Ch.170Closing: The Dull One Who Doesn’t Even Know Their Own Name

When the time comes, flowers spread open their private parts. They drip nectar and release fragrance to draw strangers into their embrace. All to bloom another life resembling themselves. A skilled gardener carries cotton swabs or cloth to ensure fruition.

The flowers that Clarice bloomed were the same. With each blossom of flame, the scent of metal and oil carried on the wind. The fallen blossoms with their exposed parts embraced only death as they withered. It was a fitting tribute to a play that mocked life and death, denying all living things.

When a magnificent performance ends, people offer roses to the stage. Clarice did the same. With elegant, dignified, and restrained movements.

“Foolish ones! Dull creatures! Arrogant beings who never learn! Incompetents who substitute effort for folly, gamblers who repeat the same actions hoping for different results! I am your endpoint. I am your conclusion! ‘My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings! Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair!'”

With one gesture, she severs limbs. With one kick, she pierces heads. She wraps wire around the ankles of those fleeing cowardly, hangs them upside down from the ceiling, and cuts away each joint. She pierces the heads of three who rush at her at once—thunk, thunk, thunk. She grinds the flesh, bones, and metal of those who charge recklessly like minced meat.

Like an eagle’s beak cracking an eggshell, like a skilled hand wielding a pickaxe breaking rock seams.

Federal agents and White Hand organization members rushed in to contain Aurora. Crayfield and I ran toward the stage.

“Crayfield, you were right! Mechanization really became the variable!”

“Just got lucky!”

Crayfield picked up a fire axe from the floor and struck a pillar. With Annette Cole eliminated and the actors gone, no one could stop us. The Drugstore, playing the Black-Masked Pharaoh, sat on the floor with his hands raised. The area between his thighs was gradually getting wet.

“Impossible… how much I…”

I wanted to hit him, but that was forbidden. Only those designated as adversaries could directly touch players. That must be why Crayfield was destroying the stage.

For there can be no play without a stage.

All the Mockingbirds, Deep Ones, and arms that broke through the Pollard approached the stage.

The ground splits. My body shakes up and down. Though standing on solid ground, it feels like floating on angry waves. My insides twist. Even the pillars lose their center and stagger.

Just as the enraged monsters leap onto the stage—

Wooow-oo-!

The wall shatters. Wolves. The size of angry large bears, with lion’s forepaws, black and white manes. Though dressed in priest’s and nun’s clothing, no one would dare mock those fangs and muzzles.

Father Michael leaps up and tears apart the Mockingbirds. The nuns, their silver manes fluttering, knock down the Deep Ones. They purify the blasphemous creatures more easily than a bear tearing apart salmon floundering at the water’s edge.

‘We can win.’

Hope rises, but there’s no time. Time is desperately short.

Click.

<Awakening 11/12 / Destruction 11/12>

Even while wetting himself, Drugstore continues to mutter until the end. Even as he trembles, wrapping his body, his mouth recites the script.

I took out Chekhov. Though the ground shook up and down, I managed to separate the drum. I placed it on the Doomsday Clock on my wrist. Though dizzy to the point of nausea, I muttered, please hold on just once. Please endure just once. My solar plexus aches as if being torn apart.

Click… click… click…

Click… click… click…

Click… click… click…

Click… click…

Eleven shots. I secure the drum…

And I see a scratch on the opposite side of Chekhov. A mark from Arthur Black’s obsidian dagger.

‘Doesn’t matter.’

I aim Chekhov. I pull the hammer and fire toward the stage. The stage disappears a little, just a little. Chekhov rattles. Ten shots left.

[You feel Chekhov’s durability has fallen to a dangerous level…]

I ignore it. I aim Chekhov. I aim at a Mockingbird flying toward Crayfield’s back and fire. The filthy thing is erased as if it never existed. Chekhov rattles more. Nine shots left.

[You feel Chekhov’s durability has fallen to a dangerous level…]

I ignore it. I aim Chekhov. I fire toward the stage. The stage floor disappears. But still, still so much remains. Eight shots left. Seven shots left. Six shots left.

[You feel Chekhov’s durability has fallen to a dangerous level…]

I ignore it. Clarice drives her blade into the neck of the last actor. Father Michael crushes the head of a Deep One that stabbed his left arm. This time I shot at the bottom of the pillar supporting the stage. The pillar sinks down with a whoosh. The ceiling makes a creaking sound of discomfort. Chekhov rattles. Five shots left.

[You feel Chekhov’s durability has fallen to a dangerous level…]

I ignore it.

“Everyone get away!”

I shouted. I fire repeatedly at the pillar. “Grrrr!” Father Michael lets out a beast’s roar. Everyone’s gaze turns to the ceiling. Collapsing, tilting, precarious. Smoke rises from Chekhov.

I ignore it. I aim Chekhov. Crayfield’s eyes widen. “Assistant, no!” I ignore Crayfield throwing himself toward me.

One shot. Just one shot, and I can collapse the stage. I can bury that vicious thing.

I pull the trigger.

Chekhov explodes.

The stray bullet blows away one Deep One.

Crayfield covers the gun with his body.

His

body

Click.

<Awakening 12/12 / Destruction 11/12>

Silence falls. The Black Pharaoh rises from the ashes. Trembling, he barely manages to throw off his mask.

“I, I won!”

Despite his trembling legs, he shouts excitedly.

“I, I won! I won! I, I, I won! Aha, ahahaha! I won, I won! I! Finally! Won! I beat you!”

“Cough. Cough.”

“Crayfield.”

Crayfield stirred. His condition was terrible. Mine probably was too. He barely turned his head toward me.

“Hey, say ‘safe’.”

Crazy bastard. Crayfield coughs. He barely manages to turn over. His lower body… it would be better to say it’s gone.

Drugstore approaches. Trembling with the joy of victory. He spits on Crayfield.

“I won, Saigan, you idiot!”

Crayfield looks at him and raises his left fist. Drugstore covers his face with both hands. Crayfield extends only his left middle finger.

“Are you happy?”

“Of course, of course! The humiliation I suffered because of you, the time I was ridiculed because of you, you, you son of a bitch!”

My head spins. My vision blurs. Drugstore looks like a writhing mass of tentacles, probably because of that. Because my eyes are strange. Flute sounds. Violin melodies. Familiar tunes gradually become audible. This time it’s clear. It won’t be interrupted.

But not yet. Because Crayfield is coughing.

“Right. So you achieved your accomplishment?”

“Of course! Well…”

Drugstore fumbles.

“Huh?”

Crayfield turns his head toward me with a smirk.

“Assistant. Didn’t I tell you? That idiot doesn’t know how to read code.”

“Huh? Huh? What, why? How? Why, why! I beat it! I cleared it! Why isn’t anything happening…”

Crayfield looks down on Drugstore. It’s a strange sight. Crayfield is lying down, and Drugstore is standing.

“Why, you idiot, because you’re not the ‘real’ player, cough! That’s right, moron, check the code. You’re probably labeled player_2, right? That’s actually an entity name meaning guest. You, idiot. You weren’t even a player.”

“What nonsense! I am the player! I am the protagonist!”

“Yeah, you’re just named protagonist. I changed the entity name, didn’t you know? The real player is… player_1.”

I changed the entity name. Cough! The mid-game intruder as the player. The ‘real’ player character is… cough, cough!”

Crayfield’s eyes gradually close. Blood flows from his mouth and nose, but he still looks happy. He grabs Drugstore’s leg.

“What, what is it?”

“Saigan says.”

Crayfield coughed. His eyes gradually close. But he looks happier than ever.

“This is live, right? Forum otaku losers, I’m talking to you. Saigan says. Forum ID is Saigan and password is also Saigan, but not a single one of you touched it? Check the email box…”

Drugstore disappeared. Disappeared as if he never existed.

“Idiot. Rage quitting…”

The tired man lays his head on the floor. A long, long sigh bursts out. Numerous arms. Numerous hands. Something that shakes the entire island with thump, thump sounds.

Over there, beyond the sea, still looking down at the earth, grabbing the hem of the king in yellow clothes, crawling up from the abyss,

Sixteen suns are visible.

The time is near.

Click.

<Awakening 12/12 / Destruction 12/12>

It’s over.

Too late.

The one who crawled up from the abyss howls toward the king. It declares that this land was originally its own. Everyone clutches their heads in agony. They beat their chests and prostrate themselves. Some are even seen digging into the cement as if it were sand, trying to bury their heads.

Only I, Crayfield, and Clarice Holmes remain intact. But even she cannot be said to be completely whole. With logic and anger, one cannot fully understand the unknown.

Ah, the thing that rose from the abyss finally stands. R’lyeh rises. I can see the cursed city rising above the water’s surface. I can see flames burning brightly from that edge.

A fire that remains hungry after devouring and devouring.

“End it.”

Crayfield muttered. Now his voice is barely audible. I doubted my ears. In this situation?

“What do you mean by that?”

Incomprehensible words flowed from his mouth. Eerie and unpleasant. Things that shouldn’t happen. Painful and chilling things. Command words. Transmission words. Deletion words…

Crayfield’s body gradually turns to dust. As if that were their rightful place, they attach to my body. A missing hand grows. Flesh sprouts on a burst stomach. A broken back straightens with cracking sounds.

“Remember what I said about us not being able to win?”

I wanted to cover his mouth. I know these are his last words. But that’s why I can’t stop them.

They are a man’s dying words.

“Yes. I remember.”

“Sorry. I deceived you.”

Crayfield smiles.

“We cannot win. But you can. Only you. I… never said there was only one protagonist in this game. So, I must not be there. It’s entirely your part.”

<Who was it that watched everything from beginning to end?>

<Who is it that lives quietly among people, holding their breath?>

<Who was at the beginning of all things, and silently watches the end?>

<They say this world is a dream that … dreams. When he wakes from his dream, this world disappears. Isn’t that strange?>

What’s so strange about it?

<If all I can do is wake up from sleep, but just by waking up I can annihilate an entire world. Is that impressive, or ridiculous?>

Right. It’s ridiculous. Terrible. Like a terrible joke.

<That’s what I’m saying. It’s strange. How can such a foolish god be at the pinnacle of other terrible things, things too horrible to mention?>

But why should I know that?

<Because the gods are watching you>

Why? Why are the gods watching me?

<His children try to keep … from waking up, they keep singing lullabies and telling stories to make him continue dreaming.>

“…*Father*…”

It comes.

It is coming.

From that deep, deep abyss, from an abyss that no human imagination can measure, it walks up.

Even the fog crawls onto land to avoid him. The frightened sea churns its waves as if begging for help!

“…*Father*…”

“Crayfield?”

“Yes.”

He seems sleepy. He has fought for so long.

“Who am I?”

Finally, he smiles with satisfaction.

“You are you.”

“Why was I empty inside?”

“Because you are you.”

“Am I really the player? Or…?”

“You are indeed you. But you are also *you*. Someone is peering at the world through you. A dull one. One who doesn’t know who he is. His dream makes this world exist. He has dwelled within you. He joined your journey with me, and sometimes even helped directly. Not always because he wanted to.”

“How?”

“By seeing and recognizing. Because he sees, our conversations sound vivid, and because he sees, we can have such vivid conversations like this. Because he sees and interprets with his own thoughts. Thanks to him watching, we can have conversations as if we’re alive like this. He’s probably doing so even now.

The Necronomicon called *you* by the name Azathoth, but that’s not your real name. It’s just a name that the inhabitants of this land gave arbitrarily. Reader. Gamer. User. Friend. Family. You. There are many names to call you.

But one thing is certain. Not everything will go according to your will. But without you, this world has no meaning. Because you see. You hear. You feel, this world can exist. All those things that are seen, heard, tasted, and felt.

Because you are the master of the world.”

System: Crayfield has been annihilated.

System: I am being separated from *player_1*.

System: I recognize *player_1*.

*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*

.

..

……

……

…….

………..

[YOU HAVE CONTROL PRESS ANY KEY]

*You accept your destiny*

*Now you are the protagonist*

It rises. The fire breath dwelling in what was once me, the Lady of Mars who was searching for *you* speaks to you.

– Hello? Can we talk for a moment? Um, I’m not sure if this is the right tone. It seems like a common phrase on Earth. It’s used often, so it appears frequently, right? Or not? Is it awkward?

*Would you like to accept the conversation? If you wish, please continue reading. If not, please stop here.*