Ch.1Ch.1 – Intro (Video Replay)

# Chapter 1 – Execution

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1929. 3. 12 PM 10:24.

East Beach, Pollard City.

It was a whale.

Inflated like a balloon, it drifted along the surface of the sea.

The waves crashed, trying to pull it beneath the surface, but it stubbornly rose back up. Regardless of species, the young ones tend to be playful.

Splash! Splash! The night watchman spat at the clamorous sound.

“Damn it.”

Of all times, it had to be high tide. The time when seawater rushes toward the shore. Meaning that whale carcass would float right up to the beach. Sure enough, there it came, bobbing along.

“Son of a bitch.”

The night watchman walked briskly to his post. He picked up the spear leaning against the wall.

It was 150cm long. The shaft was roughly carved from wood with no proper finishing, leaving splinters. Without gloves, the thorns would pierce the skin.

The spearhead was so crude that it would bend after just a couple of strikes. Even the bars of a regular home security fence would be sturdier.

It was an unsatisfactory tool in many ways. Especially for the night watchman.

Despite his disgust, the watchman reluctantly picked it up. He had no other options.

Dead whale calves washing up on the beach had been going on for nearly two weeks now. And they weren’t just ordinary corpses. They were “inflated” corpses that would burst if lightly pierced.

The whale’s fat layer was so thick that it held together even as the organs rotted, the flesh decayed, and the bones dissolved.

Then, as they lay on the beach basking in the warm sunshine, they would suddenly burst with a loud pop.

For Mayor Black, who believed tourism was Pollard City’s future meal ticket, this was unacceptable.

The mayor’s solution was ridiculously simple: “Pop them, then tow them back out to sea with a yacht.” Of course, the popping part fell to the “night watchman.”

‘A former merchant sailor knows nothing about this,’ the watchman grumbled to himself.

These whale calves were particularly troublesome. Few burst cleanly; most tore open lengthwise, spilling their contents all over the beach.

And who suffered from such displays? The volunteers and day shift workers, that’s who.

‘If only the spear were at least decent.’

Holding the crude weapon made him even angrier. This wasn’t a harpoon. It was a rough imitation. The kind of object that vaguely reminded one of better days.

In those days, whales were truly enormous. So large that even turning your head from left to right with all your might wouldn’t let you see the whole creature. It was like staring at a field or mountain with your nose pressed against it.

To think of sticking a harpoon into such a being. How was that any different from trying to kill a field with a toothpick?

But the night watchman had done just that. Because he was young. Because the world seemed laughable.

After checking the rope connecting the harpoon tip to the boat, the night watchman threw the harpoon with all his might.

The harpooned whale raced through the sea. The rope connecting it to the boat grew taut. The whaling boat surged forward. Blood flowing from the whale’s body carved a path through the blue sea.

A sleigh pulled by a whale! The mothership, like a mother’s embrace, grew distant, and the sun, as if unable to bear witness to such atrocity, closed its eyes and dipped below the surface. The hunters clung to the gunwales, pursuing prey that would eventually die.

The whale convulsed. Even a heart like a furnace couldn’t withstand the terror of death!

Behold, humans, more insignificant than field ants, bringing vast plains and mountains to their knees!

The beast of the apocalypse, collapsing and bleeding before this small thorn, this small courage, these feeble muscles!

For that moment, that moment of ecstasy when the strong and weak were reversed, the harpooner was transformed into a godlike hero.

Then the whale, with stiffened eyes, asked:

‘Now, are you satisfied?’

As the sweat that had risen hot cooled, the smell of blood soaked his nose and lungs. The harpooner couldn’t hold back his nausea. Trembling with unbearable guilt, the man vomited violently.

The solution was alcohol, labor, and women. Dismembering whales required tremendous strength, and when exhausted, one’s mind became blissfully empty.

Fortunately, the man was young. The world was the size of a coin, and the brothel women were both loose and innocent.

When fierce storms came and the ship tilted, he would climb the mast and shout: Kill me! Kill me! And the sea would retreat.

But even that grew indifferent. A whale was just a whale, and work was just work. When green rookies grabbed harpoons and made a fuss, he would think with composure, I was once like that too.

And 30 years ago, the last whaling ship to leave Pollard City never returned. The Cape of Good Hope, despite its name, was by no means a forgiving sea.

The night watchman, who had become the first mate and the best harpooner, was the sole survivor of that whaling ship, and he married the third mate’s fiancée.

The marriage was unhappy. There were no children. His wife went mad. And Pollard Island’s golden age passed.

And now, the old harpooner was jabbing ridiculous spears into dead whale bodies.

‘Here. These are the whales you’ve killed all your life. Now try hunting dead whales.’

It felt as if Mother Ocean was making a cruel joke. The harpooner answered by popping the whale balloon. It burst with a loud PUKWAAAK!

“Ah, damn it!”

The night watchman narrowly avoided the filth. His knees ached with a sharp pain. The result of facing sea winds for too long.

‘I won’t be able to do this much longer either’

As he lamented the relentless passage of time, something caught the night watchman’s eye.

Splash. Splash. He poked through the decaying matter with his spearhead.

A yellow box was revealed. Its edges reinforced with studs and waterproof cloth. And at the very top, a horseshoe-shaped mark was stamped on the small box.

Every ship carries a kind of black box that stores routes, crew lists, and navigation records in case of emergency.

In the worst case, even if the ship sinks, the box will float, serving as a guide for rescuers. Like the box now before the night watchman’s eyes.

And the night watchman knew what that horseshoe mark meant. From 30 years ago. The last whaling ship. The symbol of the Unicorn.

The night watchman threw down his spear. He walked across the slimy beach and grabbed the box. Despite surely having drifted at sea for a very long time, there wasn’t a speck of rust on it.

Even the dial turned smoothly. Back then, it was fashionable to lock and unlock with dials instead of keys.

7.3.1.2.4. Numbers he could never forget.

As the first mate, he naturally knew the code.

Click. Clack.

The box opened. Inside was just a single sheet of paper. The old man picked it up.

And was horrified.

It was a crew manifest, listing all 22 people who had been on board. At the bottom, the name of the owner, Isaiah Black, was clearly visible.

And every name had a line drawn through it.

Death. Missing. Deserters were marked with a single line. Only the first mate, Lawrence Lehman, had no line through his name.

The harpooner tore the paper to shreds. He buried it in the water. The scraps of paper, soaked with seawater, writhed and swelled on their own.

Following the swollen paper scraps, a hand emerged.

Following the hand, an arm, and following the arm, sailors with tilted heads. The one in front wore a captain’s uniform. The one behind, a second mate’s uniform. The one beside him wore a naval officer’s uniform.

The night watchman recognized the ensign rank insignia on that uniform collar. The third mate.

Lawrence Lehman, once the first mate of the Unicorn but now an old night watchman, ran limping through the city’s alleys.

Believing that those demons wouldn’t follow him once he reached the gaslight.

Having faced too many sea winds, his knees were not sound, so he crawled on all fours.

His hands were cut by glass shards, dripping blood, but he didn’t even notice.

Behind him. Following the blood he shed. The sunken sailors were rushing forward, waving their hands.

Just as in his youth, when he tracked whales by following the blood trail left by his harpoon, countless hands of the sailors surged toward him like waves.

Like waves overflowing into alleys filled with rainwater, so did they.

One hand wrapped around Lehman’s ankle. One hand gripped his neck. Wrist. Hand. Ear.

The sunken sailors seized the first mate who had abandoned them and fled. Like boys returning home after a long absence, the dead ran through the streets.

Lehman let out a scream that no one could hear. He knew where the specters were taking him. The old whale processing plant.

A long, long dismemberment followed.

The crew manifest lay neatly on the floor.

A line was drawn through the first mate’s name.

Splash, splash, the seawater slid like mercury into the drain.

Someone opened the warehouse door.

<End of video>

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* * * * *

“Hey. Assistant, are you asleep?”

Chapter 1: Execution

1929. 3. 24. AM 9:24

Crayfield Detective Agency.

22 Gorde Street.

“Do you even realize it’s already 1 o’clock?”

Crayfield seems quite displeased. The wall clock’s hour hand points to 1.

* * * * * *

A few days ago. He had told me about this “clock.”

“You think it’s broken? No. It’s an extremely accurate clock. There’s just one minor difference—it measures ‘doom’ rather than conventional ‘time.'”

He pulls out a Camel cigarette from his vest pocket, puts it in his mouth, and lights it. A fluid, natural motion. After taking a drag, his eyes flash like a locomotive with rising pressure.

“It’s a ‘Doomsday Clock,’ you see. As doom approaches, time passes. 1 o’clock. 2 o’clock… When it reaches 12, everything ends. Bang, just like that.”

The game ‘S$ummon2’ is not your typical game with predetermined beginning, middle, and end. Everything “changes.”

Players can determine their own profession, background, and game objectives. You could become a journalist uncovering the truth or an apostle spreading evil.

Then the game “generates” quests that players must solve according to their set “goals.” These are generated randomly, but within the limits of plausibility and verisimilitude.

Therefore, even if players choose the same background, profession, and goals, the quests they must solve will be “different” each time.

While this might be an incredibly fun and novel experience for gamers, it’s quite annoying for Crayfield, who has to follow and interfere with them.

“What happens when the player ‘solves’ the problem, that is, reaches the ending? The outcome won’t be pretty. Either a slug gives birth to a human or a human gives birth to a slug. I told you about the first game’s ending, right? That’s what happens.

Conversely, if this player is utterly incompetent and doom reaches 12? Then the gates of heaven open, so to speak. The ‘hungry things’ crouching outside the door will come flooding in.

Of course, there might be cases where the player’s goal is to ‘fill doom to 12.’ You could call it a grandiose suicide. Either way, they’ve succeeded in sacrificing themselves to bring in those ‘outer beings.'”

Crayfield crushed his cigarette in the ashtray.

“So what’s our purpose? Simple. We prevent the player from seeing the ending and keep doom from reaching 12. In other words, our goal is to preserve this world as it is, intact. ‘Come and go as if you were never here, trash goes in the trash can.’ But for now, there’s nothing to do.”

He smiled and pointed at the clock. The hour hand doesn’t move from 12.

“I told you, right? The game only starts when a player enters. So if they ‘don’t enter,’ the apocalypse doesn’t begin either. Ultimately, my modest wish is to drive away all who enter and create a peaceful world where no one comes.”

Crayfield opened his desk drawer and handed me a wristwatch. This one also pointed to 12.

“Take this. It has the same function, just miniaturized for portability. It belonged to your predecessor’s predecessor’s predecessor, who’s now one with the swamp. He’s still alive, but don’t worry, he won’t come asking for it back.”

* * * * *

But today, that clock points to ‘1’. It means a player has entered, and doom has also begun.

Crayfield is restless. When standing still, he shakes his leg; when moving, he approaches the window, repeatedly opening the blinds to look outside. His anxiety is well-founded.

“By game design, this ‘Mr. John Crayfield’ is treated as an important NPC. Players must meet me at least once. But now the count has gone up to 1 without the player coming to find me. Could it be…”

Crayfield chewed his lower lip nervously.

“Has there been a patch? Not good. Very bad. We can’t identify who the player is. This is problematic from the start.”

Just then, a creaking sound was heard. Someone was walking up the old stairs. Crayfield’s face brightened. Through the office’s translucent glass wall, a uniformed police officer appeared.

“Phew.”

A plump middle-aged man. Crayfield smiled mischievously.

“Come on in!”