Chapter 500
Chapter 500
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Vine
Chapter: 23
Chapter Title: Gedroits's Heir, Deul (15)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
****
Crack!
‘Underground structure. Broken elevator. Concrete walls, lead plating exposed where it’s crumbled.’
“...Thousand Stream Emperor, it’s a nuclear bunker. The external contamination blockers seem to be working fine too.”
“I’ll release the hazmat suits.”
We were the invited guests, but our hosts were still an ‘unknown group of uncertain allegiance—friend or foe?’
That was why Thousand Stream Emperor and I were infiltrating just like we had back in Sector 45: following military doctrine for small-unit penetration.
Whether it was the HIV team then or us now, we were all grizzled vets, so our approach was much the same. Swiftly seizing predictable danger zones within the structure and pushing inward.
The big difference, though—
“Lead swap. T-junction ahead. We’ll clear one side first.”
Tap-tap-tap-tap!
One of us could play human landing gear—barreling naked into danger zones and body-blocking them.
Thump—thump—
“...Front. Open passage straight ahead, left side. Eight-mat hall. Right side has an entrance going deeper underground.”
The other was the beneficiary of the century’s greatest genius’s super-sensory program, possessing insane scouting abilities akin to human sonar.
If the old trio back then had been three special forces operatives from different fields teaming up for infiltration, this Artist Alliance op was more like two mad-scientist super-soldiers running the show.
“Clear.”
“Hold up. Let’s handle this first.”
The only time we halted during our near-sprint alert advance was when I pulled something tape-wrapped from my bag.
“You’ve been pulling these out nonstop. How many more you got in there?”
“Twenty more besides this? Ian said it’s a Cremoa base with remote fuze, packed with leftover Semtex, RDX, and such. Guy’s been frustrated lately with no call for these ‘outdated’ explosives, so he loaded me up with his hobby batches from home.”
“...Productive hobby or destructive one?”
The silvery-gray duct tape ball was, naturally, courtesy of Metaljaw—a creature that breathed explosive fumes instead of oxygen.
“No one’s come out to greet us, and no one’s blocking our way in. If they’re not planning to turn hostile, we can assume they’re huddled up waiting somewhere. Otherwise, the only explanation is they’re luring us deep inside.”
“Hm. Securing a fallback route, then.”
“They invited me because they want something. This is their turf, and that makes it perfect for them—guys who know the layout—to flank and cut off our retreat if they’ve circled around. If they really pulled this stunt to take me down—”
Fwoom—
I mimed flipping a switch, and Thousand Stream Emperor’s brow furrowed slightly.
“We’ll just head back the way we came.”
“You always work like this?”
“Pretty much? Most of the time?”
“...Not good.”
He didn’t seem thrilled watching me plant a bomb under a chair in what looked like a break room. Probably imagining me blowing myself up in some unlucky future.
“Set. Let’s move.”
“Pray we don’t need it.”
After a brief breather, Thousand Stream Emperor tapped the wall with the blade of his dropped chainsaw and stood.
“Stairs, hallway corridor, openings left and right.”
“Man, convenient. If they’d ditch the weird weapons for guns and cover us properly, I’d be really grateful.”
“Don’t favor guns. Bad trigger finger shakes.”
“Sheesh.”
Even rushing down, it only took ten minutes.
These military mega nuclear bunkers were built at least 2km deep in high-elevation sites. Not 2km of distance, but 2km straight down—so without an elevator, you’d be gasping just to reach the bottom. Long way to go.
The pristine, empty bunker greeted us only with eerie echoes.
****
How far down had we gone?
By my senses, over 1.4km, and I had about three mixed-explosive packs left in my bag—starting to ration them.
“Hm.”
“Finally starting to look like the monster den I imagined.”
Like Sector 45’s massive bunker with its deep residential zone, this nuclear shelter probably had a vast space at its deepest level. I’d been descending steadily, figuring that’s where the house-sized monsters or collector surrounded by screens would be—right outside the living quarters.
Rustle!
Suddenly, a space totally different in theme stretched from the stairs to the next level.
“...Trash?”
“Not quite trash. Sturdy vinyl like this has tons of uses—sold in bundles as scrap. See, there’s binding marks from midway.”
I halted us and held up a colorful standout piece from the trash piles right in front of Thousand Stream Emperor.
“But doesn’t look like they gathered it for that.”
Under dim fluorescents, the shiny metallic vinyl trash gleamed. On its surface, a banana-shaped character with limbs grinned with a squished face.
A snack bag. The kind I’d devoured as a kid.
“Evokes memories, huh. Guess this is where the real deal starts.”
“Memories?”
“Yeah. That’s what they said. The Artist Alliance’s goal is helping mutant comrades—who have potential but wander lost to death—settle into Type 3 by anchoring them to some memory moment.”
Of course, with Old Tiger Broo out there chasing his personal dream of dying in overwhelming terror against a worthy foe, it seemed their surface goal of growing their kind masked the Type 3 mutant base of individually twisted pursuits.
Still, the group’s practical aim was ‘more adapters/Type 3 mutants.’ By hoarding old junk like that.
No clue how that formula worked—my pea-sized biology knowledge couldn’t stretch that far—but the white-suited guy who called himself an ‘adapter’ and warped space had said it himself.
Sector 38. First BDSM caravan run to sell Dome’s transitional weapon. ‘W’—ghosting into the caravan dorm like a specter—had eyed my monstrous left arm with delight.
=========
‘We’ve researched ourselves with fervent passion. What is a Type 3 mutant? Why do some become massive monsters, others stay near-human? Are we monsters or humans?’
‘I’m an adapter—what you call a Type 3 mutant. Died mid-Great War, reborn and lived six years, faint memories of my [original] self, with my own thoughts, will, purpose, sitting here before you. Am I human? Or a monster born of viral whim?’
=========
A Type 3 in human shape, human clothes, human speech, pondering if human. Meeting W back then hit like mental horror from facing something beyond common sense.
“He said they figured it out among themselves: mutant virus uses host memories like stepping stones at death’s moment. From seventieth birthday to kindergarten talent show, boot camp to middle school. Hopping back and forth—until it slams into a massive rift, a trauma-like mental flaw.”
“Survive the mental strain through that process? Type 3 mutant. Fail? Walking corpse Type 2 mutant, rotting soon into zombie Type 1. That’s their explanation.”
“...Hm.”
“Get it?”
“Hm. Never got briefed on it.”
Thousand Stream Emperor flatly declared no intent to grasp complex concepts beyond his level, shameless as ever.
“Why explain such pointless knowledge?”
“’Cause all that junk piled below was collected for exactly that reason.”
Rustle!
I dropped the snack bag from my hand.
The flattened packet fluttered down the dim stairs. Unlike the lit upper levels, I shone my flashlight there: vinyl wrappers carpeted the floor like a red carpet, reflecting colors that painted the dark passage rainbow-hued, walls crammed floor-to-ceiling with stuff all the way down the bunker hall.
“W said he succeeded as an adapter despite no one to protect at all costs, no death-defying goal. Key is the target’s strong memory gap, and ‘anchors’ to climb back to it. He assigns ‘value’ to things that stimulate those memories.”
Snack bags in Japanese, Chinese, Spanish, Korean—collectibles to trigger childhood snacking nostalgia for people from different homes. Corridors stuffed with toys, rusty full-iron bikes, Lego buildings, game consoles, absurdly pricey figures for toys. Endless down the dim stairs: petty pre-war nostalgia triggers.
=========
‘Today was delightful. Truly valuable time.’
=========
After spilling his piece, he rose, speaking to me like kin.
=========
‘Oh, forgot to mention. Now that the mutant virus has bloomed, it’ll keep burrowing through your memories for a foothold. If danger looms, contact the ID on my card. You’re too valuable to waste away as a Type 2.’
=========
“W... creepy bastard.”
Crunch.
The sensation of clasping his hand back then still lingered in my left.
Now, more variant than ever—walking into their home no less—I’d basically danced to his tune.
“Anyway, all the old crap we’ll see from here isn’t mere collectibles. They’re vital to the ‘Artist Alliance’ goal—a core production line, sorta. Stuff they treasure highly—”
Sss—
Splat!
“—so if push comes to shove, I can go, ‘One button and your precious [art] turns real modern art! All ash if you don’t scram!’”
“...Another bomb.”
“Yup. After that human landing gear stunt, figured overusing my variant strength could spell trouble.”
Crackle-crackle-crackle—
Shining my light down the junk-lined corridor, I dug into the thickest pile and buried an explosive.
We’d moved loud enough, yet no fatigue. That scared me more.
‘Stay human. Mandu’s mess happened ’cause he didn’t know my state, unavoidable then. But from now on, stick to human limits. Professor’s level only.’
‘Save the real stuff for when needed. Use my remaining [human part] strategically. Ensure no shortage at key moments, max efficiency to clear future obstacles...’
Clang—
A hollow can rattled through my thoughts. From the spot I’d dug for the bomb.
“...Bean tin?”
Makes sense. In a memory-trigger junk hoard, with most survivors war vets, military rations are must-haves. Especially meal-related—scarce soldier rest—high ratio natural.
“Ha, been ages.”
Bean tins. Way past expiry—pop the lid, rancid stink everywhere; in your mouth, it clawed from tongue root to under eyes. But still, 14th Special Ops rations from allies back then.
“...Gonna lose it.”
Seeing it, I let out an unwitting laugh. My recent thinking mirrored too closely that era’s supply clerk me.
‘Calculated my remaining life. Just like agonizing over rationing scarce supplies to sustain combat longer.’
Death’s terror utterly absent. 4th World mental wear? Already died once in 38? Or Hyde’s memories—multiple deaths stacked in my head?
‘Not normal.’
Too many changes too fast, no time to process.
‘Stubborn do-gooder. Overly selfless, broken as they wanted: the completed one.’
My assessment. Battered through events, warped human form emerged. The flawless, devoted pioneer they awaited.
‘Then, my happiness? What do I want? For what?’
What do I pursue? Did ‘I’ even exist as a self?
‘Hyde.’
Panic hit sudden; mind defaulted to ingrained path.
Still empty spot. Eyes closed, shapes loomed—his void remained as ‘Hyde’s empty place’ within.
‘Tell me, Hyde.’
Unanswered query echoed in void, converging to a point. What am I? Do I see myself as consumable for others? Professor’s life worn away, gone—mushy thoughts leaked brain-like, drifting slow.
‘...No caretaker?’
It tilted. His memory shelf. Unlike before, crammed tight, leaning center—like sucking in...
Ah?
‘...Memories? Converging to a point?’
.
.
.
.
Shwaaaa!
—The Type 3 process!!!
Thought snagged on ‘Type 3 mutant,’ gray haze shattered, clear mind rushed in.
‘What am I? Where’s what I want?’
No clue whose idiot-brain spewed that garbage! I’m not that dumb!
‘Got hit by something. Blabbed this place’s purpose coming in, then nearly ascended via it!’
Mind snapped alert like dunked in water, rapidly retrieving past. Sector 38, Dome’s defensive line vs. Happy Blind and mutant hordes—soldiers suddenly killing each other over nothing!
‘Legged pyre! Gas masks useless—strange smoke! One of the Artist Alliance adapters there pulled that!’
Reached the cause of my ‘terminal depression Professor’ thoughts.
“Guhk!”
Like a drowning man gulping fresh air, I inhaled escaping my mental cage, head snapping up.
“Hm. Such focus was lovely to watch. Pity.”
“...You bastard...!”
White glove crossed my vision, white suit sleeve followed.
“No misunderstanding, please. As this museum’s curator, thrilled to see you savor the exhibits so deeply.”
W—Artist Alliance’s main external operative, an adapter.
His white glove was removing my freshly planted bomb.
In his arms: every explosive I’d set on the way down, not one missing.
“Honored you came yourself, but no toys, thanks. Vibration, smoke, heat—all fatal to sensitive exhibits.”
“Odd, though. Thousand Stream Emperor outshines you in mental completeness by leagues. He’s still lost in memories, yet you surfaced. Curious.”
“...!”
‘Thousand Stream Emperor!’
Neck near-breaking twist: him frozen statue-like paces away.
Breathing. Difference from my daze: dropped laser chainsaw replaced by drawing his ornamental old sword.
“Thousand Stream Emperor, you—!”
“Ah, don’t approach now. Get ‘that’ on you, no good end.”
“...‘That’?”
I echoed; W nodded lightly, tossing the fallen can his way.
Whish—
It arced slow across him, landing opposite harmlessly. Bean tin.
Clang!
Clang-roll!
Two landing sounds.
“Hahaha. ‘Valuable’ sight just watching, no? Wanted to host you—not quite Professor-level, but close. Grateful you brought him along. Collector chose right again.”
“That’s... what...”
W laughed; I wasn’t amused.
Unlike Thousand Stream Emperor—eyes closed serene sleep—his old sword’s hilt.
Through rust, thin vein-likes etched clearer, linking to dangling belt—living vessels connecting.
“Told you, didn’t I? Wanted to host you ‘all.’”
“‘All’...”
Airplane talk flashed: his past crystallized in that old blade. Friend he idolized showed human potential dying in drug den; cremation ashes forged into sword.
‘...Some experiment. Seo-ho joined directly; I got bit by subject.’
Mid-flight chat: his hypothesis for freak physique.
‘Looking back, those rampaging experiment victims seemed like fresh Type 2s.’
‘Different from you, Professor, but I might be half-variant too.’
If Thousand Stream Emperor was, what of his direct-experiment dead friend?
The one he saw as eternally ideal, shining spirit.
“Our adapter bodies follow mind for shape, death-site materials for traits. Can’t defy physics, even us? Like Abomination gathering corpses to form.”
W spoke brighter, white glove pointing to the sword in Thousand Stream Emperor’s hand.
“Delighted to meet you, Thousand Stream Emperor—and adapter ‘Han Seo-ho.’ At last.”
Han Seo-ho. Thousand Stream Emperor’s mental flaw core.
W named the veiny old sword after him.
****