Ch.30Ch.3 – The Demon Lord’s Daughter (1)

When a newborn baby babbles, it receives everyone’s blessings.

Parents gaze at their baby with loving eyes and call out “mama” and “papa” thousands upon thousands of times.

Just as the universe began from a tiny speck in the vast darkness, a child’s speech begins to form in the same way.

From then on, the child cries sadly, searching for mom and dad. They cry when something displeases them, when sleepy, when they’ve wet their diaper.

And they cry when their parents are out of sight.

But as time passes, there comes a moment when children must be taught about separation.

Of course, the fact that parents and children cannot be together forever is a story as distant and long as the space between Earth and Mars.

It begins with something as simple as hide-and-seek. The child hides in the bedroom, while mom and dad hide behind the front door.

Not all children are good at hide-and-seek from the start. About half of them whimper.

But soon their hidden nature awakens. Curiosity. Joy. Surprise. The pleasure of eagerly unveiling the unknown.

In that moment, the child ceases to be just a child. From that point on, they begin to set their own goals and pursue them.

After building their own world, they gradually realize that parents have their own lives, and they have theirs.

Of course, the ego is—for everyone—oversized.

Especially sensitive children sometimes imagine what would happen if they disappeared from this world.

What they truly desire, of course, is a twist. It’s a struggle to measure how much influence they have in this world.

Having gone through all those processes, you have earned the right to stand tall on this earth.

Even if no one acknowledges you.

You know yourself.

Even if you remain alone in this vast and distant universe, flying toward Mars.

You know yourself.

That’s why you can move straight toward Mars, which rolls its eyes and wields its tongue like a whip.

Because you know where you are.

That’s why you aren’t surprised when you see Earth in the distance, now smaller than your thumbnail.

You calmly accept that the sun burns only as brightly as your perception allows.

And so you—you who drift through space clutching a revolver—

You who must be you as yourself—

With eyes wide open, you step into the magnificent palace.

* * * * *

You stand in a garden full of roses.

The ground is red. Outside the greenhouse, whirlwinds blow. You can hear the fierce sand scratching against the windows, but still, you calmly and leisurely appreciate the scenery.

“Do you like it?”

It’s a young girl. She wears flowers woven into her hair like a crown. When you show no particular reaction, or perhaps because you don’t know how to react, she turns away with a huff, pouting.

Then she picks up a skull, carefully fills it with soil, and plants a new seed.

Only then do you realize that this garden grows on countless skull planters.

At the tip of each leaf are eyelashes, and in the center of the leaves are closed eyes.

The stems have lips and mouths. The flower buds are filled with genitalia.

In other words, they are all essentially people growing upside down with rotting heads.

Naked. Each with legs spread. Arms sprouting eyelashes and eyes instead of hair.

“It’s lonely here.”

The girl hops around. As if suggesting a game of tag, she hides behind a tree. You simply observe the body growing downward, head buried upside down.

“You don’t say anything. You… you. You’re a usurper. The one who stole the crown.”

The girl smiles shyly, fidgeting with her hands. Soon she offers a crown woven from molars and tendons. You bend your knee, and the girl places the crown on your head.

“It’s strange, isn’t it? Even if you sow the same seeds, they grow in some places but not in others.

Can we dismiss that as simply the way of nature? Even if you plant the same thoughts in identical people, some will nurture them into trees of ideology.

For others, they’re just meaningless words of a passing season.”

Woof, woof. The girl imitates a dog, wiggling her bottom. Then she laughs to herself.

“Not convincing? That’s troubling. I really tried hard, you know. What Earth might be like. How to appear pretty to humans like you.

I… I like flowers. I like music. I like people. I really like thoughts too.

And I noticed there’s so much death in your world. I was inspired by how people are always telling others to die!

What people talk about most must be what they like most.”

The girl smiles widely. You notice her front tooth is missing.

“I know. Don’t glare at me like that. It’s not time yet, right? I can only glimpse Earth for a few days every two years.

I can only get close once every 15 to 17 years. Oh, really. I love that blue land.

I want to live there. I’m tired of this reddish soil. Tired of it. It’s so dull.”

Pitter-patter, the girl moves her short legs and burrows into your arms.

“So. Take me to Earth. I can show everyone happy dreams.”

You describe the scenery before you exactly as you see it.

“Why? Don’t you like it? I decorated them with care! There are people on Earth who seek them out! They hold out planters asking for seeds. They’re beautiful. Those planters that split in half and spill life. Though there aren’t many such people these days. Where have they all gone?”

You draw your Chekhov. The girl lowers her eyes and smiles.

“Usurper. You’re so cold-hearted. I just received the invitation and dressed up all excited, but you’re telling me to leave. Aren’t you?”

The girl begins to fade. The surroundings blur. Her voice grows distant.

“Usurper. Why does everyone hate me? Why do people fight each other when I come near? Why won’t anyone accept the flowers I offer? Why won’t anyone answer my songs?”

You fire the Chekhov. No effect. Four shots remain.

“You know it’s meaningless.”

You fire the Chekhov. No effect. Three shots remain.

“Just say something to me. Help me understand. Speak to me in a language I can understand. I’m doing that for you.”

You fire the Chekhov. No effect. Two shots remain.

“It’s meaningless. Meaningless. Completely meaningless…”

The girl stops speaking. Now only her silhouette remains.

“It’s… meaningless? Is that what you want to say?”

You hold the Chekhov in silence.

The girl regains her form and approaches you. Her face isn’t visible. Just a skull. Her front tooth still missing. She’s crying. The skin on her arms is gone, muscles exposed, as she hugs you and cries.

“A thousand years. I’ve waited a thousand years… I can only come like this, deviating from my cycle, once every thousand years. If I leave now, I’ll have to wait another thousand years. And yet you can say even that is meaningless?”

You fire the Chekhov toward space. The light of the universe disappears, and Mars’ ceiling closes. One shot remains. And you open your mouth to—

“I understand.”

The girl wipes her tears.

“I understand. I get it. But I don’t like it. I won’t do as you wish. I’ll wait another thousand years.

Here. At Labormoss. So, usurper. You, wait. In a thousand years, when I come to find you, tell me I was wrong. That you’re sorry. That you missed me.

Tell me that a thousand years ago today, you wanted to be friends.”

You point the Chekhov at your head. The girl cries and laughs.

“Goodbye. The first person to speak with me in 4.5 billion years.”

You pull the trigger.

* * * * * *

[Integrity Check. 35%…]

[Integrity Check. 53%…]

[Integrity Check. 99%…Complete.]

[Initialize]

[YOU LOSE CONTROL PRESS ANY KEY]

“Hey.”

Crayfield looks up at me dully.

“What are you doing? Aren’t you going to press it?”

“It’s gone.”

“What?”

“Mars is retreating. Look.”

Crayfield narrows his eyes and looks at Mars. Now it has shrunk to the size of a plum, then an almond, and finally to the size of a cherry.

“What’s happening? What’s going on? Ow! This pain feels real, so it’s not a dream.”

“Ugh…”

Agent Scully has awakened too.

“What happened? What’s going on?”

“Look. Mars is retreating.”

“What?”

Scully looks up at the sky with a blank expression. Crayfield and I laugh at her unfamiliar, foolish expression.

“What are you doing?”

Her surprised and confused expression is also a first. We sob with laughter from relief. Scully gives a hollow laugh and lightly hits Crayfield’s injured arm, careful not to touch the wound.

“Let’s go down.”

With each step down the landing, the siren sounds grew louder.

The voices of paramedics. Shouts for stretchers. Many were injured. More were bleeding. Almost everyone had wounds in their hearts.

“The electricity’s back on.”

Crayfield grinned, pointing at the lights. Scully headed to the second floor. I looked around just in case, but there were no plants there. Only paramedics recovering the dead.

“Aren’t you coming down?”

Scully skillfully turned on the campus broadcasting system. Crayfield and I lean against the wall, watching her.

[Ah. Ah. One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three. Just a moment… Good. Miskatonic Dean, faculty, students.

Massachusetts military personnel. Arkham police and paramedics. I am Federal Security Agency Special Agent Katherine Scully.]

Two paramedics approached.

“Let me see.”

When Crayfield tried to withdraw his arm with an “ouch,” the paramedic scolded him.

“A grown man fussing over this! Hurry up and let me see.”

[Our investigation has determined that Miskatonic’s drinking water was contaminated.

Some of Miskatonic’s water pipes corroded, allowing contaminated soil and mold to mix in.

Major symptoms include temporary hallucinations, cognitive impairment, lethargy, fear, and tinnitus.

The symptoms are temporary, but for those concerned, agents from the Disease Control Center in Washington will be coming.]

“Did that woman get hit too hard on the back of her head?”

Crayfield groaned, but I understood her intention. She was trying to alleviate people’s guilt. All of this was an illusion. All of this was due to illness. You trampling your fellow students, shooting your beloved professor, people dying—it’s nobody’s fault. A hallucination-inducing disease. That’s the only reason.

You are not guilty of anything.

[I personally extend my deepest gratitude to Professor Gordon Waitley for his dedication. He rushed forward to stop an armed student and was shot in the heart, dying instantly. Without his sacrifice, many more would have died. Upon reaching Washington DC, I will recommend adequate compensation for Professor Gordon Waitley and his family. Again…]

“Hey. Assistant.”

Crayfield’s voice somehow seemed languid. His tongue was twisted due to the sedative the paramedic had unnecessarily administered.

“That poor fellow. Gordon Waitley. He wanted a world where no one would get hurt. But is such a world possible? What do you think?”

I had something to say about that. I…

What was it? Something related to Mars. About a long wait. About some kind of regret.

I couldn’t remember. So I improvised with what came to mind.

“We can’t create such a world. One person’s flower garden is another person’s bug-infested field.”

“Yes. You’re right. So should we just let this world go to hell?”

“Well.”

I smiled at Crayfield.

“When you fall, you get up and walk. What other option is there?”

Before completely losing consciousness, Crayfield hummed.

“Isn’t that a bit cruel?”

“It is.”