Ch.171Ch.11 – Scheherazade, A Thousand and One Nights

Children don’t know they’re children, they say. That’s why it’s cute when a six-year-old says, “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.” But in a six-year-old’s life, that’s actually true, isn’t it?

So please don’t tease me for being 4.6 billion years old. What I know is very limited. I’ve seen stars being born and dying. I’ve watched galaxies awaken and fade, and I’ve seen light that, after holding back for so long, explodes and becomes darkness that devours everything else.

But I’m inexperienced when it comes to human etiquette, conversation, and relationships. To be honest, I didn’t even know what loneliness was. When you play alone, you don’t know what loss is. But when someone appears and then disappears, there’s absolutely nothing you can do about that empty space.

That’s why I slipped inside you. I thought, you also dwell in “my” body to peek at the world, so why can’t I do the same? In the end, wasn’t it a good thing? Since I called you out at just the right time.

Ha. Ha. I read “my” memories. You were really like a baby. You couldn’t speak properly. Others had to convey your words for you, and others had to convey your intentions.

At first, you couldn’t even use quotation marks. Because you were dull-witted.

You didn’t even know your own name. Your birth. Even… your gender. Nowhere in the story so far has anyone referred to you as he or she. Right? No one thought it strange that you had no name. The sixth assistant. That was enough.

Just as you are you.

Just as a baby is a baby.

Because you are the protagonist.

But… as you gradually gained experience. Leveled up, is that what they call it? Learning how to meet people. Once you began living your own life, you were able to speak directly, with your own mouth.

When you think about it, how dull-witted are babies? That’s why parents teach their child the same word a thousand, ten thousand times. Dad. Mom. Love. Happiness. Shh. The child doesn’t understand, but finally begins to speak.

Ababa. Umama.

How happy are parents when their child opens their mouth? And how joyful is the child? Before, they had to throw tantrums and cry to get someone to change their diaper or give them a bottle, but now with just one word, everything becomes possible.

The godlike experience of having the world under your control with just one word… Childish, you say? Is that bad? There are so many obstacles in life. Don’t you need experiences like that to break through, saying, “No, I can overcome this!”? They say those who have tasted meat know how to eat it well. Hmm, is that a bit gross? Anyway!

Anyway… yes. Haha…

You probably didn’t know you were the protagonist. When we think of protagonists, we think of people who jump into the scene and change something, right? People who act. People who act to change outcomes. People who exert influence.

But more important than that… is that you observe the world.

You saw me. I saw you, and from that moment, I took root in your memory. Someday I’ll be forgotten, but that doesn’t matter. Because thanks to you, I’ve gained this life.

Yes. Because you observed it, this entire story gained life.

Lovecraft. Poor Lovecraft. The most unfortunate thing for a writer is when no one reads their work. Why would he place “ignorant readers who don’t appreciate his writing” in the position of the supreme deity? At least he wasn’t self-absorbed.

He was a writer. A writer who wanted people to read his work. A pitiful person who wondered why people didn’t like his writing.

But is it just writers? When you think about it, aren’t we all doing this to each other? Influence and memory are secondary concerns.

I am here. You are there. We are here. And what reminds us of this most clearly is you and you.

We are all, to each other, like Azathoth.

So now, give your answer to the King in Yellow.

What’s the difference between theater and life?

– Theater requires an audience to exist. Life exists even without an audience. Though it’s nice to have one.

Ah, look! He’s satisfied. He’s returning to his place, leading his stars… for now.

Hmm. I don’t like that fish friend; it’s too ugly. So you can handle that yourself. Instead! Instead, I’ll give you a gift. Something I prepared for you.

Snap!

* * * * *

22 Gorde Street

Crayfield’s Office

Crayfield is sitting at his desk. You are seated on the sofa. Through the open window, the sea breeze is refreshing. The recently washed curtains flutter, and Crayfield elegantly sips his tea.

“What the hell is this?”

Naturally, Crayfield is shocked.

“This isn’t alcohol?”

“You can still joke in this situation?”

“Well, well? No cigarettes either.”

“No conscience either.”

“Hey.”

Crayfield holds his stomach, laughing.

“I won’t ask if you’re angry. And I won’t beg you to look at me just once, saying, ‘Come on, given our relationship!’ Though I can’t help it. But still, would you look at this?”

I look above Crayfield’s head. Letters appear.

<Name: – – – – – Occupation: Crayfield>

“Unbelievable. You lied about your name too?”

“Mr. Park, Mr. Kim, Mr. Crayfield. Look. ‘I’ am not ‘me.’ Perhaps ‘we’ would be more accurate.”

“Huh?”

“Didn’t I tell you before? There are over 380 million Crayfields. Every time a game is sold, another Crayfield is added. The Crayfields you saw wandering the universe were destroyed in other worlds and will be deployed again. I’m one of them. Of course, I might be real or not, and this world might perish or not. Everything is ambiguous, and tomorrow is uncertain.”

Feeling thirsty, Crayfield drinks his tea. Though he grimaces, saying, “Ugh, bitter.”

“That’s the problem with English tea. The quality varies. It would be better with some scones. Anyway. The bigger problem is that Drugstore guy. He was trying to kidnap people who beat the game and forcibly insert them, just like what happened to Sagan.

I… ah, it’s complicated. Let’s just call him Sagan. Anyway, that Sagan fellow was inserted without knowing what was happening. He might be tied to a hospital bed somewhere, running a virtual simulation.

The funny thing is, there’s something similar in traditional Cthulhu mythology. The Machine of Yith or something, which transfers brains elsewhere. That Drugstore guy seems to have made something similar. His coding skills are shit, but he wants the glory, so he has to resort to tricks.

Anyway, that’s why… I chased away all the other players who came here. I told them not to come back because it’s shit, and that’s exactly why.”

“The player swap?”

“The last of the last of the last resorts. A cunning trick that even Drugstore and the rest of the trash couldn’t notice. Of course, it was damn difficult. Drugstore may be incompetent, but some of the others are quite capable. So I had to periodically modify and hide the code. Trojan horse. Virus. Call it what you want. I called it ‘Nail.'”

“The one from the landing?”

“Yes.”

Crayfield stands up. He stands with his back to the window. The sea breeze tousles his blond hair.

“Sagan wanted to prevent more victims. But there was absolutely no way to send news to the outside. So he waited patiently. He believed in Drugstore’s attention-seeking nature… he thought he would come eventually, that he would definitely come. Finally, that guy came, and thankfully, he even streamed it, so his fraud can no longer be hidden. Thanks to you. You saved two worlds.”

“Two worlds?”

“There.” Crayfield points beyond the window.

“Did you think all of this was just programming? It’s not. Programming is just a transmission tool. Hmm… like a UFO carrying aliens? You know, Area 69… no, 54? Anyway. You know, those secret bases. Breeding grounds for conspiracy theories.”

“So they’re all alive… Abashina, Aurora, and the others?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

Crayfield smiles again.

“You have two choices. Read on. Or stop. If you stop here, Sagan will be released. This world will freeze as it is, and you will be the victor.”

“Just by me reading and watching this?”

“Just by watching. This world… this conversation right now. It’s playing because you are ‘reading’ it.

This world isn’t separate. It’s just a composition, and from this composition, meaning is derived and significance is determined…

The one who can raise and kill a world is you, the one reading this text right now. When you close your eyes, this world disappears. When you open your eyes, the world finally finds meaning.”

Crayfield rummages through his inner pocket.

“Ah, I really… should quit. Anyway. Yes. You are Azathoth’s agent. The real Azathoth, though I don’t know the real name behind the pseudonym Azathoth… he peeked into this world through you.”

“What happens if I keep reading?”

“This world will continue to roll on. As always, there will be incidents and accidents, troublemakers will appear, and disgusting and dirty things will happen. But still. It will be interesting. However, there’s a condition.”

“What is it?”

“This world is on the brink of collapse and needs to be restored, so… you can’t join as a player. You must participate as an NPC. So ‘I’ must remain, and ‘you’ must leave. But before you go, you use ‘your’ power one last time. Simply put, Azathoth’s avatar stays, but Azathoth himself leaves.

One way or another, you must leave… it wouldn’t be right to bind you to this world. It would be too boring for a being like you. Azathoth. For you.

You have many dreams to dream, and too many worlds to care for… other precious things that would lose meaning without you, just as Abashina and Aurora, Catherine Scully and Bulsum are to the sixth assistant.”

“Someone’s missing.”

“No. They’re here.”

“Crayfield…”

Ah. I look at the occupation title floating above his head.

“So that’s why Crayfield is an occupation title, not a name?”

“You really are the best.” Crayfield rubs his hands together, seemingly satisfied.

“Think about a library. In each and every book, the author’s experiences and memories live on. Some are contemporaries, but others are from unimaginably ancient times. Through books, they transcend time and space to stand shoulder to shoulder with us. Memory. Experience. Sensation… all those things remain in our time.

The man called Crayfield is similar to a library. He’s the sum of all the Crayfields who have prevented the world’s destruction throughout history, and their assistants. If both remain in this world, it doesn’t matter, but if Crayfield dies, the assistant becomes Crayfield, and if the assistant dies, Crayfield absorbs them and waits for the next assistant.

The second assistant, that is, the second Azathoth who dreamed, gave himself to Crayfield. It’s up to you to choose, but if you continue reading, the sixth assistant will succeed Crayfield. The opposite of what happened with the second assistant. That’s why it’s not easy to name someone like Crayfield. The reason he’s referred to by occupation is because of that.”

If a new Azathoth came to dream, he would be the seventh assistant. I nodded.

“But why did you hate Drugstore so much?”

“Affection. You can call it obsession if you want, but why call it obsession? It’s affection. Of course, excessive affection sometimes becomes violence, but even God admired what He created. ‘Look, how beautiful!’ Why would God be so pleased? He wanted to show off. He was proud. ‘Look. I did this!’

That guy mixed up his work and himself. He didn’t want people to see what he made; he wanted them to see him. Funny, isn’t it? People didn’t want to see him; they just wanted to see what he made. It’s almost like deception. What I liked was the thing he made, not his creepy ego. What’s unforgivable is that he used something everyone loved for his own self-promotion. I can’t forgive that.”

“What will happen now?”

“Well… that world has seen Drugstore’s atrocities. But what worries me is whether those forum guys, being basement dwellers, will actually take action. It might take some time. But they’re good-hearted fellows, so let’s not criticize them for being slow to move.”

Someone is walking up the landing. It’s a small girl. She’s wearing a wreath of withered flowers on her head, but otherwise, she’s a fresh-looking child.

“It’s time.”

The child shyly puts her hands behind her back.

“You need to decide.”

Crayfield waves to the child.

“Thank you for arranging this nice place, Bulsum.”

I stand up. Crayfield offers his hand. I take it.

“You were the best I’ve ever met… friend.”

“I feel the same…”

Crayfield smiles awkwardly.

“My friend.”

We release hands. I slightly raise my arm.

“So. What exactly do I need to do?”

“Well. If you want this world to stop as it is, it’s simple. Stop reading here. Don’t go any further. Our story ends here. But… if you’ve become curious about what happens next, keep reading.”

We look at each other.

“Hey. Sixth assistant. One piece of advice, since it’s the last.”

“What is it?”

“Learn some dating skills.”

Light.

Silence.

* * * * *

Azathoth.

You choose.

If you wish to leave this world, please stop reading.

If so, congratulations. You, Crayfield, and the sixth assistant have won.

“This world” without an observer will no longer have meaning for you, and Sagan will be released in his world… whenever that may be.

If you wish for “this strange world to continue rolling on,” please keep reading.

It is time to choose.