malta left the room and locked the door so Curia couldn't follow.
"Honey! Open the door! Honey!"
He squeezed his eyes shut and turned away from her voice.
When he'd taken her out of the artificial suspended animation device, he'd seen a chance to bring her back. But as time passed her information began to mesh with Apocalypse's world.
I have to isolate her. Don't let her be exposed to any information.
When the knocking stopped, as it always did, Malta sat on the sofa. He no longer felt guilt—because he knew she wasn't real.
It's like a curse.
Maybe he was the one going mad.
"Oh? No one's here yet?"
The door opened and Marsha came in. They'd split into four to search different areas and finish the investigation quickly.
"You're first. Any findings?"
Marsha shook her head and went to the water dispenser.
"Nothing. I wonder if Miro found anything."
Malta watched the nape of Marsha's neck as she drank.
She's real.
A woman from his real world.
No place for hope.
Malta rose and opened the door.
"…You knew?"
Marsha sat on the bed with a kiseru pipe in her mouth. She smiled without losing composure as she exhaled smoke and met Malta's hungry eyes.
"I'm used to that look."
Malta kept calm.
"You know my situation. Can't you show some mercy?"
"How about you try holding back? I don't want to do anything bad to my benefactor, either."
That option was one Malta's desire could not accept.
"Then there's no choice."
When Malta's Spirit Zone flooded in through his synesthesia, Marsha's smile tightened a little.
This one… is definitely strong.
Malta strode forward.
"Accept it. In reality she was a fourth-rank public mage. Apart from that Miro woman, no one in this party can beat me."
That was why he acted now.
"Haha, aren't you underestimating me? Miro's impressive, but I was hot stuff once, too."
"Talking means you're nervous."
Marsha took the pipe from her mouth. The motion suggested taking a drag, but she used it to fling the pipe.
Now!
She teleported and darted for the door, but Malta was already blocking the entrance—an anticipatory reaction that would be impossible without prior expectation.
"Not bad. But you misread me."
Malta thrust both hands out; a powerful air press struck Marsha.
She flew level with the ground, slammed into the wall, and thudded down.
"Ugh!"
Malta looked down at the fallen Marsha.
"I'd prefer you didn't resist. The person you're dealing with isn't gutter scum."
Not a gutter scum—and yet he's doing this?
Marsha swallowed the curse she wanted to spit out. She knew there was no arguing once a man's desire had been lit.
This should be enough groundwork.
Sighing as if resigned, she raised her hands and stood.
"All right. Let's end this peacefully. I don't want to die either."
Malta narrowed his eyes in suspicion; she turned her back outright.
"What, are you so scared you won't even try to hug me?"
Anger flashed across Malta's face as he grabbed Marsha from behind and kissed the nape of her neck.
"Don't be too rough."
Marsha covered the back of her left hand with her right and activated a rule-breaking rite: the Dirk of Impiety. A tattoo glowed, and a black blade materialized in her right hand.
I'll be a little rough.
Marsha twisted and swung the dirk; Malta leaned back with a calm face.
"I told you—you're not gutter scum."
Malta caught the wrist holding the dirk with one hand, pressed Marsha's nape with the other, and shoved her against the wall. Marsha's eyes sparked as her head struck the plaster.
Then, as he slammed her frail wrist into the wall, the dirk vanished before it even hit the ground.
"You knew she was a rule-breaker. And being obsessed with that means she's a street kid who never learned the thirty-six standard spells. What happens if that dirk stabs you?"
"All right. I'll tell you. So let go."
"No need. Whatever it is, it'll be lethal. I'll cast a sleep spell—take it quietly. It'll be better for you."
Marsha ground her teeth and scratched the tattoo on her right palm with a finger. Another dirk materialized.
"Isn't all that chatter proof you're nervous?"
The moment Malta's eyebrows twitched, she kneed his groin and drove the dirk down into his nape with all her strength.
"Argh!"
Startled, Malta grabbed Marsha's nape and flung her across the room; she wheezed and fled out.
"Damn! Bitten by a rat!"
Malta's eyes trembled as he checked the wound.
"What is this?"
Black vapor constantly billowed from a dark sheath at his neck.
It's not a physical attack.
The dirk had disappeared and there was no blood, but the feeling of something draining from his body was awful.
The rule-breaking rite: the Dirk of Impiety. It was the mental model of the blade Marsha used to kill her adoptive father. Its core concept perceived the human body as a tank of desire, cut a sheath into it, and draw everything out. Each sheath leaked desire at a rate of 1 percent per minute—arithmetically, if it continued for a hundred minutes it would exhaust any target. Terrifying.
Dangerous. To disable the rule-break, I have to find her first.
Malta saw the smoke from his neck flowing out of the room and curving off somewhere. Though a single stab could exhaust even a superior opponent, the gas of desire always trailed back to Marsha, exposing her location.
Master of the rule-break. If that's the concept, the counter is to find and kill her, huh?
A wicked grin split Malta's mouth.
If holding back during physical relations had been his mistake, he had no reason to hesitate now.
Wait. I'll kill you in one second!
Malta left the room and turned toward the direction the smoke flowed. The smoke flowed out of the engine room, and then he heard a heavy door slam.
Using the darkness?
In a lightless tunnel, finding black smoke would be far harder.
Realization struck and Malta bared his teeth and screamed.
"You damn bitch!"