Ch.110Ch.7 – ■■■ ■■■ ■■ (■■)

Crayfield stood up. A stone in his left hand. A pistol in his right. Absurd, literally reckless. The Deep Ones were countless in number, and Dagon was trying to tear through the veil into reality, yet all he had was just a stone and a pistol. He seemed to read my expression.

“Hey. What are you looking at? I’m John Crayfield.”

Then he skillfully threw the stone. It hit the closest Deep One, the one approaching at the front, square in the head. While the Deep Ones momentarily froze in place,

Bang!

Crayfield fired his gun into the air.

“Hey. You unscaled things.”

Like a cowboy in a western film, Crayfield spun his revolver.

“Innsmouth is my territory. You can’t take another step without my permission.”

He shouted. An eerie silence followed briefly, but the Deep Ones continued to sway and slither forward.

Bang!

One Deep One, as if in disbelief, wiped the blood flowing from its forehead. Then it collapsed to the ground, its body trembling.

“I told you not to come. Fish-headed bastards can’t remember beyond three seconds, can you?”

Beyond the gun barrel, Crayfield’s expression was resolute. The bewildered Deep Ones charged at Crayfield in unison, screaming. Crayfield fired all his remaining bullets. The Deep Ones trampled their fallen comrades as they screamed.

Then. Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

Even the charging Deep Ones halted their steps. Crayfield smiled in victory.

“Coming now, you many-legged idiots!”

Crayfield shouted loudly and disappeared into the steam. As soon as he vanished,

“Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”

A horde of enraged Shoggoths, like a stampede of bulls on the plain, was charging furiously in our direction. Two of them in the front looked familiar. One was the one I had shot with my pistol, still bleeding. The other had a cracked head, and acidic saliva flowed from its wound whenever it gurgled. And behind them, Shoggoths filling the street charged at the Deep Ones without discrimination.

The Deep Ones thrust their spears in anger. The foremost Shoggoth was impaled, but soon the ones behind climbed over it and crushed the fish-men with their bodies.

“Tekeli-li!”

As several fish-men were sucked into a Shoggoth’s body, other fish-men thrust their spears and tore at the Shoggoth’s body. “Kirruk!” “Kiyaat!” As the jelly-like exterior was torn, acidic saliva poured directly onto the Deep Ones.

“Kraaagh!”

As a Deep One clutching its face collapsed, the one behind trampled its comrade and charged at the Shoggoth. I came to my senses. Hoping Crayfield was safe, I ran toward the podium. James Moriarty had disappeared somewhere again, but Klein’s aide, completely entranced, didn’t seem to notice.

It seemed as if only Dagon and himself remained in his world.

I must stop him.

I must stop him.

*Please continue reading if you wish to accept the quest and intervene in the situation.*

*Please stop here if you do not wish to accept.*

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[ YOU HAVE CONT… ]

“No.”

Emma Scully grabbed your hand. More precisely, she wrapped her hand around the Doomsday Clock on your wrist. She is no longer a spirit. She stands as a human with warmth that can be felt.

“No more.”

Emma looks directly at *you*.

[ Retry: YOU HAVE CONT… ]

“Are you listening? No more, I said. I don’t allow it. I don’t allow it. I will no longer tolerate these games, Usurper!”

Emma Scully’s eyes burned white. Her violin played an eerie note. A sharp sound like a whip cracking.

“You violated the taboo! Broke the rules! Tried to wake from the dream!”

*You* realize belatedly that the accusation is not directed at *you*. Perhaps it’s ambiguous…*you* are…me? You? Me? You? Me? You? Me? You? Me? You? How far am I? How far are you? What is you? Me? You?

“I command as the last heir of Hyperborea. I command as the one who told stories for a thousand and one days. The punishment for violating the taboo shall be a spell that transcends the taboo!”

The violin strings moan. As if rubbing salt into a wound. Like scraping a chalkboard with sharp nails. It’s just one step away from harmony, yet even listening to it is painful. But through that performance, *you* understand what Emma Scully is trying to reveal.

For one who knows the answer, a single discordance becomes unbearable. Something that must be fixed. Something that must be made right. Just as the nail on the staircase must protrude.

The Lord of Destruction. The Foolish Father. One who wanders not knowing who he is, Sultan of Evil Azathoth, after Scheherazade, the last priestess of Hyperborea, told him stories for a thousand and one days to put him to sleep. So that the God of Destruction, having realized the sweetness of sleep and oblivion, would finally let go of everything and drift in the void.

As if *you* still need to dream.

So *you* relax and surrender to comfort.

From your comfortable dream place, *you* watch the reincarnation of the priestess. This time, the successor is Emma Scully. Her performance is sweet, sometimes sharp, but still imbued with compassion for the changing world.

So *you* quietly watch as Emma Scully’s music tears through the void, and through the gaps in the emptiness, summons headless marble angels. A countless legion of cold stone angels without heads, those who bear the blades of the executioner Ashan-Maus who failed to prevent the destruction of the first capital Comorium,

You watch them stab the unholy Dagon. The angels cut off Dagon’s arms, pierce his eyes, sever his waist. This is possible because Emma Scully’s performance traps Dagon in between worlds, neither of this world nor the other.

Like a door being forcibly closed, the angels stab, cut, slice, and claw at Dagon. Dagon wails. *You* see the half-melted Deep Ones raising their harpoons to stab the Shoggoths. *You* understand Dagon’s rage at seeing his children die at the hands of slaves before his eyes.

Dagon’s eyes burst with rage. He sheds not tears mixed with blood, but blood mixed with tears. Dagon’s strong arms force their way into the material world. After firmly grasping the devil’s sandbar, he forcibly tears it away. Like a child begging for his share of a large loaf of bread. As if Innsmouth belongs to him, and he will take at least his portion.

The flesh-torn earth wails. *Your* viewing seat shakes. As *you* become displeased.

The entire universe.

Just like that.

Holds its breath.

Shh.

[ YOU HAVE CONTROL PRESS ANY KEY ]

*You* place Chekhov’s drum on the Doomsday Clock. The click sound is heard exactly eleven times, but there’s no need to fire all those bullets.

The drum rotates into place with a rattle. *You*, just like Crayfield did, take aim and shoot Chekhov at Dagon’s arm. Half of the right arm disappears. As if in disbelief, Dagon screams.

But who would listen to such a disgusting thing?

You shoot again. Half of the left arm disappears. The opened dimensional gap closes again. Dagon, with his arms caught, wails. You shoot toward Dagon’s head through the gap. Dagon, in agony, pulls his arms out of the dimension.

Yes. This is it. This is the fun.

*You* are satisfied. The universe resumes. The play continues.

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[ I HAVE CONTROL PRESS ANY KEY ]

“Boom! Boom!”

The angels and Emma Scully are nowhere to be seen. Instead, squadrons of fighter planes continuously bombard Dagon. In the distance, warships that have arrived from the sea fire their cannons. The sound of a violin faintly tickles the ear.

“Now that’s some firepower!”

Crayfield pulled me by the scruff of my neck. I tightly gripped Chekhov – a gun I didn’t know when it had appeared in my hand, Chekhov that I clearly hadn’t brought with me. Every time the fighter jets and naval guns spewed fire, I could clearly see Dagon writhing and wailing beyond the transparent veil.

Eventually, Dagon disappeared. As Dagon vanished, the seawater that had opened the way for the Deep Ones quickly returned to its place. All that remained was boiling lava. Terrible gas, the earth’s pus that had been lying beneath the surface, swallowed the unholy creatures one by one. The anger of the earth itself burned and melted the evil and unholy things as they screamed.

“Ha.”

Klein slumped down. We approached him with our guns aimed. Klein was smiling.

“Man. This really sucks. If you can’t win even with cheats. Isn’t the game poorly made?”

With those words, Klein disappeared.

“Crazy bastard.”

Crayfield’s muttering floated in the air. Even then, the pages of the Necronomicon were still fluttering. Crayfield picked up the book and hid it inside his clothes.

“Hey. Let’s run to the sea for now!”

The lava was approaching us. Fortunately, we could see fishing boats, speedboats, and fishing vessels filled with people at sea. A boat flying a naval flag approached us, with Catherine Scully on board.

“Get on.”

We jumped aboard. Catherine Scully’s expression was strange. She seemed to be crying, or perhaps she was weeping.

“Amazing. You saved it after all.”

“…Saved what?”

“Innsmouth.”

Crayfield smiled and patted Scully’s shoulder.

“Innsmouth is destroyed.”

Scully extended her hand heavily.

“A city has been torn from the continent. It’s split now, and lava is rising, destroying everything in the city. Judging by the rain, it will cool down soon.”

“No. That’s not it.”

Crayfield shook his head.

“Look at the people you saved.”

Scully turned her head. On various boats were truly diverse people. From fully Innsmouth-transformed humans to partially transformed ones, an anti-discrimination woman from Boston, a racist wearing a KKK hood, police, soldiers, firefighters, city officials.

“They are Innsmouth, Agent Scully. That evil land will now sink. Of course, the Innsmouth people have lost their homeland. But their homeland was like a chain binding them. Now Americans can no longer segregate Innsmouth people solely in Innsmouth. They must live among us, and America will have to accept them.”

Scully blankly looked at Crayfield. And at the people she herself had saved. At Innsmouth sinking, exploding, and collapsing.

Something seemed to touch her shoulder. It was Emma Scully’s thought. Rather than a touch on the skin, it was closer to a chill, but. Emma quietly placed her violin on her shoulder and played the strings.

Then seabirds gathered from somewhere. A flock of seagulls. They circled above our heads, crying “kreek – kreek.”

Only the birds sang a song of mourning from a place beyond the understanding of everyone here.

A dirge to reason that those who survived and must live on would have to sing wearily for a lifetime, but could sing because they were alive.