Thus, Even I Have Grown Familiar
Thus, even I had grown familiar with it. I bought a suit. I didn't know her last name, but it was to mourn the girl named Eun-seo. Several days had already passed since the Joint Memorial Site had been set up. Total casualties: 343. Dead: 107. Injured: 236. Monsters not included. Was this kind of thing so commonplace? Society's mood had quickly bounced back to its usual buzz. But the bereaved families would live locked in grief for a long time. I was still the same.
I put on the black suit and neatly combed my hair. I transformed, crossed the sky, and landed in a deserted spot before detransforming. The outside world felt pretty familiar now. Finding the memorial was a first, but it carried an oddly familiar vibe. Was it because funerals had left such deep scorch marks on my soul?
Unlike society's quick return to levity, the atmosphere here was utterly somber. Amid it all, I spotted the occasional unpleasant shades disrupting the mood—people with sickly colors. I unclenched my tightly gripped fists, fighting the urge to crush them all. Politicians here for popularity. Onlookers scavenging for gossip. Hyenas preying on the bereaved. Women and crazed men whispering more about me than the mourning. Every last one reeked of filth.
I focused on the familiar scent and ignored them thoroughly. Fucking scum, fucking scum, fucking scum. I wanted to turn them into bloody pulp.
Seeing the long line of children's portrait photos only sank my mood further. Not even proper ID shots, but snapshots capturing kids in the midst of their everyday play. They didn't belong here at all. In the dim red glow of a sunset, a hazy nostalgia surfaced—of standing with a little sister, both of us sobbing endlessly. This wasn't my memory. Don't confuse anime with reality. Was it a magical girl anime? Some magical girl empathy? Who knows.
With slow steps, I trampled my own regrets, steeling my resolve. Drowning each sacrifice in a white sea, I finally stopped before the child's photo. Even in the picture, the girl beamed brightly with her mother. It contrasted poignantly with the heaps of mournful white chrysanthemums. In front of it stood a haggard man, rigid and unyielding. He wasn't sobbing, but he was already a withered husk of a person. His bright color was fading faintly. The girl's father, I sensed. His clenched fist seemed like the last emotion left to him.
Cry long enough, and tears dry up faster than you'd think. Emotions wither away one by one alongside them. I felt a deep empathy for the man. But wasn't this pathetic state of mine to blame too? I had no right to offer comfort.
I laid two pure white chrysanthemums as an offering. Reflecting on my own case, there might be an afterlife after all. May she find peace there.
On the way out, more filthy colors assaulted my senses, turning my stomach—until I suddenly picked up a familiar one. Grang Orca. I looked up. A short-haired woman in a black suit was offering flowers. Seeing her out of her usual magical girl outfit felt strange. She seemed accustomed to this, silently bowing her head in silent prayer. In a world like this, did living as a magical girl make even this feel routine? Thus, had even I grown familiar?
Feeling a one-sided sense of kinship, I washed my eyes with her color. Beside her stood a tall, model-like woman with a striking, open face. Both their colors were beautiful to behold. I stared blankly for a while until my eyes met Grang Orca's. Embarrassed, I turned and headed straight home.
▽
"Huh?"
"What? Someone you know?"
"Nah. Feels like I've seen her somewhere, but... no idea."
Grang Orca—Ryu Ihyeon—left the site with a bittersweet prayer for the victims' souls. Still, she was glad she could come with Rubra Camellia since their schedules aligned. Rage, sorrow—all the tangled emotions were endured through a magical girl's heart. As they exited, her eyes met those of a woman who seemed to be staring right at her.
The woman had a girlishly youthful face, clad entirely in black. Jet-black hair like ebony, skin white as jade, and especially those massive breasts. She had a striking uniqueness that wouldn't fade easily from memory, yet it only vaguely rang a bell.
"Whoa, Tit Monster No. 2."
"Unnie! She'll hear you."
Lee Chae-rin—Rubra Camellia—spotted the woman Ryu Ihyeon was staring at and made squeezing gestures with her hands. It reminded her of Ortentia Rafe—Kim Soo-yeon (No. 1). Ihyeon hurriedly shielded her, but the effort failed spectacularly as the girl whipped her head away and scurried off.
"Ah, so embarrassing."
Ihyeon covered her flushing face with both hands. Chae-rin playfully poked her side, acting cute. Ryu Ihyeon had seemed down from the incident, but this felt better somehow. And she knew Chae-rin always played the clown like this in moments like these. Growing numb to it was unwelcome, but it was a sorrow she'd overcome for ten years. She'd been through it too many times.
"Hehe. Wanna grab a drink?"
Chae-rin glanced at Ihyeon's face on the way back before speaking up.
"I do, but don't you have work tomorrow, unnie? What if you puff up?"
As magical girls, they couldn't get fully wasted, but a pleasant buzz was possible. Besides, Ryu Ihyeon felt like a drink too.
"Hey! 'Puff up'? There's a classy term for it—storing mana!"
"...Right? It's not fat, it's reserve mana, yeah?"
"Exactly, exactly."
As expected, it was the go-to excuse for magical girls. They converted nearly all ingested organics into mana. That's why they could handle toxins and sober up from booze fast. But overindulge, and what people called "mana fat" piled on. They actually gained weight easier than normals. The classic "I gain weight just drinking water" was literal for magical girls. Should it be called mana cells instead of fat cells? Who knew if she'd regret calling a bloated belly a "mana pouch" after stuffing herself.
"Let's go!"
"L-Let's go!"
Shy Ryu Ihyeon trailed behind the boisterously shouting Lee Chae-rin.
⍏
"Brothers, sisters! We bid farewell once more to a sister who walked with us unto the Lord. Let us remember Sister Woogeumhui! Let us honor her martyrdom!"
"Grace!"
"Grace!"
"Grace!"
Somewhere in the capital area. A special space created via scripture—a sanctuary. Isolated from reality, yet they'd somehow sourced materials to build a convincingly grand structure. No, it was a lavish building that dwarfed most churches, dripping with money.
A man in white priest robes stood before the congregation, his face stern and solemn as he bellowed at the followers.
"Those vile Awakened ability users strike again, again! Framing the innocent likes of us with their sins!"
"Grace!"
"Grace!"
"Grace!"
Ordinary folk, untouched by any supernatural waves, packed the space, chanting in unison. The swarming masses were swept up in fanaticism and strange excitement, their fervor heating the air with an odd, pervasive scent.
"They control the media, public perception—everything! But! But we will not be deceived!"
The robed man's face flushed beet red as he spat his tirade.
"We are the enlightened by scripture! Apostles blessed by the saint who serves the one true god! Only we know the truth! We—we, every single one—are the last hope to save this world defiled by those demonic Awakened ability users!"
"Grace!"
"Grace!"
"Grace!"
The people rolled their bloodshot eyes, bellowing "Grace!" From afar, it was utterly ridiculous. Even the man at the podium thought so inwardly. No, did I tell you to pop a vein? Always popping them, what bullshit. Argh, fuck.
The gathered humans were all those harboring grudges against Awakened ability users. And all were mentally broken in some way. Such people fell easily into cults.
"Remember this rage! This injustice! And realize at last—we are the children of God blessed with grace! Grace!"
"Grace!"
"Grace!"
"Grace!"
…
The man returned to his room after the fanatic worship ended. He always felt drained afterward. There are just so many idiots, he sighed inwardly.
He often wondered: Why do they fall for this lame demagoguery and act like crazies? He didn't think himself particularly eloquent. No formal training. But his voice, tone, gestures, expressions—combined, they had a talent to whip people into frenzy. Not an Awakened ability, but mysteriously reaching that level. That's why even his absurd rhetoric worked.
His name was Kim Sang-ho. Despite those thoughts, he was the head of the Pure Humanity Grace Society's Korean branch and an elder of the proselytization department. He had no ambition to rise this far; it just happened naturally.
"Director, good work."
A man sidled up beside him—light leather jacket, black pants, looking like a mobster at first glance—politely offering a tray with ice water.
"Thanks."
He replied in a leisurely, courteous tone, but it still clung stickily, oozing into the ears with a damp unease.
"So, no issues, right?"
"Yes, Director."
"Well, then, good."
For someone who'd just ranted about Sister Woogeumhui's martyrdom, it was a bland response. He truly didn't care much. If anything, he saw it as a gain. Her death had piled sacrifice points into his own scripture. Like stumbling on an item in his bonsai game.
She'd been pretty and decent, so that was a slight pity. But there were plenty more. The regret evaporated quickly.