Ch.9Ch.1 – Prologue (1)

Crayfield stood up. In his hand was a loaded revolver. Elizabeth released Eastman’s hand. Startled, Eastman rose and clasped his hands together.

“What’s going on here?”

“She mistook you for her dead fiancé Allen Chase because of that commissioning ring. She tried to pretend to be a maid, but seeing that ring drove her mad. They said she was insane, and it seems that was true. But that’s not what’s important.”

“Then what is?”

“What matters is why she pretended to be a maid. Where is the ‘real’ maid? Did the employees really go to Pollard town?”

Crayfield kept his eyes fixed on Elizabeth. She crouched down and whimpered like a child.

“He came back. He came back riding a unicorn.”

“What is she talking about, Crayfield?”

Eastman, who had just stood up, shouted.

“Didn’t you say the Unicorn sank? Third Mate Chase died with it, and First Mate Lawrence Lyman was the only one who returned alive!”

“Don’t speak that name!”

The old woman sobbed.

“Allen told me everything… that vile Lawrence, on the sinking ship during the storm, prayed… begged the Mother Whale to spare only him in exchange for the ship and everyone on it! And the Mother granted his prayer!”

Click.

The clock struck 7.

The blood drops that had been falling one by one were now unstoppable. The ceiling bulged like swollen pus. The wallpaper turned red. Eastman wiped the blood trickling down his forehead. His lips twitched. Before anyone could stop him, he ran for the exit.

“The door, the door is gone!”

There was only a wall. Even the windows had all disappeared. Then where was this light coming from, this light clearly shining from outside?

The ceiling bulged like bloody pus. The blood-soaked wallpaper convulsed. They were unmistakably palms. Countless palms pounding on the walls.

Crayfield moved toward the center of the room, still aiming his gun.

“Elizabeth. What exactly is happening upstairs?”

“The Mother Whale did not answer my prayers.”

Blood mixed with tears ran down Elizabeth’s cheeks.

“Why? Why? I pondered for a long time. Then I realized. My devotion was insufficient. Just as Pollard’s whalers prepared and offered whales to the Mother, I too had to offer my father’s henchmen.”

“How many?”

Eastman asked in a hoarse voice.

“How many people did you kill?”

Elizabeth gripped the armrests of her chair tightly.

“Twenty-two minus three. That’s how many I’m short.”

A smile spread across the face of a woman who had regained her love.

“But now it’s just right.”

The wallpaper tore.

Tangled appendages flowed out. A massive whale head with upper bodies attached to it like tentacles.

The ceiling collapsed. Bloody foam engulfed the floor.

Crayfield fired his gun, but Elizabeth had already vanished.

“Upstairs! To the second floor!”

Eastman, snapped to attention by the gunshot, dashed upstairs. Crayfield followed.

The appendages protruding from the walls let out screams mixed with blood and filth. They writhed like salt-sprinkled slugs before falling from the wall with a splat. As they crawled forward, they left sticky trails on the floor.

Click.

The clock struck 8.

The upstairs corridor was straight. Strangely long. Somehow it resembled the corridor of a fire-destroyed morgue. Doors lined the left wall, while windows letting in purple light stretched endlessly along the right. The end of the corridor seemed deeper than eternity, deeper than that whale’s sinister throat.

Eastman grabbed the nearest doorknob and turned it. Clunk. Clunk. It made a sound but wouldn’t open. Stepping back, Eastman kicked the door.

“Ugh!”

Eastman turned his head away from the stench that even the smell of blood couldn’t mask. An elongated figure hung upside down, dripping something viscous onto the floor.

Despite his nausea, Eastman’s reason judged that these figures somehow resembled Lawrence Lyman whom he had seen in the morgue.

Instinctively, Eastman looked toward the window.

“The window! At that window! Ah, at that window!”

The windows darkened one by one like light bulbs going out. It was because of the pupils.

Whether turning his head from left to right or spinning his body around, he could see an enormous pupil, whose beginning and end were impossible to determine, blinking beyond the window.

A song was heard. It sounded like a choir, a work song, and a funeral dirge all at once. It was quieter than midnight waves and heavier than funeral bells.

Mother, Mother, my Mother

My Mother who punishes me with whip and fire and corpses

Mercy, mercy

All the doors opened at once.

The upside-down Lawrence Lymans sang in chorus.

The upside-down henchmen of the Black family added harmony.

Mother, Mother, my Mother

White and horned Mother who protects the pure virgin

Mercy, mercy

The upside-down appendages.

The upside-down Crayfields.

The upside-down subordinates of Eastman.

Mother, Mother, my Mother

I offer meat stained with sin and blood that Mother enjoys

Mercy, mercy

The upside-down things fell to the floor with a thud. They crawled across the floor holding hands, ropes, and harpoons.

Far away. At the hazy end of sunset, Allen Chase with empty eye sockets was undressing his aged fiancée.

A dead bee flies to withered petals. It rubs itself against the sterile pistil. The bride who has finally met her groom lets out an ecstatic cry!

“The child! The child!”

The appendages shouted.

“The holy child! Behold, the Mother has returned the child! The Mother has returned the defiled bride and the sacrificed child!”

With a crunch, the end of the corridor was bitten off. With a chomping sound, ‘it’ bit. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp.

“…!”

It was a whale. With countless eyes and teeth packed inside its mouth, it was definitely a whale.

“Gas! Gas! Poison gas! Disperse, disperse!”

Eastman banged his forehead against the wall. Blood from his wound gripped his eyes.

“Hide! Hide! Can’t you see cover less than 50cm? You can survive if you lie down! Hide! Gas, gas, gas! Poison gas! Poison gas!”

“Eastman!”

Crayfield ran and struck the back of Eastman’s neck with his pistol. Beyond the collapsing Eastman’s back, the revolver spat fire. The mass of appendages crawling up the corridor writhed. The upper bodies tried to go in all directions, so the single lower body couldn’t go anywhere.

Crayfield flung open a door in the corridor with all his might.

“Here, this room is empty, quick! Drag him in!”

* You drag Eastman by the scruff of his neck into the room *

* Crayfield locks the door. Soon you hear scratching sounds on the door. *

“Assistant. It’s all over now.”

Crayfield smiled gently.

“Our protagonist is unconscious, and that cute little whale will devour this entire island. Under the blessing of the benevolent Hydra Mother who rose from the sea. So, Assistant, tell me honestly. Do you like squid?”

* You give him your answer *

The scratching at the door grows louder. The sound of something slimy splattering against the wall is clearly audible. The sound of something breaking gets closer.

Crayfield kicked Eastman lightly. The protagonist, having received a solid blow to the back of his head, doesn’t get up.

“This one won’t see the ending. What can we do? We’ll have to do it ourselves.”

* You ask what he means by ‘we’ *

Crayfield gives * you * a broad smile.

“Oh. Assistant. I told you. I will become the mastermind of this world. I will send back anyone who comes to this world. So they’ll feel nothing but boredom and tedium. How should I do that?”

The pounding sound grew even louder. A hole the size of a fist had already formed at the bottom of the door.

“What if a supporting character solves the case instead of the protagonist? What if the protagonist is left as a mere bystander, unable to do anything?”

Blood seeped through the cracks in the wall. Countless palms clamored as if the wall were thin vinyl.

“What if the protagonist of this game isn’t just one person? Don’t you understand yet? Don’t you know anything about the rules of villainy? Middle bosses like me tend to talk a lot. And I don’t recall saying there’s only one mastermind in this world.”

Crayfield nodded.

“A boring world. That’s a world where the protagonist can’t play their role. Eastman is out now. Someone needs to carry on his will. I can’t do it. I’m bound by the order of this world. But…”

The door was torn off. The walls collapsed. Growling appendages, stuck between the door crack and the wall, howled.

Their fingers seemed about to tear at your face at any moment.

“But not you. Assistant.”

Crayfield fired his revolver. Again. And again.

“Who has watched everything from beginning to end? Who lives quietly hidden among people? Who was there at the beginning of everything and silently observes the end?”

Click. Click. The revolver’s drum was empty.

“It’s you. The sixth assistant. It’s you. You are the true mastermind. The one who will solve the case in place of the fallen protagonist, the one who will conclude the narrative, the one who will steal the climax of the story. The one who will prevent the destruction of this world is you. If you can’t accept my words, stop here. I’ll try to handle it somehow. But if not…”

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[ YOU HAVE CONTROL. PRESS ANY KEY ]

[ YOU HAVE CONTROL. PRESS ANY KEY ]

[ YOU HAVE CONTROL. PRESS ANY KEY ]

* You take out the Revolver – Chekhov *

“If you place Chekhov’s revolver drum on the Doomsday Clock, the bullets will be reloaded. The number of bullets loaded will match the count on the Doomsday Clock.”

Click.

1/12

Since we’re meeting for the first time. We need to get to know each other. We’ll be working together from now on. Right?

2/12

I won’t let those bastards have their way. I’ll do my best to ruin this game, twist the triggers somehow, and make it a terrible game where no protagonist can win.

3/12

Those who step into this game will never see the ending. They won’t be able to die. They won’t be able to kill me. Clues will be cut off, prey will disappear, and witnesses will be erased, that’s what I mean.

4/12

Trapping the protagonist in the game. Making the game so unbearably boring that eventually no one will step foot in it. That’s my goal.

5/12

It’s become a meme abroad that protagonists keep fainting. Now I know why. It’s because of helpers like me who are beside them. So they can testify, ‘It was so shitty, never come back.’

6/12

Yes. You’re right. There are other ways. If I had left Eastman and his notebook at the morgue, everything would have been resolved easily. But I ‘don’t’ do that. Not that I can’t, but I won’t. Because of you. Assistant. Because of you.

7/12

Of all people in the world, I must convince only you, the assistant, of what I’m doing. Because we have to work together for a long time, and this job can’t be done without an assistant.

8/12

Because we are meant to be together for a long time.

* You accept your destiny *

* Now you are the protagonist *

* You load Chekhov’s drum. Chekhov is a very powerful gun. The saying that a gun loaded in Act 1 must be fired in Act 3 is a metaphor for the destructive power of plausibility. *

* Choose your target carefully. Entities hit by Chekhov’s bullets are removed from the story. The entire story changes according to your decision. However, bullets will have no effect on entities that cannot be deleted

e.g.) Important NPCs like John Crayfield. Great evil gods. The protagonist *

* If overused, the entities above may notice. Be careful *

I fired Chekhov at the appendages blocking the door, tangled together. They disappeared as if they had never existed.

Following my gesture, Crayfield dragged Eastman by the scruff of his neck.

The maids and servants of the Black family, offered as sacrifices, writhed like maggots, but when I fired Chekhov, they were removed.

At the back of the corridor, from the distant end, a whale came rushing, devouring the corridor.

Knowing it was half mixed with human blood but half blessed by that evil god, I decided not to waste bullets on it.

We went downstairs. I fired at the exit where the door had disappeared. The entire entrance vanished.

Contrary to expectations, the whole house didn’t disappear, suggesting that large objects don’t vanish all at once.

Crayfield, with his eyes tightly shut, carried Eastman on his back and ran out the door. He didn’t open his eyes until he put Eastman down on the ground. Instead, he shouted.

“Assistant. Please. Hit the back of my head once with the blackjack. I don’t have the courage to look directly at what’s in the sky.”

So I did as he asked. The private detective fainted with a groan.

The sky was a whale. The belly of a great whale filled the sky larger than the left and right, top and bottom of my eyelids.

Despite it clearly being midday, eyes more numerous than stars were watching me. The Great Mother. The Mother of the sea who punishes me with whip and fire and corpses. Hydra, the wife of Dagon, was floating in the sky.

And below. Among her offspring, the most wretched and decayed whale was alone, tearing at the house. Despite having devoured its own mother and father, it still looked hungry. It crawled, writhing, eating the entire second floor bite by bite.

I fired the gun. Four shots left.

Below. Among her offspring, a wretched decayed whale was tearing at the house. Despite having devoured its own mother and father, it looked hungry. It crawled, writhing, eating the entire second floor bite by bite.

I fired the gun. Three shots left.

Below. Among her offspring, a decayed whale was tearing at the house. It looked hungry. It crawled, writhing, eating the entire second floor bite by bite.

I fired the gun. Two shots left.

Her offspring, a decayed whale, was tearing at the house. It still looked hungry.

I fired the gun. One shot left.

A decayed whale was tearing at the house.

I fired the last shot.

Nothing remained. Neither the whale filling the sky, nor the collapsed brick house. Nor her unclean offspring. Neither the ghosts of the returned Unicorn nor the other Black family employees who met their death at Elizabeth Black’s hands.

There was only a yellow box.

A small box with waterproof canvas reinforcement and a horseshoe-shaped mark stamped on top. The lock was not secured.

Inside was just one worn piece of paper. It was a crew roster, listing the names of all 22 people who had been on the ship.

All their names had been crossed out.

Only the name at the very bottom, the shipowner Isaiah Black, had no line through it.

From far away. Very far away. The faint sound of police sirens could be heard. A wind mixed with the smell of blood scratched past my cheeks.

Eastman stirred and got up.

“It’s all over, Eastman.”

I gave him the answer. It was the only answer. The only thing I could tell him was that it was over. Go home.

Eastman, looking at me with a gloomy face, disappeared.

As if he had never existed.

Click…click…click…click…

Click…click…click…click…

The Doomsday Clock turned backward. With the hero gone, there is no case. But there is still work to be done.

I – the proxy of you reading these lines – am the true mastermind of this world. A mastermind should never give statements to the police.

So I woke Crayfield. He got up, rubbing the back of his head. I handed him the blackjack.

“Crayfield.”

I smiled.

“Let’s stay together for a long time.”

He nodded.

I was satisfied.

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