Chapter 164
Chapter 164
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 164
Chapter Title: Chapter 10 Lead and Silver Coins (18)
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Bang!
Baaang-!
Two warning shots rang out from a distance. It was Vex. Honestly, I’d been worried whether the guy, whose marksmanship wasn’t all that reliable compared to his close-quarters skills, would hit his target properly, but he must have realized that himself because he fired straight into the air.
The bullets flew off in a completely random direction, but the effect was definite.
Click!
Screeech-
Ian jolted awake and raised his shotgun from his position sprawled on the sofa.
Ezel sprang from the bed in an instant, pressing a sharp knife to the intruder’s throat.
“Quite an impressive welcome. Did I wake you?”
“Yeah, you did. My wife was in my dream. I was just about to shove a pumpkin pie in my mouth when I woke up. Thanks a fucking lot.”
“Don’t mention it.”
White suit, pristine white gloves. White mask and hat to match. The man who had once called himself W spoke in a voice that sounded utterly delighted, even with a lethal blade hovering right in front of his carotid artery.
“I’d been wanting to talk to you all anyway. I happened to be near your workplace, and since you’ve all been stopping by here one after another like you’d made appointments, I figured I’d drop in.”
The Professor glanced toward the door. The firmly shut door, the lock. The crude alarm trap he’d rigged with bits of scrap metal in case of intruders. None of it showed any sign of being tampered with.
At least that was within the realm of imagination. Not impossibly fast or anything.
‘Damn it....’
Ally or enemy? How to respond, and with what.
In the brief standoff, he tried to calculate every possible scenario, but all he got was the empty conclusion of ‘unknown’.
The Artists’ Union—a group at the pinnacle of wasteland anomalies. His logic felt far too flimsy against them.
“You say you came because it’s nearby.... Is that true? Do you even have spatial limitations?”
Feeling the cold sweat trickling down his neck, the Professor kept the conversation going somehow. He’d come to talk, so maybe he could pry some information out first.
A skeptical question drew a small cough from his lips. Only after seeing his body shake slightly did he realize it was laughter.
“Oh dear, oh dear. You tell such amusing stories. This is Gedroits’s world? No, this is reality plain and simple. I’m no mage.”
“Then how did you get here?”
“I walked.”
“And that ability to arrive instantly anywhere, anytime, as long as there’s an appointment?”
“I simply value keeping time.”
“Why collect useless junk like paintings and sculptures?”
“Hob-by.”
“Why come here?”
“As I said earlier, purely to—”
“Spit one more line of bullshit about coming to talk, and I’ll drill an extra hole in your skull. You don’t even intend to answer properly, but talk? Let’s see if that joke-spewing brain of yours keeps babbling after half of it’s blown away.”
The gun barrel pressed against his mask, the trigger warmed by body heat tickling his fingertip.
Shoot. One more bit of nonsense, and he’d fire. He wouldn’t kill him since there was info to extract. At this angle, it’d just take out his left teeth and cheek, turning his face into a rag.
A moment of silence. Then,
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.
Laughter like coughing, trembling. Applause laced with admiration. He bent at the waist, clapping loudly, and Ezel’s dagger grazed his neck, drawing blood, but his delight didn’t stop. Though his expression was hidden by the mask, every action screamed genuine pleasure.
“Bravo. Bra-vo. I was right to come see you. To think you’re still this alive. Truly valuable. The Collector’s judgment was spot-on again, as always. I didn’t see that much value in you when we first met.”
“All you do is spout nonsense. Do you even know what a conversation means? I’ll explain it step by step, so shall we start from the beginning?”
“Cough, hack! Ah, this is exactly what I mean. Even as awakening begins, you retain such a vibrant sense of self.”
Collector. Pleasure. Ego. Awakening.
Incomprehensible words danced chaotically in his mind.
“....I owe you a debt, and it seems we’ll end up together someday, so it’s fine to tell you a few things. How about it—stand there uncomfortably with your friends like this? Or shall we start that ‘conversation’ you want so badly over a warm cup of tea?”
....Gulp.
In the hesitation, Ezel—who was closest to W—swallowed audibly. He must have felt that strange intimidation from the way W straightened his blood-flecked white suit and adjusted his tie. Just like him.
He exchanged quick glances with the group. Ian stroked the trigger, alternating the barrel between heart and knee. Ezel eased her knife back slightly.
‘One-on-one, then.’
Ian chose attack, Ezel conversation. No idea what Vex was doing outside, but he couldn’t join the vote now, so it came down to his call.
The deliberation was long; the answer short.
“....Ezel.”
Eek!
“Bring whatever tea’s left.”
Signal to choose conversation.
Click!
Ian’s displeased grunt as the barrel rose, and Ezel’s relieved face as she bolted to the kitchen like lightning.
“Any Darjeeling?”
“Only fake mushroom tea.”
Mentioning the mold-soaked water wastelanders often drank made his body tremble again.
“Hahaha. Your wit is valuable enough to appraise. Memorable.”
“Value? How much?”
“Not superficial value like money. Well, yes. Let’s start from there.”
Clack.
Perfect timing—Ezel set two cups on the table. Contrary to expectations, proper guest black tea, both intact.
Seemingly pleased by the warmth, his gloved hand hovered around the cup before returning to the desk.
“The reason we collect art, music, pre-war rarities—it’s not just a hobby. No matter how much precious alloy or gold we pile up like mountains, it holds no value to us. The value we collect is... slightly different.”
W opened his mouth in a voice brimming with genuine delight, as if unburdening this story was pure joy.
Mysterious man. W began speaking of one of the wasteland’s most secretive groups with casual lightness, as if it were nothing.
****
“Adapters. Or, as we call Type 3 variants among ourselves. Whichever you prefer. Type 3 variant? Adapter?”
“Doesn’t matter. Keep going.”
“Adapter it is, then. Anyway, adapters are exceedingly rare. Rumors float around like ‘a will strong enough to transcend death leads to their second life.’ Comic-book stuff. If that were true, we’d see far more adapters. I’ve witnessed countless wastelanders burn with the will to live before death. Some showed faint potential, but they couldn’t take that final step and ended as ordinary Type 2 variants. Heartbreaking.”
He paused, reaching for the teacup again. This time too, he merely caressed its surface gently instead of lifting it.
“We’ve researched ourselves passionately. What is a Type 3 variant? Why do some become massive monsters, others remain human-like? Are we monsters or humans?”
His voice grew stronger at the final question.
“I’d like your opinion in this conversation. I’m an adapter—what you call a Type 3 variant. Died during the Great War, reborn and lived six years, faint memories of my original ‘template,’ with my own thoughts, will, purpose, sitting here before you. Am I human? Or a monster born of viral whim?”
“....”
“Good answer. Remember that silence.”
Pleased by his wordless response, he paused to join the silence, perhaps choosing his words.
“....Got sidetracked. Back to value. Through newborn comrades we successfully created and protected in the Artists’ Union, we learned adapters bridge memories like stepping stones at emergence. From death’s moment to a 60th birthday party. From a five-year-old’s first lemon sourness to a 45-year-old car crash. From a 12-year-old first love to a 20-year-old in a graduation cap. No rules or patterns—just random flashes to the most shattered, deficient moments in one’s life. Like Mad Maynie regressing to the college welcome party rape. The variant virus races toward eternally unforgettable deficiencies.”
Propping his chin on one hand, the other pointing at him conspiratorially. The secretive gesture oddly evoked his parents, stirring deep discomfort.
“You.... What were you? Looking at you, you some kinda mafia?”
“Me? Mafia? Ha, hahaha! Ah, valuable indeed. Way off the mark. My template was a failure, outsider, hippie. Wanderlust, they call it? Couldn’t stay put. Got a job, then suddenly quit. Married, settled—then left again. Torn between longing for his wealthy business family home and hating it for coldly ignoring his suicidal mother. Like a fly with clipped wings, he wandered his home’s vicinity till bombing killed him. His final memory: eighteen years old. The boy who from five dreamed of becoming a sharp businessman like his always-dapper white-suited father, stealing and wearing that white suit one night. The wife crumbling from her husband’s frequent affairs turned to booze and drugs; in her blurred, darkened eyes, the white-suited man looked just like her husband. Craving affection, she clung; the panicked son shoved her away, and convinced she was utterly abandoned, she....”
Bang-
Aiming under his neck with a white-gloved hand, W mimicked a gunshot, substituting for the tragic end.
“....And so, I was reborn. A wanderer longing for home yet unable to return. Hating himself yet harboring boyhood dreams of a white-suited businessman like his father. Can go anywhere but home. Those keywords formed me.”
W spoke calmly, like someone else’s tale. Perhaps it truly was—faint in his mind upon birth, another man’s story.
What would it feel like to have a stranger’s memories in your head, your life dictated by them?
He’d seen community posts like ‘I want to be that kind of variant too,’ and thought similarly once. Never again.
“How about it? No one to protect at all costs, no goal worth dying for—yet I succeeded as an adapter. Key is strong deficiency in the template’s memories, and ‘anchors’ letting memory regress that far. Many have traumas, but most lose consciousness before reaching it. They want to forget, after all. Only those who truly can’t forget, shouldn’t, or overcame it reach the goal.”
“....I get your past, and the Artists’ Union’s goal roughly. Want more Type 3 variants... adapters?”
“Precisely: more, and protect them.”
“Then what’s that got to do with your art-collecting activities?”
Scratch scratch-
Instead of answering, W pulled the notepad before him and rapidly sketched and wrote.
Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. Rodin’s The Thinker. The Last Supper. Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam.
Then whistles: Für Elise. Titanic theme. Michael Jackson hits, other earworm classics whose titles he didn’t know exactly.
“So, what comes to mind?”
The Professor recalled recent memories. Elementary art class, the eyebrow-less woman. Middle school, stomachache on the toilet, wondering if The Thinker was really sitting on one. Crying at Titanic. Moonwalking attempts.
“....Memories are fascinating. Seem like snapshots, but deeply layered. One memory entwines others, and those with more. We’re no omniscient gods; can’t know a dying person’s life entwinements. But art everyone’s seen, heard, felt joy from occupies common memory slots, solid anchors. Isn’t art that? Abstract expression of ineffable emotions. Perfect for stimulating a dying soul’s recollections.”
“....That ‘value’ means things memorable to many.”
“You catch on quick. You habitually joke nonstop—quite amusing, your unique speech memorable enough. If you become famous and it spreads, just a ‘professor’ voice recording could evoke many memories. That’s the value I assign your speech.”
Finishing, W checked a pocket watch like in a movie, then stood.
Scrape-
Click!
Shing!
“Oh dear. Got so caught up in the enjoyable talk, nearly forgot my original goal.”
Straightening pristine whites, adjusting tie, brushing the teacup, extending a hand.
“Delighted today. Truly valuable time.”
He hesitated briefly, but W had shared much info without threatening them.
Following the left-handed offer, he extended his mutated left arm for the handshake.
“Ah, forgot to mention. Variant virus, once awakening starts, will keep regressing through your memories to settle. If a dangerous phase hits, contact the ID on the card I gave. Too valuable to waste as a Type 2 variant.”
Casually dropping the chilling line.
“I’m.... mutating? I’m different. My left arm mutated differently from yours....”
“Details? Ask the one inside.”
Tapping his temple, he flung open the balcony door.
Cold night wind fluttered his white suit.
“Planned to kill you all tonight—potential plan interferers.... But debts must be paid. Won’t interfere if you don’t. Thanks for sending Dojin off well. Respected his will to stay, watching his pain.... Well, no need for curses on departure. Cold night. Close the door tight, bundle up. Might get noisy—earplugs, bubble shield better.”
“Dojin.... Kim Dojin? Old Picture?”
Tip-
Instead of reply, he tipped his hat with a slight bow, then backed off the railing without hesitation, vanishing.
Rushing to the balcony after he disappeared, as expected—no trace of W.
“....Hey, Ezel.”
“Yeah, Ian. What?”
“Lend me a cross or rosary or whatever if you’re religious.”
“....Got one. Let’s sleep together. Too scared to sleep alone.”
That summed the group’s take on the Artists’ Union visit that night.
He and Ian, Ezel, and Vex—who’d snuck nearby, threatened the sniper into aiming at the white man—came running, screaming he’d seen a ghost. That night, they huddled on the bed, clutching trusted weapons, sleepless.
From the city outskirts, eerie music blared all night. Like thousands of orchestras playing different pieces at once, beautiful sounds mashed into garbage, laced with human panting—nerve-wracking.
Next morning, Dome 38, especially Surveillance Division, was chaos. Their main revenue farm district—beyond the city-scale shield, 4-person shelters crammed with 10 each—their untouchables all vanished. Guards, serfs, even Surveillance agents managing them. Only scratches and inconsistent traces remained.
Scratch scratch-
[Executives <-> Happy Blind <-> Artists’ Union]
Adding words to the notepad, the Professor crumpled and tossed it.
“Mages can’t do this either, you mad bastard....”
A clear, quiet, foul-mood morning.
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