Ch.307Epilogue – Words That Must Be Said (1)

In early 1925, the economic crisis originating from New York held hope for recovery. It could have been dismissed as merely an American problem. This was because the cause was so clear.

The Industrial Spirit King had destroyed downtown New York, wiping out entire factory districts, and despite the God-President’s powers aiding the effort, the restoration had cost an enormous sum.

That’s why the depression came. Everyone could understand the reason. Even so, cults emerged, unions roared, and Blingkerton Detective Agency enjoyed a second golden age.

But afterward, it was different. The apocalypse predicted by the Industrial Spirit King truly arrived.

It felt as though the colorful bubble that had been protecting them all had burst like soap. The laughter of the Industrial Spirit King haunted New York like a ghost.

In 1925, there was something to blame. In 1925, there was a reason. A reason all people could understand, one that all Manhattan residents had seen with their own eyes and heard with their own ears. But the Great Depression was different.

Everything plummeted. Few knew the reason. Most people had to accept an apocalypse without cause. The Industrial Spirit King’s fears had become reality.

Some sympathizers emerged, claiming he had merely tried to resist fate, while others kicked back with military boots, asking if we all should have died four years earlier.

Nevertheless, thanks to the 1925 economic crisis caused by the Industrial Spirit King, America was able to prepare for the Great Depression from a slightly better position. Though the methods differed, they had experienced something similar before.

The Great Depression wasn’t the Industrial Spirit King’s self-fulfilling prophecy. It was the flow of fate and time that even he had desperately tried to prevent. And perhaps, through his death, he had fully played his part.

The solution to the 1925 New York economic crisis had been the God-President personally intervening to lay the risen body of the Industrial Spirit King back in place and repair some of the damage. Prime Minister Hoover knew at least that much.

The honorable higher-up had acted and succeeded. Though Hoover was someone who would insist that government should never interfere with markets, given the precedent set by God Himself, he could bend his pride a little.

He decided to endure being called a promoter of communist-like policies. Thanks to this, the Great Depression could be somewhat restrained, becoming a temporary downturn rather than the end.

But by the time he had organized the leaking household, it was already too late. Just as he had barely managed to keep the Economic Spirit King breathing, the apocalypse had already spread worldwide like the Spanish flu.

The sound of military boots echoed. A dwarf from Austria began shouting that he alone knew the reason for this Great Depression and could save Germany.

According to him, Germany was blameless. Germans were the most diligent people, and dwarves with long braided beards were the most hardworking race. People burdened with unjust debt were enthralled by these words!

Their problem was that they had been diligent and sincere toward things that didn’t exist! They had been betrayed! If Germans could work for Germans, and dwarves for dwarves, they could be saved!

The problem was Wotan! Simply because he could manifest divinity through worship, he sat upon the Germans’ heads without properly using the divinity that should have been used for all dwarves!

He cunningly usurped Wotan’s worship through voting. A so-called “savior of Germany” who took divine authority while intoxicated by it replaced the god.

After that, there was rarely good news in the newspapers. Goblins began to be openly targeted for elimination within Germany. Goblins openly became enemies.

Hatred prevailed. While hating something might be freedom, excessive hatred ruins everything. Everyone hated everyone. It was clear that everyone would ruin everything.

Still, Brother Robert of Verdun Cathedral could find good news in the newspaper today, on October 1, 1938.

It was a moment to see politicians working after a long time. He could read an article about how growling Germany had been restrained with a noose, bringing peace for our time from Munich.

Brother Robert’s old, drooping ears twitched slightly. At least the Great War won’t be repeated. Living at the foot of Verdun’s battlefield, synonymous with hell, he couldn’t help but say such things.

He raised his old, wrinkled hand and quietly cut out the newspaper article. Today was the day to appease the vengeful spirits. He had to tell them: We haven’t forgotten you. We have prevented war.

Brother Robert placed the clipping in his chest along with other articles he had collected whenever something good happened in the newspapers, whenever they moved a step away from war.

He also packed a phonograph and records. After checking the wooden box containing records with songs to calm the vengeful spirits and spare needles, he headed toward the cathedral with its cross.

People had hated the God-President for not becoming Europe’s god. They said they should abandon him and worship Gallia’s ancient gods again. That’s what they said until the Great War broke out.

When the Great War broke out, people could understand why God had left them. It was because they would commit such acts. Because they would commit the sin of suicide and murder, strangling their own necks with their own hands.

Thus, ironically, only after the Great War passed did he begin to be worshipped again. The brother quietly began to pray. He begged that the vengeful spirits of Verdun might forgive the people.

As the brother’s quiet prayer ended, the cathedral door opened quietly. A group of people entered and quietly bowed to the brother. Their hands smelled of ozone.

One of the ten or so people who entered quietly lifted the wooden box containing the phonograph. Grunting from the weight, he spoke to Brother Robert.

“Will this really work, Brother? I mean, what’s in there…?”

Brother Robert quietly shook his head. He didn’t speak as if scolding. He spoke quietly yet kindly.

“I believe they are people, though they might not be. But they are beings born from humans. It will work. I believe it. Don’t you?”

After pondering for a moment, he shook his head as if uncertain. He whispered in an anxious voice.

“I… I’m not sure. Just seeing it, just thinking about it is frightening… but I can’t look away either. Oh, we’ve brought a new magician to replace Grandma Eva.”

“That’s enough. Just don’t look away. Ah, a new magician… a field magic specialist, I presume?”

The man who had been speaking with a troubled expression nodded vigorously at the question about the field magic specialist. That was one thing he could be confident about.

“She studied mana mechanics at the University of Paris and has written several papers on developing field magic that can withstand mana storms. She’s exactly the person we needed.”

A slight smile appeared on Brother Robert’s thin, wrinkled face. An elf who had been waiting outside entered the cathedral with a smile and bowed her head to Brother Robert.

The elf who had mentioned the new magician began introducing her. But to Brother Robert’s eyes, her sincere gaze was more appealing than the introduction.

“This is Sophie. We honestly advertised that we would be entering Verdun’s hellhole, and she applied. She came all the way from Paris. This is Brother Robert.”

She was a young, energetic elf in her early thirties. Her pointed ears reached toward the sky, her blonde hair was cut short to keep it from getting in the way, and she wore boots with long ankles.

Her attire is perfect too. Though she appeared to be the complete opposite of Brother Robert with his neatly arranged white hair and long, sagging ears that had lost their elasticity, such things didn’t matter.

Brother Robert extended his hand first, and she reached out to grasp his wrinkled hand. She began speaking with a determined voice.

“Thank you for allowing me to join this endeavor, Brother. It means more to me than just commemorating the fallen. Twenty-two years ago, my brother…”

Brother Robert shook his head as if to say she didn’t need to continue. She had come here to commemorate all those who perished at Verdun, while especially commemorating her own family.

Instead of offering comfort, he began explaining the plan seriously. He couldn’t belittle such a person’s determination with mere consolation.

“Well, since there are people entering for the first time, I’ll explain again. We will walk into hell. Come out and see with me.”

Brother Robert led the way onto the streets of Verdun. The sky was purple. It had an ominous color, the original blue mixed with red that emanated like poison from the Verdun plains.

The Verdun plains were synonymous with hell. Voiceless war spirits screamed there. It was a place where war spirits, normally standing tall, tore at their own flesh and wailed.

The wind of Verdun smelled of ozone. The air was supersaturated with mana. Too many people had died at Verdun. Too much blood mixed with mana had been spilled. That blood and the vengeful spirits had become some kind of magic.

He extended his finger toward the horizon. Near the horizon, a red storm was raging. A storm fierce enough to separate human flesh from bone was sweeping around the plains in front of the small city.

“We will enter that. If there is even a slight mistake, we will enter a place where we will leave behind not even remains, just shreds of flesh and white bones. Keep that in mind.”

He cleared his throat and showed a small bell. It was a hand-held bell made from melted church bells.

“If we cast a field, ring the bell, and recite the Lord’s powerful words, we should be able to withstand the mana storm. Our destination is a huge… blood pool in the middle of those plains. A blood pool that hasn’t dried up at all in 22 years. There are many theories, but I think the souls still wandering the nine heavens are gathered there.”

He… survived. Brother Robert barely swallowed the words that were about to surface instead. He must not be consumed by the horror of the Great War. Rather, he needed to show that he was overcoming that horror and moving forward.

That was respect for the dead. It was the duty of survivors and proof that people could continue to live with hope. His voice continued to resonate.

“We will let them hear the Mercy Song. They are people. I’ll say it again. They are people. The fact that the mana storm subsides when they hear the Mercy Song means they understand it.”

He took a deep breath. He was horrified at how people could be reduced to something like a blood pool, what right any war had to do such a thing.

“Anyway, when the mana storm subsides, we will do our work. We will bury the fallen war spirits, erect at least temporary graves… and if we find remains, we will recover and bring them back. Understood?”

A unified “Yes!” echoed in response. One magician took the wooden box containing the phonograph, while others deeply inhaled the mana-saturated air of Verdun.

Breathing in air so dissolved with mana wasn’t good for lung health. Still, magic could be up to twice as strong when breathing such air, so they needed to inhale it when breaking through the plains.

They divided into three cars and headed toward the limit of where cars could enter.

A translucent hemispherical wall created by the repulsive force generated by the numbing ozone smell helped them enter the plains.

The flesh-tearing mana storm made a sound just like human screams. It was a tearing scream. It was sobbing and a cry for salvation.

Going further, they reached a point where cars could no longer proceed. Sticky mud and sludge began to spread, requiring them to walk on foot. Brother Robert also put on boots.

He was the first to get out of the car. Beyond the translucent field, the Verdun plains were visible.

Trenches and bunkers still not cleared, deep holes left by artillery fire—over all these, blood-red vortices plowed the ground, tearing apart war spirits and racing across the plains.

It was impossible to tell whether the sound was the wind or the screams of war spirits. Everything from the sky to the ground was screaming.

A war spirit with a machine gun instead of a head was curled up like a human, covering the back of its machine gun head with both hands. It was trembling in fear.

Some spirits were embracing the bodies of others who had only their upper bodies left. They repeatedly gathered scattered flesh from the ground as if hoping the spirit could survive.

It was a tragedy. He rang the bell in his hand once. The bell rang. It was a sound that would be buried in the tearing wind of the mana storm, but the war spirit covering the back of its head barely raised its head.

Sophie, visiting this place for the first time, barely suppressed the nausea rising in her throat at the horrific scene. She was on her way to find her brother Henri. She couldn’t show up with the smell of vomit on her breath. She gathered mana in both hands.

A field much thinner but much stronger than what the local magicians created enveloped the group. It was a field as solid as all the others combined.

It was magic she had learned by grinding her bones and damaging her lungs to meet her blood relative who had perished in the Great War. Her lungs could recover, but she still coughed up blood sometimes.

As the sound of the mana storm somewhat subsided, Brother Robert began leading the group forward. Though they were passing through the valley of death, he was not afraid. It was a journey to deliver news of salvation.

They passed a war spirit clutching its throat and screaming. The machine gun was not a tool for speaking, yet instead of lead bullets, only screams poured out of it.

He rang the bell again. The spirit that heard the bell sound peacefully collapsed backward, its strength gone. They continued forward.

There was a war spirit kneeling with its machine gun pulled from atop its neck. Despite being dead, the body hadn’t decayed at all. It was still bound to this place.

The bell sound rang out again. The spirit’s body split and fell to the muddy blood pool with a splash, like a clump of earth. Only now did it begin to decay.

They walked like this for almost an hour or two. Originally, they were supposed to take turns walking whenever mana ran low, but Sophie never requested a change and stubbornly walked toward the blood lake.

Soon they could see the reddest thing in the Verdun plains, which was already tinted entirely red as if viewed through a red filter. At a place where the terrain began to lower, there was a huge lake.

A lake of blood. A lake so vast its extent couldn’t be determined. The silhouettes of the fallen were reflected in the blood. Those are silhouettes. Not them. Brother Robert steadied himself.

Upon arriving, he handed the bell to another magician and extended both hands to the magician who had brought the wooden box. He quietly received the wooden box containing the phonograph.

He placed the box flat on the ground. He carefully placed the phonograph on top of the box and checked the record. It was still clean and undamaged by mana.

It was the best phonograph they could find, with children’s choir recorded on the best record. He attached a resonator above the phonograph’s funnel to help the sound spread better.

He placed the record, inserted the needle. He gently placed the needle on the rotating record. Children’s voices began to resonate.

Lord, have mercy. Lord, have mercy. Words that couldn’t be spoken in Brother Robert’s aged voice borrowed the voices of children.

The blood pool began to vibrate. The silhouettes collapsed, and the mana storm weakened somewhat. It seemed miraculous, but Brother Robert didn’t consider it a miracle.

They were simply people who hadn’t found salvation. He entrusted the phonograph’s management to the group and took the bell. The mana storm had weakened to a gentle breeze, and their screams had also diminished.

Brother Robert rang the bell again. It wasn’t a bell ringing for someone specific. If it was ringing for anyone, it was ringing for them, so it was a bell ringing for everyone.

Only then did Sophie withdraw her field. Air heavily dissolved with mana was still blowing like wind, but it was no longer strong enough to separate bone from flesh.

Some people picked up tools, and Brother Robert began leading them. No matter how long they played the Mercy Song, they couldn’t stay long.

“Come on, move quickly. We can’t hold out for more than two hours. When I give the last rites, bury them. Plant the tombstones deep, as they’ll be swept away by the mana storm if they’re too high. Sophie, please wait here for today.”

They began moving busily. They bestowed the grace of their god upon the war spirits, buried them as intact as possible, and began erecting small crosses.

Sophie knew she was being shown consideration and headed toward the blood lake. The silhouettes began to reappear in the lake, which had momentarily vibrated. A silhouette appeared before her eyes as well.

An elf with a cheerful expression. Due to the blood pool, his hair color wasn’t visible, but it would surely be the bright lemon-colored blonde typical of elves.

His eyes were upturned, and near his eyes was a scar from childhood mischief. Despite being a fairly large wound, he had pretended to be strong, hoping his sister wouldn’t cry.

It was Henri. Her only brother. As Brother Robert had said, the vengeful spirits of the fallen might indeed be pooled in this blood lake.

The companions who came with her didn’t stop her from kneeling before the blood lake.

The image of her brother that appeared to her eyes was so young. Ten years younger than her. Because the dead cannot age.

With a heartbreaking feeling, she dropped a small cross she had received from her parents into the blood pool. Henri’s silhouette seemed to reach out for the object falling into the blood lake.

“I’ll be a hero of the Great War when I return, Sophie, not just a good-for-nothing brother.” Those were Henri’s last words, but he never even returned. She carefully chose her words but then poured out her true feelings as if coughing up blood.

“Even without becoming a hero in the Great War, you were a good enough brother… I hate those dwarves who killed you. I’m living while suppressing the urge to crush those short creatures like bugs with the field magic I learned for you…”

At those words, the blood pool began to churn. Even in the churning waves, Henri’s silhouette reached out to her. The magician watching the phonograph noticed the anomaly in the blood lake and approached Sophie.

But she couldn’t tell. She was reaching back toward Henri, who was extending his hand from within the blood pool. Pouring out her heart without paying attention to her surroundings.

“They started the Great War. Do you know what crazy things they’re doing now? If only they all died, there would be no more wars. It’s all their fault. Even you ending up like this, Henri…”

At that moment, a hand shot out from the blood pool. It was an elf’s hand. With the cross Sophie had dropped hanging from its wrist, the hand rose toward her. Sophie also reached toward it.

She didn’t see the larger silhouette rippling in the blood lake. As she was about to grasp the hand, something massive began to emerge from the blood lake.

It was a huge mass formed by entangled human figures. It appeared to be a mass of vengeful spirits trying to capture her while luring her with the image of her family.

The magician guarding the phonograph quickly released mana from his fingertips to create a field. It enveloped Sophie. The massive entity couldn’t grab her as its hand was blocked by the field. Still, it tried to break the field.

The magician who protected her cried out in pain. His chest felt like it was being stabbed from inhaling too much mana-saturated air.

“What are you doing! Cast the field again! Damn, what did you say to the blood lake that usually calms down when we play the Mercy Song!”

Only then did Sophie cast a solid and tough field again, and the massive lump of flesh and silhouettes couldn’t crush her and disappeared back into the blood lake. Henri’s illusion was no longer visible either.

There was something in Verdun’s blood lake. Hearing this story later, Brother Robert could no longer hide his troubled feelings. It seemed too long had passed.

Had it been too long to maintain reason and soul? Had those who made the greatest sacrifices and experienced the greatest sorrows been denied even the fact that they were human?

To deny this fact, he floated the articles he had clipped onto the blood lake, with the articles facing downward. If there was something in the blood pool, he hoped it would read those articles.

“We are still improving somewhat. This time, instead of war, we chose peace, and even brought peace through negotiation. I dare promise not to disappoint you. So, please rest in peace. Please, remain human until my small efforts can bury everyone in this plain. I beg you…”

Returning from the plains to the town always left a corner of his heart troubled, but that day was especially difficult.