Ch.302Work Record No. 042 – Beast Wearing the Skin of God (6)

What The Bazaar wanted was neither a religious paradise nor a perfect savior. It simply wanted to be recognized as the second city of the Mojave Wasteland.

To rebuild the massive crater created by the Extinction War into a home. Their goal was to have the space they called home and homeland officially recognized as such.

If that was the case, whether it was the El Sueño cult or the clowns didn’t matter much. Since it didn’t matter, they were free to choose. The clowns guarding the exterior of The Bazaar were assassinated, and the large outer gate slowly opened.

I hadn’t made The Bazaar’s leaders open their doors merely through proselytizing. I simply convinced them that the dog could remain the same while only changing its leash, and that the new leash could be better than the old one.

Of course, I can’t deny that the influence of the El Sueño cult played a major role in the process, but The Bazaar still made a rational decision. They assessed El Sueño’s military power as accurately as possible before deciding.

The crusaders marched into The Bazaar, trampling over the dead clowns. I sent the Bloody Hands, whom I had trained as mid-level commanders, to their assigned sectors. My destination was the innermost part.

The Bazaar consists of paths built along the edge of the massive crater like railings, shops carved into the walls, and bridges crossing between those railings with hanging buildings.

For a facility in the wasteland, it was in remarkably clean condition, though not immaculate. Right before my eyes was a torso statue. Though “statue” might be a misleading term. It was made from a human.

They had likely poured molten metal onto a living person, letting them writhe in agony, then processed the corpse that had solidified in that agonized pose. This was the horrific nature of the clowns’ murder art.

After smashing that abomination called “artwork” that was nothing short of a desecration of life, I watched as other abominations were incinerated. The merchants had already closed their shops and gone into hiding.

Just as I was about to begin the cleanup operation, I heard the voice of The Bazaar’s security chief in my head. It had been a long time since I heard a voice calling me with trust rather than faith.

“Has the cult entered The Bazaar? Then, damn it, send some people inside! These fucking clown bastards somehow knew you were coming and started raising hell!”

Could Los Payasos really have such good intelligence? Unlikely. Those who put polka dot patterns on their bulletproof vests like clown clothes couldn’t possibly run an intelligence department.

Then I could more confidently accept the claim that they were connected to the Las Vegas Strip. I connected communications with Jimena and the crusader squad she was leading.

“I sense souls in The Bazaar yearning for salvation, trapped underground. I’ll have El Pastor’s squad provide cover so break through to the underground as quickly as possible, Jimena. Share what you have received.”

Her response didn’t come through the communication channel. Jimena drew out the humming sound of machinery like a beast’s growl, then shouted explosively. She believed I was listening.

“A revelation has come! We can destroy these clowns’ abominations anytime, but the suffering souls down below will perish if we don’t save them immediately. We’re breaking through!”

Like an answer to her, the voices of her squad members erupted. While Jimena had merely explained the strategic priorities, the chanting that followed was entirely religious.

“El Sueño and his Bloody Hands protect us!”

But religion is a fuel that ignites easily and burns long. Jimena began breaking through the clowns’ lines with her full-body prosthesis, and El Pastor had always excelled at covering fire.

Until now, their purposes had just been reversed. Instead of firing to protect comrades ahead, he had been expending the front line for his clean shots… but not anymore.

Now, perfection for him had become what El Sueño desired, and what El Sueño desired was, simply put, to bring everyone together to eliminate unpleasant things and create mutual enjoyment.

Whether he killed enemies with clean shots or not had become irrelevant, and fulfilling his assigned duties had long since become a joyful task. The method was certainly strange, but… better than before.

I mentally replied to the security chief. Jimena would break through to the interior without much delay. The Bazaar’s clowns would be dealt with for now.

‘I’ve sent my Bloody Hands, so don’t worry. Is there anywhere else that needs support? Ask and you shall receive.’

“Honestly, we thought we’d just be cooperating with you for a surprise attack. So we only sent the merchants to shelters… but those clown bastards caught on, so that area’s in danger too. Do you see the flashing green light?”

I didn’t even need to look for the green light. Even amid this chaotic battle, I could see where the clowns were focusing. Plasma cutter sparks were flying in front of a massive metal door.

And above that door, I could clearly see a flashing green light. Their purpose for trying to get in there wasn’t crude murder art but revenge.

Strange. They act like lunatics most of the time, but in certain aspects, they make distinctly emotional, gang-like choices. Just common duality? Or…

Could it be that only the clown leaders were sent from the Las Vegas Strip while the rest were genuine murder-artist clowns? That would explain the temperature difference.

If so, capturing and interrogating a few of them wouldn’t yield particularly useful information. They likely use the same methods I use with the cult.

‘I can also see the clowns using plasma cutters. Don’t pray to me for their salvation. Would God be so petty as to not save people in crisis without prayers?’

Every moment, it was my side that needed to prove itself, not theirs. I drew the high-frequency blade from its scabbard wrapped in metamaterial cloth. I deactivated the optical camouflage and emitted a flash from the center of my face.

The flash illuminated the dimly lit cavity of The Bazaar as the generator stopped and switched to emergency power. Not all crusaders followed me when I moved. I had done well to set priorities.

And with no one around me, I could freely wield the high-frequency blade. I threw myself into The Bazaar’s crater, slowly vibrating the blade as only the black void rippled.

I landed smoothly among the clowns who were cutting through the door’s connections with plasma cutters. Seeing one of the clowns about to make some joke, I immediately swung the high-frequency blade.

One should never throw a sword strike from beginning to end. Nor should one be too stiff from applying too much force. The gently vibrating blade cleanly split one clown’s head in half.

It was bestial. As if the pre-Extinction War federal government had conducted experiments in this wasteland, these clowns all suffered from similar manias. Another clown burst into laughter.

And that laughter began to spread. As the unpleasant, convulsive laughter erupted, a high-frequency blade came flying. It was what the clowns used for their murder art. I met it with my sword and shattered it.

Adjusting my grip on the sword, I pierced straight through. Then, to live up to my nickname as El Sueño of the Bloody Hands, I kicked away the gang member with the sword stuck in his head, making him sprawl near the shelter door. I raised both fists.

Seeing the clowns starting to rush at me, thinking this was their chance, I didn’t exactly feel joy, but this kind of overtime work wasn’t difficult.

I caught a clown wearing reinforced armor that looked like an industrial exoskeleton with just an outer shell trying to strike me with the armor’s fist. After hearing the power-assist mechanism inside the armor being depleted, I crushed his hand.

Grabbing the mangled hand and pulling it toward me, I sharpened the edge of the reinforcement armor’s fingertips and heavily pierced his abdomen. They now realized there was no joke in the nickname El Sueño of the Bloody Hands.

Realizing they were no match in street fighting, another clown rushed into my arms while I still had the armored clown impaled on my hand, and I headbutted him.

It was an ordinary headbutt, but the difference between reinforced armor and a normal body was severe, and that clown collapsed backward after walking a few steps with his helmet and facial area completely crushed.

My helmet became bloodied, and the flash emanating from my face was tinted red, but it wasn’t a major problem. If anything, it was good for inciting the clowns’ excitement.

I grabbed the leg of a clown trying to kick me with a prosthetic leg enhanced with angular force assistance and slammed him to the ground. Stepping on the half-buried body of that clown, I smashed the head of another approaching clown with my fist.

About twenty clowns who had tried to infiltrate the shelter to hunt merchants died that way at the hands of El Sueño without any tools. They were smashed into walls and floors with brute force, with parts of their bodies completely crushed.

As a result, El Sueño’s reinforced armor was temporarily stained red. Slowly, the blood drained away, and it regained its original color. Even as I stepped on the floor where blood had pooled, not even a ripple formed in the puddle.

The clowns had deliberately not removed the CCTV outside the shelter door so the merchants inside would feel fear, and I spread my arms toward that CCTV. I stood above the mixture of red blood and black oil.

This is show business. And fear easily becomes reverence. Even if The Bazaar accepted my deal for simple profit and loss reasons, a little faith is needed for that deal to be maintained.

El Sueño standing in a blood puddle that doesn’t even ripple—that strangeness, aversion, and fear… yet the fact that such a being protected them creates fear and gratitude. Combine the two, and you get reverence.

It was time to create another line. I recalled memories from my time as the Gardner, but El Sueño needed to be much more arrogant.

“Be at ease. Your hope has arrived.”

Could I make them feel the irony? The fact that hope was someone wearing armor that blood couldn’t even stick to but slid off, who had been cutting, slashing, and killing people all along—that would serve as irony.

Just as I was setting the mood, no more and no less, La Roca reached where I had jumped down. It seems she was able to come support me thanks to Jimena pushing the front line with her full-body prosthesis.

“El Sueño, El Sueño! Just now, one of the clowns…”

As soon as I heard that, I reviewed the voice information from La Roca’s direction that I hadn’t been paying much attention to. There seemed to have been one voice that was different from the other clowns.

While the clowns were consumed by the absurd desire to kill El Sueño’s followers pouring in before them and turn them into artwork… that clown was clearly panicking.

He might not have expected the cult to be so well-organized, or it could have been for any reason. But what was important was what he said after grabbing the clown next to him.

‘You there! Go tell El Pulpo on the lowest level. Tell him we need to leave quickly. Got it?’

That operative named El Pulpo was also an operative this clown could “communicate” with. The speculation that the Las Vegas Strip was controlling these insane murder artists with minimal personnel gained more credence.

I spoke as if I already knew what she was going to say, but she no longer had any doubts. Rather, she would have suspected me if I hadn’t anticipated her words.

“The way the Las Vegas Strip manages the wasteland is as vile as how they manage that city of sin. Still, don’t overexert yourself to catch him. Why did we come here?”

“Of course we came here to gain a new intermediate base, but… still, he might be a Los Payasos executive. It’s not like you to just let such a capture opportunity slip away with your eyes open.”

La Roca’s loyalty was getting a bit excessive. It was intentional, but… at least she wasn’t yet being overzealous to the point of impulsive actions. That was enough.

“I’m not letting him slip away with my eyes open, La Roca. If he truly is an executive and escapes this pit, he will become a prophet. He will tell how El Sueño of the Bloody Hands killed them.”

The idea of leaving one alive as a witness would sound practical to La Roca as well. She nodded, seemingly accepting it for now.

“Alright. Your judgment has never been wrong… I’ll trust you. Anyway, now that we know Las Vegas Strip and Los Payasos are connected, we can just kill them too. Should I guard this place for now?”

Even though I was the one who brought up the crusade, now she too was dreaming of it. She was sincerely dreaming of the triumphal entry into the Las Vegas Strip that I had injected into her mind with the image injector.

“Yes, I’m counting on you. There are people to protect in here. The merchants and citizens of The Bazaar. Dreams will eventually depart, and only people remain rooted to the land, La Roca.”

I needed to start hinting that I would disappear. That way, it would naturally be incorporated into the doctrine. La Roca blinked at me and then nudged my arm.

“Don’t say such ominous things, El Sueño. Where does a dream go when it leaves our minds? And… well, yes. Without people who dig into the earth for a living, we’d have no way to survive either.”

Even without The Bazaar, this crater remains. Even if Los Soñadores completely leave the wasteland, the laboratory used as their hideout will remain. People may disappear, but the land remains.

Therefore, wanderers who are not tied to the land will eventually disappear… but The Bazaar’s merchants, ordinary employee-citizens, or even ordinary nationalist citizens will remain until the very end.

If they figure out how my statement about leaving leads to this conclusion, when the Las Vegas Strip is truly dead and I’m gone, the dreamers will be able to settle on the land they’ve acquired.

But right now, La Roca had more important business. She pulled the sword from the skull of the clown sprawled on the floor, gripped the blade, and approached me. She knelt.

I took the sword she offered like a tribute. It was time to join Jimena, who was rushing to the lowest level of The Bazaar.

Although I hadn’t expected the clowns to know we were coming, their foolish decision to attack The Bazaar as payment for their betrayal was making things easier.