Ch.197Request Log #016 – Transformation (8)

I took a cigarette from my duffel bag and lit it. There was no need to hide the flame anymore. Since I’d used up all my mana sharing memories of the Argonne Forest with that woman, I had to use a lighter.

The car started moving. The cop who had detained me was staring at me like he wanted to chew my head off whole, but I didn’t care. No angel in their right mind would mess with a Divine Protection Agency vehicle.

I took a deep drag of cigarette smoke, then coughed it out when I felt my broken ribs and wounded chest. Only after managing a deep breath did I ask, “So, where are we going?”

The hairy man looked me over briefly as if I were amusing, then guffawed.

“What, is your daddy a troll or something? Can you regenerate on your own? No way we’d put someone who took more than a dozen bullets and broke four ribs straight to work for the Divine Protection Agency! We’re going to the hospital, kid.”

“I’d have to have seen you people make a sensible decision at least once for that to make sense.”

“Well, that’s true. This was supposed to be our job anyway, kid! Higher-ups pulled us all back saying the operation was temporarily suspended. And then they tell us to bring in an Argonne!”

Despite all his complaints, he was just angry because he wanted to serve the God-President more but couldn’t. Without fanaticism, there would be no complaints.

Annoyed by his repeated use of “Argonne,” I placed my hand on my side, exhaled a puff of smoke, and said, “Stop saying Argonne this, Argonne that. Do you even know how many years ago the Great War ended?”

That being unpleasantly retorted. It was truly irritating to the very marrow of my bones how he casually revealed he already knew everything.

“It’s not over for you yet, is it? Do you know what the orders from above were? They told us to go get the detective when he returned to being an Argonne, kid!”

Dealing with those who lived as parasites on omniscient beings was this unpleasant. I was allergic to the fact that someone knew about me. Quite a severe allergy.

With the cigarette in my mouth, I headed to the hospital. Even there, it seemed to be the first time they’d seen someone walk in normally with more than a dozen crumpled bullets lodged in their body. Warren stood at the reception desk in my place.

“We’re from the Divine Protection Agency. I believe we have a reserved room…”

They even reserved a hospital room in advance? This was ridiculous. They had prepared a hospital for me before I even arrived, after I’d slaughtered those dwarves before I could even decide to kill them.

At this rate, what’s the point of our existence? It felt like the God-President, with his damned omniscience, had set things up somewhere so we would move according to his will. The only emotion I had left for him was hatred.

“Room 901. Let’s go.”

I quietly followed him into the hospital elevator, heading to a higher floor where private rooms were located. This didn’t seem like success to anyone. Once again, I was just a puppet.

I picked up a bullet that had barely lodged in my skin as it fell out, and headed to Room 901. Since it wasn’t a place for critically ill patients, it didn’t have much of a hospital atmosphere.

It was my first time using a private hospital room. The last time I came to such a room, I killed someone. In the neatly arranged room sat an old man in a chair… not the God-President.

That character had a more silhouette-like appearance. A silhouette resembling a human. Or perhaps humans came to resemble that silhouette. But the one sitting there was a pale old man.

Warren rudely greeted the old man with a nod of his chin. A barbarian true to form.

“Brought him, old timer. The other two haven’t arrived yet, I take it?”

The old man nodded briefly, then stood up. I thought they might have pulled a corpse from the morgue and sat it down, but surprisingly, he could walk properly. Well. I’m a barbarian too, it seems.

“I’m Agent Desmond from the Divine Protection Agency, Mr. Michael Husband. Since Warren is good at his job but not particularly pleasant to talk to, I’ll explain why you’ve been brought here. Ah, Miss Loretta Parker is receiving all necessary care with the help of Agent Joan who was waiting at this hospital, so you needn’t worry.”

Though I still felt uncomfortable, he was easier to deal with than the barbarian who brought me here. Somehow… he felt familiar. Despite meeting him for the first time, I felt like I’d known him for a long time.

“You people know everything, including that woman’s name.”

The old man chuckled. Though it was a weak sound, it had more dignity than the barbarian who brought me here.

“You seem quite displeased with our esteemed superiors. Isn’t that so?”

“To me, they’re neither esteemed nor superiors. Is that a problem?”

Someone knocked on the door. It seemed to be a doctor. Since the old man wouldn’t explain the situation with outsiders present, I asked while the doctor was busy being shocked at my condition:

“All the other agents seem to be running around, so why are you here? I’m not doubting your abilities. I just don’t like conversation being interrupted until the doctors leave.”

The old man politely greeted the doctor before answering me. In this city, people with manners were less trustworthy than those without.

“Well, that’s my role. Warren, Connor, and Gregory all go out to find people, but I wait for people to come to me. If they are operatives, I am the operations center.”

His voice was more comforting than unpleasant. Nurses extracted the bullets barely lodged in my skin. They chuckled in disbelief at how membranes were already forming over my wounds.

Only then did the doctor approach. He was a narrow-faced man with round glasses who looked like he had “doctor” written all over him, explaining to me in a gentle voice.

“I’ll check your internal condition with magic. It’s a spell commonly used for non-destructive testing of Industrial Spirits, but it’s completely harmless to humans. You might feel a ringing sensation, and if that’s a problem, I can give you painkillers. We can’t know your internal condition otherwise.”

“I’m standing on two feet. Isn’t that obvious enough?”

The doctor finally nodded. The smell of ozone spread around, and I felt a wave of energy dispersing through my body, scanning every corner.

After the nurses opened the windows to clear the ozone smell, the doctor handed me a medical report. Four fractured ribs, chest wounds, numerous shallow bullet wounds, and countless bruises. A full-service hospital indeed.

However, the patient shows remarkable recovery ability, and with about two months of rest, should heal naturally. Two months could be corrected to one month. That’s how we were. I handed the report back.

“Ah, just a few more questions. Are you perhaps part troll or lizardman? Please don’t take offense. I ask because those races could face life-threatening consequences if prescribed the wrong medicinal whiskey.”

Lizardmen could die from overheated internal organs, and trolls could develop tumors if their body temperature rose too high, causing excessive regeneration. Fortunately, I was neither.

“No, but if you’re prescribing whiskey, I’ll take one distilled in Louisville.”

It was my first time legally ordering alcohol. After all, here I wasn’t some detective nonsense but a patient brought in by a Divine Protection Agency agent, so this level of rudeness wouldn’t be a problem.

The reason the Divine Protection Agency lords had thrown me here was because they had something to discuss privately, so being treated as a patient they didn’t need to care much about was far better than trying to gain favor.

Soon the doctors and nurses left the room. The Divine Protection Agency would cover the hospital bills anyway. Since lying on the hospital bed reminded me of field hospitals, I sat on the sofa instead. The pale old man spoke.

“To continue our earlier conversation, it’s good that you dislike gods who act like gods. That’s an excellent disposition. The job our Divine Protection Agency wants to assign you is hunting down an unworshipped god who’s trying to become a worshipped one. We’re not asking you to do it alone. There will be three of you. We’re currently recruiting a theologian, and finding a driver to take you all there.”

“That’s your business, isn’t it?”

Was this what Yehoel had mentioned? Then it might be about the god that journalist was investigating. A sun god and war god—if I went in after he started receiving worship, I’d burn to death in less than a second.

Agent Desmond nodded. With his hand on his chest as if asking for understanding, he continued.

“Yes. Originally, we planned to handle it in New York, but our esteemed superiors ordered us to stop. Then, a few days ago, an official document came down instructing us to find three people to hunt down that god. Please read it yourself. We have no intention of pushing you into a slaughterhouse.”

He took out a piece of paper from his breast pocket and handed it to me. Though it was paper, it had no weight. The writing was in neat cursive. Written not with ink, but with light. More like words than writing. Disgustingly sacred.

The content was exactly as he said. Find the one who willingly returned to the Argonne Forest, a scholar who saw the Star of Bethlehem, and a guide who would willingly lead these two even to hell-fire for sufficient compensation, and have them hunt Sol Invictus. They will be sufficient. An absurd order.

I didn’t understand why it was written like a passage from scripture, and looking at the composition, I was essentially the only one who knew how to shoot, so I couldn’t comprehend how we were supposed to capture an unworshipped god.

I was about to speak but briefly clutched my side. The God-President definitely wasn’t conducive to complete rest. After taking a deep breath, I said:

“Are you planning to offer sacrifices to this unworshipped god? I won’t do it. Once he’s gained even one follower, there’s no way to deal with him as a human. You know that. It’s not like you haven’t done this before.”

Agent Desmond asked for understanding again. It was beyond his control too. I knew that.

“It’s simply that the omniscient elected one has commanded it. The elected one decides, and the selected ones execute. That’s all we know. Please reconsider while you rest. The Divine Protection Agency will handle the detailed suppression plan, and we’ll thoroughly investigate if there are any potential followers.”

From what he was saying, it seemed they were looking for someone to do the dirty work, but this was about confronting a god. It was exactly the absurd task I had refused when Yehoel mentioned it.

If I refused, they would keep asking throughout my month of hospital rest. I didn’t expect cold-blooded divinity to look after us. I just didn’t want to have my pant leg clutched by an old man for a whole month.

“I don’t mind doing the dirty work. It doesn’t seem like I can refuse anyway, so what’s the compensation?”

“Our self-existent superior said he would call for you personally after the operation succeeds. Isn’t that sufficient guarantee?”

I shouldn’t participate in gambling where life transformation is at stake. However, he hadn’t promised money but a discussion with himself… No, no. That inhuman divinity wouldn’t do that.

Could I ask for as many Hexenbanes as there were comrades left? Hexenbane wasn’t a suicide blade. Hexenbane was a choice. It allowed you to choose whether to live or die.

It didn’t have to be Hexenbane. It didn’t matter if it was a dagger, a knife, or even a needle, as long as the God-President consecrated it. One suggestion created a tremor in my heart. I bit my lip.

I shook my head again. I shouldn’t throw myself into a fire pit today just looking at tomorrow’s stakes. Work should be handled properly. Compensation is something to consider after finishing the job.

“I’ll see how detailed the plan becomes while I’m resting in the hospital before deciding. For now, it’s a yes. Is that enough?”

“That’s the best we could hope for today. It would be best for you to rest for now, but feel free to move around if necessary. We’re not trying to confine you, just trying to restore your physical condition to its best as selected by our superior. I understand you usually charge $20 per day plus expenses for detective work, so we’ll pay you that much while you’re in the hospital.”

The Treasury Department will have a headache trying to figure out why the God-President is spending $20 a day to hire some run-of-the-mill New York detective.

If money was coming in, I could enjoy hospital food. I wouldn’t need to wear a patient gown. After all, the body of an Argonne Invincible recovered quickly. Not that we wanted it that way.

If things went well, I could even add a line about working with the Divine Protection Agency in newspaper advertisements. Then I might be able to charge $30 per day for jobs that used to pay $20. My desires were all modest.

If someone asked if I had visitors, that would be a troublesome question. If my comrades came, I couldn’t exactly say, “Well, I killed some dwarves who were turning people into monsters, then got rammed by an angel and was hospitalized.” The only people who might visit were the bartender and the journalist… but the bartender would definitely tease me.

While taking a break from work, it might be nice to call Carmen. That woman was somewhat uncomfortable to meet during work, but there was no better woman to see in normal times.

At least I didn’t have to sit here making jokes with that barbarian in this hospital room, so I hadn’t lived my life in vain.

Around the time I had that thought, I put on a shirt that fit me perfectly from the hospital room closet and leaned back on the sofa. It had been a while since I felt both discomfort and convenience simultaneously.

I needed to gather more information to determine whether this job was suicidal or not. I asked Warren, who was yawning lazily. He would know better about this.

“So, Agent Warren, what kind of god is Sol Invictus? I saw something in the newspaper saying he’s a god of the sun and war.”

Now the barbarian looked at me with a pleased expression. He burst into laughter so loudly it could be heard in the next room.

“War? That thing calls itself war? Ha! He’s a god of acquisition. A god who has to get his hands on whatever he wants. We castrated him with the name ‘unworshipped god,’ so all that built-up frustration has finally erupted. There’s no way he would live quietly like that Morrígan woman or whatever.”

Placing war and acquisition side by side aroused great displeasure and personal motivation. However, now was time to rest. With about a month of good rest… I might be in physical condition to go catch a god. That’s all.