Ch.155Act 2: Ch.10 – Long Live the King (7)

The hunt always took place on the moonless night. It was a hunt targeting Black people. Whether they were former slaves, successful businessmen, or political opponents didn’t matter. Anyone with skin as dark as ebony would do.

The abducted victims first had their tongues cut out and their throats seared with branding irons. They were stripped naked, and their fingernails and toenails were pulled out. Without strength in their fingers, they couldn’t resist, and with painful toes, they would run about ridiculously.

The descendants of prestigious families tied red ribbons to the joints of the kidnapped Black person. Neck. Shoulders. Arms. Finger joints, toe joints. Ankles. Knees… If the victim’s struggles caused a ribbon to fall off, they would replace it by pressing a heated, elongated piece of metal against the skin.

The pitiful victim was placed on a cart led by hunting dogs. It was a chair with a sign that read ‘Wishing for a Bountiful Harvest.’ After circling the village once, the workers would pretend not to notice and release the victim, with legs free but arms still tied behind their back.

“The descendants of prestigious families would mount their horses to compete over who could catch the fleeing victim first. Guns were strictly prohibited. They could only use whips with metal pieces attached and clubs. The reason they specifically chose Black people was simple. On a dark night, when thrown into a field, they were hard to see. They called it shadow hunting.

My second assistant and I discovered this fact by sheer chance. Children in the slums were whispering songs about it. They sang that in the northern pastures, there was a fruit that bore strange produce. Black and elongated, when bitten into, bright red blood would flow—a foul-smelling yet strangely human-shaped fruit.

One day… a strange corpse was discovered in Pollard’s northern commercial district. It wore no clothes but had ribbons tied at each joint. Red ribbons. It was a young woman, with her mouth torn up to below her ears. Her tongue was, of course, cut out.

Everyone in Pollard was outraged, and Police Chief Chase—yes, the father of the Chase we know—ordered an investigation. Josh Graham was a rookie detective then. He moved zealously but faced clear legal limitations, which is why he came to me with the request.

Thanks to Josh discreetly leaking all the information, my second assistant and I set foot on this land and discovered that something more evil than we had imagined was happening. It wasn’t just sadistic entertainment, but a religious ritual. A ceremony for prosperity, happiness, and wishes. An effort to please the gods who had taken care of them.”

Did Dagon and Hydra-like beings really want such things? Honestly, I don’t know. Of course, I can’t fully understand or need to comprehend the psychology of such creatures. But… I could force some connections if I tried.”

“What do you mean?”

“Imagine a flock of pigeons tearing their companion to pieces, spreading it along the roadside, then flapping their wings at humans and crying out, ‘Hey, would you listen to us?’ Wouldn’t that catch anyone’s attention?”

“I don’t understand.”

There’s nowhere to rest my eyes in this cursed land.

“Why? Why go to such extremes? Why?”

“There are many reasons. The ability to enjoy wealth and power is probably the biggest reason. Or maybe they just wanted to do it because it was fun.

It’s a common repertoire, isn’t it? As long as I find it amusing and enjoyable, that’s all that matters. The attitude of not caring what happens to others, saying it’s not my concern. What’s wrong with that, can’t I make jokes? Can’t I laugh? That kind of joke. Stories that you know are wrong, but you stop caring about.

But one thing is clear. Those evil beings responded to such terrible jokes.”

Would they have responded if people had offered baked cookies? If they had sung songs of love and praise, if they had given glory and joy on every happy festival day, if they had offered the strong first cry of a newborn child, would those beings have shown interest?

No. Probably not.

“That day, when my second assistant and I went there… it was the day of the ritual. The day to sacrifice Savio’s eldest son. Our original goal was to nullify the ritual itself. We calculated that if we kept interfering and stopping the ceremony, those evil beings would lose interest.”

“But that’s not what happened.”

“We were too late. And… the ritual itself didn’t proceed properly. The eldest son, who was the sacrifice, broke his oath and tried to escape before being caught.

If the ritual hadn’t happened at all, it might have been different, but because it was ambiguously… only half completed, things went wrong. The beings from beyond were angered. From their perspective, it was like trying to show something but failing halfway.

The interrupted ritual brought terrible consequences. Look at how this place is broken. A cascade of errors occurred, people lost themselves and remained only as fragments of data. Buildings ceased to be buildings, and the land, sky, and air… could you call this a place where people live?”

I looked at the writhing human form. It was screaming as it watched the house that continuously twitched and melted away. Whether this person was originally good or evil is impossible to know.

“Crayfield. When the clock reaches 12, is this what will happen?”

“It will go one step further. Everything will merge together. Like compacting garbage tightly. Everything will lose its name, lose its essence. Walls will no longer be walls, people will no longer be people, and the land and sky will no longer be called land and sky.”

Crayfield’s form turned toward me.

“No one keeps a ruined game installed. They delete it, wipe it away. But those things don’t completely disappear.

File deletion, even formatting, only deletes the file location address, not its essence. The content itself remains, but eventually, it will be overwritten with new names and content.

It’s about names, Assistant. Names. When you lose your name, that’s what happens. You can’t assert yourself, and no one can find you. Then you simply cease to exist. The difference between having your existence denied and never having existed at all… that difference is incredibly subtle.”

* * * * *

PM 2:00

Trieste Theater Lobby

Pollard Island

Crayfield and I returned to the busy district. With nowhere suitable to park the car, we reluctantly left it in the Pollard City Police parking lot.

Crayfield boasted that there would be no problem since he had even attached a note saying “Josh Graham’s Visitor Vehicle,” but his additional comment, “Come on, they wouldn’t tow it away, would they?” suggested he was just as uneasy about it.

After each eating a quick sandwich, Crayfield bought cigarettes. He purchased an entire carton, put two packs in his coat pocket, and tossed the rest into the Ford. Of course, this wasn’t without reason.

“If you go back and forth on the same path, you can easily spot someone tailing you.”

“Someone’s following us?”

Instead of answering, Crayfield pointed at the Doomsday Clock. The clock still showed 1 o’clock. It meant that the drugstore’s minions might be looking for us, so I silently nodded.

“We’ve become quite the joke. We always liked to mess with players from a slightly better position, but now we have to jump into the curtain spread by the drugstore guy.”

“But you still understand the game better than he does, don’t you?”

“Of course. He doesn’t even know what he’s created. But he has money at stake. Money. Honor. Attention. Aren’t those the strongest motivations for a loser like him?”

Crayfield took a long drag on his Camel. Seeing him so happy despite having barely eaten for half a day, it seems true that happiness isn’t created from nothing but becomes precious when something you have disappears.

Fortunately, there didn’t seem to be any trouble. We approached the theater entrance. Or at least, we tried to.

“Stop the play! Stop it! We oppose this anachronistic play! We resist all messages delivered in the name of culture and art!”

A group of people raised their voices while holding placards.

“Guarantee artists’ freedom! Guarantee it! Guarantee it! Everyone has the right to speak freely! They do! They do!”

Meanwhile, on the opposite side, someone with a megaphone was shouting. Both sides had gathered at least 100 people. They were holding various items ranging from empty water bottles to trumpets, clubs, and even pots. The pots were already quite dented, suggesting they had been beaten for quite some time.

And between these groups, a handful of Pollard police officers had formed a line to hold them back. They were heavily armed with shotguns, and there were even mounted police. The horses snorted nervously, but the protesters didn’t seem intent on harming the animals.

“Josh! Busy, aren’t you!”

Crayfield raised his voice. Josh Graham approached, wiping sweat from his forehead.

“Of all the days, you had to come here today?”

“I know how to enjoy cultural activities too.”

“Trying to impress another woman? Don’t get your hopes up. Every woman on Pollard Island knows how pathetic you are, so don’t waste your effort.”

Crayfield turned his head, probably muttering curses. But when he turned back, he was smiling.

“Still better than being squeezed dry after marriage, I’d say. Anyway, what the hell is this? I thought the sea mist was clearing, but now it’s a crowd?”

“Tell me about it! Hey, I said don’t cross that line! Edward, arrest any protesters who cross the line! Throw them in the holding cell! I’m about to lose my mind. Gun incidents, assaults, neighbors at each other’s throats, and now a controversial performance troupe has arrived. Hey, have you ever seen those protesters on Pollard Island before?”

“Their clothes look different.”

“They’re professional protesters.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than flashes went off. Journalists with large cameras, reporters with notepads, and even people passing by with pens and small sketchbooks doing quick drawings. Among them, a neat-looking reporter, who clearly wasn’t from Massachusetts, approached us.

“I’m from The New York Times. Mr. Josh Graham?”

At the mention of New York, Josh suddenly straightened his posture. Crayfield and I exchanged smiles before stepping aside.

“I need to get inside. This is troublesome. All entrances are controlled.”

The thought briefly crossed my mind that I could ask Aurora for help, since this theater belongs to her after all.

Suddenly, I felt something chilling. It was a familiar feeling. A piercing sensation, like someone watching me. The sharp feeling I had experienced in Innsmouth City Square.

“Oh right, I had something to tell Josh…”

I turned and approached Josh. Hadn’t Crayfield said it? If you go back and forth to the same place multiple times, it becomes easier to spot someone following or watching you. It really was true.

Among the protesters were many journalists. The journalists kept thrusting their notepads at the protesters, asking various questions. I ignored the FBI agents who were leaning awkwardly while writing things in their notepads. I also ignored Aurora’s subordinates who stood awkwardly with white gloves.

‘There she is.’

This time I was certain. I could even pinpoint the location. She was among the women’s rights protesters. Those women were particularly well-dressed, probably college students or children from wealthy families.

From the corner of my eye, I saw the gray lady. A white brimmed hat, a white dress. Long gloves compulsively pulled up to near her shoulders, elegant outdoor attire.

And steel eyes that showed not the slightest change.

It was Clarice Holmes.

After blinking once, she had vanished again.