Clearing the Game at the End of the World

Chapter 164: Lead and Silver Coins (18)

****

Bang!

Bang!

The sound of two warning shots fired from a distance. It was Vex. Honestly, I was worried whether the guy, whose shooting skills were not very reliable compared to his close combat abilities, would actually manage to shoot properly. It seemed he was aware of this issue, as he opted to fire into the air instead.

Although the bullets flew off in completely the wrong direction, the effect was undeniable.

Click!

Chiiiing-

Ian immediately woke up from his sleep, sitting up on the sofa and lifting his shotgun.

Ezel sprang out of bed in an instant, pressing a sharp knife against the intruder's throat.

"Quite the impressive welcome, I must say. Did I happen to wake you?"

"Ah, indeed. Was dreaming of my wife. Just about to bite into a pumpkin pie when I woke up. Very grateful for that."

"No need for thanks."

The man in the white suit, with white gloves, a white mask, and hat, who had introduced himself as W in the past, sounded very pleased despite the lethal blade positioned right in front of his carotid artery.

"I've been wanting to have a talk with you all for some time. Happened to be in the area for work, and since it seemed like you all were making your rounds here one by one, I thought I'd stop by for a chat."

Professor glanced toward the door. The firmly closed door, the lock on the door, the alarm trap set up with bits of metal in case of intrudersnone of them showed signs of tampering.

What was within the realm of imagination was not something invisible due to speed.

"Damn it."

Friend or foe. How and with what to respond.

In the brief standoff, he attempted to consider all possible scenarios, but the only conclusion he reached was the frustrating unknown'.

The pinnacle of the wasteland's anomalies. Facing the Artists' Union, his logic was far too weak.

"Coming here because you were nearby Is that true? Do you even have any restrictions like space?"

Feeling the cold sweat running down the back of his neck, Professor tried to continue the conversation somehow. Since he came to talk, he had to see if he could learn anything.

At my question filled with doubt, a small cough came from his mouth. It was only after seeing him shake slightly that I realized it was laughter.

"Oh, oh, oh. What an interesting story you tell. This is not Gedroits's world; this is very much reality. I am no magician."

"And how did you come here?"

"I walked in."

"That ability to arrive in an instant, anywhere, anytime, as long as there's an appointment?"

"I simply value the time of appointments."

"And the reason for collecting useless paintings and sculptures?"

"A hobby."

"And the reason for coming here?"

"As I've said before-"

Talk nonsense about coming for a conversation, and Ill add another hole in your head. A conversation without even intending to answer properly? I wonder if your brain, even if half blown away, would still spout nonsense?

The gun barrel touched his mask, and the trigger, warmed by body heat, tickled his fingertip.

He would shoot. Just one more piece of nonsense, and he would fire. He wouldnt kill, for there was something to find out. From this angle, it would likely blow away the left cheek and teeth, leaving his face a ragged mess.

A moment of silence. And then,

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

Laughter like coughing and trembling. Applause filled with admiration. The applause, so vigorous that it caused his neck to nick against Ezels dagger and bleed out, but his admiration did not cease. Hidden by the mask, his expression was unseen, but every action showed he was genuinely enjoying himself.

Bravo. Bra-vo. Indeed, it was good of me to come see you. To be this much alive. Truly valuable. The Collectors judgment was right again. As always. I hadnt thought you of much value when I first saw you.

Spouting incomprehensible nonsense. Do you not know what a conversation means? Lets start over from the beginning, and Ill explain it to you slowly.

Cough, cough! Ah, this is exactly what Im talking about. Even as the blossoming begins, you maintain such a vibrant self.

Collector. Pleasure. Self. Blossoming.

These incomprehensible words danced chaotically in his mind.

I owe you, and it seems we might end up together someday. So, it wouldnt hurt to teach you a few things. How about it? Would you prefer to stand in this uncomfortable posture with your friends, or start the conversation you so desire over a warm cup of tea?

.Gulp.

As he hesitated, the sound of Ezel, who was closest to W, swallowing his saliva was heard. Adjusting his slightly blood-stained white suit and fixing his tie, his demeanor might have felt intimidating. At least to me.

They exchanged glances in an instant. Ian, caressing the trigger and alternately aiming the gun barrel at the heart and knee joint. Ezel slightly withdrawing his knife.

One on one, then.

Ian chose to attack, Ezel chose to talk. It was unclear what Vex was doing outside, but participating in the vote now seemed impossible, meaning the choice was mine.

The deliberation was long, the answer short.

.Ezel.

Startled!

Bring whatever tea is left.

A signal he chose to talk.

Click!

With Ians dissatisfied groan, the gun barrel raised, and Ezel, with a look of having survived, dashed towards the kitchen at lightning speed.

Do you have any Darjeeling?

Only fake mushroom tea.

His body began to tremble again as the water steeped with mold, commonly drunk by wasteland people, was mentioned.

Hahaha. Your wit might indeed be worth valuing. Memorable.

Value? How much?

Not talking about superficial values like money. Hmm, yes. This is where we should start.

Click.

Ezel placed two cups of tea on the table at just the right timing. Contrary to what I had anticipated, both were proper cups of tea for guests.

Seemingly fond of the warmth, his gloved hand circled around the teacup before returning to the desk.

"The reason we collect all sorts of art. Music. Precious items from the old generations. It's not merely a hobby. We don't feel any particular value in piling up precious alloys or mountains of gold. The value we collect is, a bit different."

W, with a voice clearly excited as if genuinely enjoying bringing up this topic,

An unidentified man. W began talking about one of the most secretive groups in the wasteland with a tone as if it meant nothing.

****

"Adapters. Ah, that's what we call Type 3 mutants among us. Which do you prefer? Type 3 mutants? Adapters?"

"It doesn't matter, so just go on."

"Then, as an Adapter. Anyway, the occurrence of Adapters is extremely rare. There are stories floating around that say, Their strong will to transcend death led them to their second life.' Well, if that were the case, we would have seen many more Adapters by now. I've seen countless people in the wasteland burning with the will to live in the face of death. Some of them showed a faint possibility but failed to take the last step, ending their lives as ordinary Type 2 mutants. It's a heartbreaking thing."

Pausing for a moment, W once again reached for the teacup. This time, too, instead of picking it up, he gently stroked its surface.

"We have researched ourselves with true passion. What is a Type 3 mutant? Why do some turn into monstrous beings, while others remain in forms similar to humans? Are we monsters, or are we human?"

His voice grew stronger with the last question.

"I'd like to ask your opinion on this conversation. I am an Adapter, what you call a Type 3 mutant. I died during the Great War, was reborn, have lived for six years, and, albeit faintly, retain memories of my original' form, along with my own thoughts, will, and purpose. Am I human? Or am I a monster born from the whims of a virus?"

"."

"Good answer. Remember that silence well."

Pleased with my silent response, he momentarily paused and quietly joined in the silence. It seemed as if he was choosing his words.

".I've gone off-topic. Let's return to the topic of value. We discovered that through newly born comrades who successfully created and protected the Artist Union, Adapters traverse memories as if crossing a bridge at the time of their occurrence. From the moment of death to a 60th birthday party. From the sour taste of a lemon eaten at the age of five to a car accident at 45. Then from a first love at 12 to memories of wearing a graduation cap at 20. Jumping randomly across memories, to the most shattered and missing moments of their lives. Just like Mad Many returned to memories of those who raped her at a university freshman welcome party, the mutant virus dashes towards an unforgettable absence."

Resting his chin in one hand and pointing at me with a finger of the other, W signaled me silently as if sharing a secret. For some reason, I thought of my mother and father and felt extremely uncomfortable.

"Are you what was it? Does that make you part of the mafia?"

"Me? Mafia? Ha, hahaha! Ah, how valuable. You've got it completely wrong. My original was a failure, an outsider, a hippie. Wanderlust is that the term? Always restless, leaving jobs suddenly. Just when he settled down with marriage, he left again. Desiring to return to his wealthy family's home but not wanting to return to the house where his mother committed suicide. Like a fly with its wings torn off, wandering around his home for life, he died in a bombing. The last memory he reached was at eighteen years old. Since five, he had dreamed of becoming a great businessman like his always elegantly dressed father in a white suit,' the night he stole and wore his father's elegant white suit. His wife, crumbling under her husband's frequent infidelities, started to dabble in alcohol and drugs, and through blurred eyes dulled by darkness and drugs, the man in the white suit looked exactly like her husband. Desperate for his affection, the wife clung to the man in the white suit, and when her startled son pushed her away, thinking herself completely abandoned, she"

Bang-

W, pointing under his chin with a white-gloved hand, mimicked the sound of a gunshot, substituting for the tragic conclusion of the story.

".And thus, I was reborn. A wanderer who wants to return home but cannot. A man who, despite hating himself, harbors a childhood dream in a corner of his heart of being a businessman in white clothes like his father. A man who can go anywhere but cannot return home. Those keywords came together to create me."

W spoke calmly, as if telling someone else's story. Maybe it really was someone else's story. When he was born, those memories were faintly left in his mind, the story of himself and another man.

What would it feel like to have the memories of someone you don't know in your head, and your life determined by those memories?

I had once thought, I wouldn't mind being such a mutant,' after seeing similar posts in communities, but now I could never think that way again.

"What do you think? Without someone to protect with my life, or a goal to achieve risking death, I successfully transformed into an Adapter. The important thing is the strong absence in the memory of the subject, and the reference points' that allow the memory to trace back to there. Many have traumas, but most lose consciousness before reaching that far back. Well, they're memories people want to forget. Only those who truly can't forget, or shouldn't forget, or have overcome, can reach that goal."

".I get a rough idea of your past and the goals of the Artist Union. Type 3 mutants that is, Adapters, you want to increase their number?"

"Exactly, to increase and protect them."

"Then, what's the connection between that activity and the artworks you collect?"

Scratch-scratch-

Instead of answering, W pulled a notepad from in front of me towards himself and quickly began sketching and writing something down.

Da Vinci's Mona Lisa. Rodin's The Thinker. The Last Supper. Van Gogh's Starry Night. Michelangelo's Creation of Adam.

Next came music. Fr Elise. The Titanic theme song. And other famous tracks by Michael Jackson or tunes that one might have heard at least once without knowing their titles.

"Now, what comes to your mind?"

Professor reflected on the memories that had just surfaced. The time in elementary school art class when he saw a painting of a woman without eyebrows. Thinking during middle school, while sitting in the bathroom with a stomach ache, that The Thinker might actually be sitting on a toilet. The memory of crying while watching Titanic. Trying to mimic the moonwalk.

".Memories are quite fascinating, aren't they? At first glance, they may seem like a cross-section, but in reality, they are very three-dimensional. One memory intertwines with another, and that memory intertwines with yet another. We are not omniscient gods, so we cannot know which memories intertwine in the life of a dying person. However, these artworks that everyone has seen, listened to, and felt happiness and appreciation for occupy a common part of memories and can sufficiently serve as reference points in those memories. Isn't that what art is? Expressing emotions that cannot be explained in words through abstract media. There's nothing better to stimulate the memories of someone dying."

".So, the value you speak of refers to something that can remain in the memories of many people."

"You catch on quickly. You habitually joke without rest. It's quite entertaining, and your unique manner of speaking is memorable enough. If you became famous and that way of speaking spread, just a recording of the professor's' voice could evoke many memories. That's what I meant by assigning value to your manner of speaking."

After finishing his speech, W, like a scene out of a movie, glanced at a pocket watch he took from his pocket, then stood up.

Slide-

Click!

Swoosh!

"Oh. I was so engrossed in our conversation that I nearly forgot about my original goal."

Adjusting his pristine white suit, straightening his tie, and giving the teacup one last sweep, W extended his hand to me.

"I've enjoyed today. It truly was a time of value."

After a moment of hesitation, but considering he had provided much information and posed no threat to us, following him who put out his left hand first, I reached out with my left hand, extending my arm that had undergone mutation to shake hands.

"Ah, I forgot to mention. Now that the mutant virus has begun to blossom, it will continue to traverse your memories to establish a position. If you feel you're at a dangerous juncture, please contact me using the ID on the business card I gave you. It would be a waste for you to end your life as a mere Type 2 mutant, given your value."

W, as if it were nothing, chillingly dropped that bombshell.

"Me undergoing mutation? I'm different. My left arm, it's not like you guys."

"For details, you should ask the person inside."

Tapping his temple with a finger, he then flung open the door leading to the hotel's balcony.

The cold night air made his white suit flutter.

I had intended to kill and eliminate you all today as you might interfere with the original plan. But debts must be paid. If you refrain from intervening from now on, I shall spare you. Thank you for sending Dojin away. I respected his will and observed him staying there, but if his pain had persisted just a bit longer. Well, there's no need for curses when parting. The night is cold. Make sure to close the door tightly, cover yourself well with a blanket. It might get quite noisy, so wearing earplugs and even a bubble shield would be better.

Dojin. Kim Dojin? Old Picture?

Katak-

With a slight nod instead of an answer, he grasped his hat, bowed slightly, and then stepped back over the railing and fell without hesitation.

As soon as he disappeared from sight, I hurried out to the balcony, but as expected, W was nowhere to be seen.

".Hey, Ezel."

"Ah, Ian. Speak."

"If you have a religion, lend me anything, a cross, rosary, anything."

".I have one, so let's sleep together. I'm too scared to sleep alone."

That was the consensus of the party regarding the visit by the Artists' Union that night.

Ian and I. Ezel, and Vex, who had rushed in claiming to have seen a ghost after finding a sniper lurking nearby and forcing him at gunpoint to aim at a white man, spent the night wide awake on the bed, each tightly holding their trusted weapon.

Throughout the night, from the outskirts of the city, strange music was heard. It was as if thousands of bands were playing different music simultaneously, creating a cacophony of beautiful music mixed together like trash, with an odd sensation somewhere akin to human gasping, making one's skin crawl.

The next morning, Area 38 Dome, especially the Investigation Bureau, was in chaos. Their main source of income, the farming district. Beyond the city-level shield of Dome, the commoners who had been crammed ten to a shelter meant for four in their farming districts had all disappeared. The soldiers guarding the watchtowers, the serfs, and even the agents of the Investigation Bureau managing them. The place was left with only varied scratch marks and inconsistent traces.

Scratch scratch-

[Enforcement Bureau <-> Happy Blind <-> Artists' Union]

Professor scribbled a few more words on the note, then crumpled it up and threw it away.

Even a wizard can't do this, you crazy bastard.

It was indeed a clear, quiet, and unpleasant morning.

****