Chapter 502
Chapter 502
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 502
Chapter Title: Gedroits's Heir, Deul (17)
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'What the hell is this?'
There were unknowns scattered everywhere around me right now, but what occupied my mind at the moment was this sense of incongruity I was feeling.
Of course, it was natural to feel out of place.
The place I was walking through was a massive underground concrete facility two kilometers from the entrance and at least 700 meters below the surface, with English, Chinese, and Russian signs painted on the walls in various spots.
Yet flanking me on either side as I strode through this facility were not supplies for long-term survival, but works by art history masters like Rembrandt, Goya, Courbet, and Andy Warhol—names even an outsider like me had heard of.
And the one proudly explaining them was Andrey Gedroits, the era-transcending scientist speaking through an augmented reality drone in the form of a man in a white suit. If you didn't feel any sense of wrongness in a situation like this, that would be the weird part.
But this went beyond the 'ordinarily bizarre.' It nagged at me too much for that. A long time ago, I might have brushed it off as just a vague unease, but after getting thoroughly smacked on the back of the head at the entrance to 4World and gaining various insights as a result, I'd come to trust these gut feelings quite a bit.
'Andrey Gedroits. Does the man I've verified match the one right in front of me?'
Everything pointed that way, and he'd admitted it himself. Partially.
So what was this 'other part that's not Gedroits'?
"You look lost in thought."
W-Gedroits, reverting from his weary old man tone to his original speech, spoke up as we passed the section transitioning from early 20th-century modern art to the rise of 3D installation art.
"Thanks to you talking so much."
"Indeed. Piecing together small bits of info to glimpse the big picture—that's your specialty. Very well. Before we meet the Collector, how about we have the kind of conversation our esteemed guest desires? As a reward for waiting so patiently."
"....Do we have to?"
"From what I've observed, you tend to get aggressive the more doubts you have about someone. It's a safety measure for the Collector—part of my 'guiding' duties, in other words."
"Anyone would think you're some model employee monster. The Collector sent the invitation, but you're the one dosing the guests with hallucinogens."
"Naturally, that's part of our Artists' Union 'guidance' as well. Every guest invited here has gone through the same process."
....Guidance. And duty.
'He's closer to the W I know right now.'
From what I'd heard of him in the past, W was the type who couldn't stay in one place when he didn't have official business. Maybe that's why he seemed oddly excited—because this 'guiding Professor to the Collector' gave him an excuse to return to the Artists' Union hideout. If I remembered right, he really cherished staying put somewhere.
Splash—
In the end, amid circumstances pointing to this Gedroits-like figure leaning toward the man known as W in speech and action.
W-Gedroits beckoned to me as I racked my brain while crossing a translucent waterfall-shaped sculpture. Hidden behind it was a rest area lined with chairs and tables that were just frames.
"'Thought and Contemplation,' Allaud Kar, 2048. A quintessential work of late modern art, from an era when art's excessive complexity led the public to reject it entirely—restoring art to the masses. This piece represents that pivotal shift."
"....Those uncomfortable-looking steel rod chairs?"
"Have a seat first. You'll understand the intent once you do."
"Hmm...."
It felt a bit off-putting, but my body wasn't so frail that some steel ridges would bother it, so I sat down roughly.
Zzt!
"?!"
The result was astonishing. A faint current seemed to flow from the steel frame of the chair, transforming the hard metal seat into the familiar feel of my worn-out old sofa.
"Allaud Kar was an engineer of genius before he was an artist."
"Don't tell me it reads memories of touched objects and recreates specific sensory moments—"
"Not quite that advanced. It simply reads the subtle muscle movements upon contact to detect what structure your body is most accustomed to sitting in, then recreates it via electrical signals. Your body touches an utterly uncomfortable steel rod chair, but your senses feel the thing your butt spent the most time on in life. Late modern art emphasized moments like this, where the viewer's perceptual sensations take center stage. Right now, aren't physical discomfort and sensory comfort coexisting?"
I nodded as the commentary matched exactly what I was feeling, and W nodded back as if it were only natural.
"The separation of emotion and divinity. Can the mind replace physical sensation? Or can physical stimuli control the mind's form? Fields the elderly Andrey Gedroits was deeply obsessed with. To add, this exhibit was installed in the lobby of Gedroits Company headquarters before the war. For a man who hated waste, shelling out big money to relocate such a complex installation shows how much he cherished this piece."
It seemed like he was building up to something important, but then he veered into art history. Just as I started suspecting this was some stalling tactic,
"Sitting here is the act needed to bring the 'Gedroits' within me to the surface."
"The moment his 'completer'—what he so desperately desired—calls that name, it's like Gedroits briefly emerges on the surface."
My suspicion turned to shock at his words.
"I am a being that became a Type-3 variant by design in the presence of his corpse to utilize Andrey Gedroits's knowledge, absorbing his flesh."
"And at the same time, a middling personality that lusted after his position so pathetically that it ended up tainted by him instead."
Step step step
The figure emerging from behind the holographic waterfall perfectly filled the spot occupied by his illusory double.
"Nice to meet you. Not quite what I was pursuing now, but facing the 'completer' Gedroits sought, even like this, doesn't feel half bad."
W. His real voice, clad in a white suit, had an eerie blend of youthful and aged tones.
"Let's sate that curiosity of yours, which won't let you rest until you know everything."
With the white fedora and mask removed, his face was a horrific mashup of a melancholic young man's and a stubborn old man's.
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"William. There was a man named William Turner. No need to repeat the 'tragedy' I confessed to you long ago, right?"
"Wait.... Give me time to think."
"Take all you need."
Just a few sentences, packed with so much information I couldn't process it properly.
'To assimilate Gedroits's knowledge.... He deliberately became a Type-3 variant in front of his corpse? Is that the story of W, the [original] William Turner?'
Gedroits's death, inheriting his knowledge, the fact that one could willfully become a Type-3 variant, and the result.... A multiple personality where specific memory triggers manifest a persona akin to the real Gedroits.
"This.... It's contradictory. It doesn't add up."
No matter how I thought about it, it clashed with multiple pieces of info in my memory.
"Oh? Which part doesn't sit well with our completer?"
"You, W-Gedroits—assuming not a single lie in what you said...."
"That much I can swear to. When I say 'I' here, it refers to both the old me as W and the current me. We distinguished for convenience, but we're not separate personalities. More like a manic-depressive split akin to psychiatric pathology. Anyway, I've never lied once."
"Then becoming the being you describe is impossible. William Turner, W's original, died by his mother's hand."
"Hmm. Yeah, it could look that way."
"That white-suited businessman was his father? No, that's a stretch. For starters, a Russian like Gedroits having blood kin with a German name like 'William Turner' doesn't make sense. No matter how you connect the dots, everything you say turns to bullshit!"
"Ahem. Keep going. Your thought process is quite intriguing."
W, tilting his head so the Gedroits face faced front, gave ambiguous responses like this was some fun quiz.
"You're a person of remarkable intuition."
"What, you saying my thinking relies entirely on irrational hunches?"
"No, pure praise. From what I've seen, this Professor fellow has looser boundaries between conscious and unconscious than any living human. A kind of acquired genius from psychological trauma, shall we say."
Tap tap tap
"The human brain, its unconscious—think of it as a vast repository absorbing all info without filters. In a bustling city, a person passes thousands daily; consciousness remembers one or two, but the unconscious stores them all via senses like sight. Normal folks connect to that trash-bin vault maybe in dreams, but you're different. Your surface consciousness has dipped into the depths countless times due to bizarre experiences. You know exactly what I'm getting at better than I do, right?"
"....Hyde."
"Yes. Hyde. That other sub-persona you named Hyde—whether you dubbed it or it self-named. GG database records show how profoundly it bridged your surface mind to the unconscious depths. Fascinating outcome. If Gedroits were alive, he might've spun another project from it.... Shame GG's key data's all with you now, so that's just a vague what-if."
His finger at his temple shifted toward the metal-plated chest, then shrugged nonchalantly.
"Point is, what you call 'gut feeling' is actually logical conclusions from countless calculations and scenarios in that vast unconscious data. When it spits out an answer to a puzzle, you surface it as 'Hmm? Feels like this.' Subsequent thoughts are just conscious verification to accept it."
"....So. Why'd your sudden William Turner and Gedroits talk veer into my story?"
"What I'd take an hour to explain verbally transmits fully in the five minutes you calmly ponder. Think, Professor. Look at the answers bubbling up unbidden!"
W-Gedroits said that much and truly clammed up like a shellfish. The melancholic youth side seemed to have something to say but stayed silent too.
'I know?'
No way. Hadn't I already concluded his statements were contradictory?
'Remember clearly. W had a pretty convincing tragedy.'
The caravan inn in Sector 38 was so shocking, I recalled nearly our whole conversation.
A respectable businessman father who favored white suits.
A son who admired him, a mother fraying from constant affairs.
One night, the son tries on father's white suit in secret; in the dark, the stark white silhouette makes him look like the callous father.
Booze. Drugs. Long-built resentment. Mother lunging; son rejecting; her hurt turns to rage again. Bang—
William Turner dies, becomes white-suited W; that night's guilt births a restless special Type-3 variant.
....That's the story W told at the Sector 38 inn.
If even the lies in that perfect narrative arc are absent, how does a third party like Gedroits fit? It's so vivid I can picture it eyes closed. Wealthy home, self-made philandering husband, abandoned wife, son idolizing rare-visiting dad....
'....Huh?'
Suddenly, something snagged. *Click!*
'William Turner died like that and became a Type-3 variant?'
Sure, variants happen. But the imagery.... didn't fit the backdrop.
'Variant virus spread post-Great War. During war, you'd see shot-up enemy soldiers rise as zombies charging.'
'But that story of entitled wealth, family drama—post-WWIII?'
Timeline mismatch. Wife enraged at rich husband's cheating accidentally kills son? Pre-war tale. Thus, sacrificed William Turner can't become post-war Type-3 W.
'W's original, William Turner, didn't die there?'
The story ended: Enraged mother aims at white suit, bang—
"....The one who died wearing the father's suit wasn't the son, but the mother?"
"Indeed, faster than words. Drunk mother at point-blank; son panics at gun, tries stopping her trigger finger—oops, bang—"
"The bullet pierced her lung. Amid agony and blood, she shrieked demonically dying. Pristine white suit blood-soaked. She lunged to kill, but.... the sight traumatized my original, William Turner, even as accident. This melancholic youth taking half my face? That's him."
"....Wasn't planning to hide it."
The melancholic youth face muttered softly, then the old man's took over.
"So, exemplary citizen and med student William Turner faced trial for matricide. He defended himself, but evidence screamed guilty. Victim's status fueled media fire; he got life."
"Andrey Gedroits approached while I awaited prison transfer post-trial."
Head turned smoothly like shifting consciousness; youth face continued.
"Said he'd read my papers. Waste rotting in jail. Why not a spacious, comfy building with buffet meals forever instead? A scout offer. Company needed in-house psychiatrist for welfare."
"Psychiatrist."
"'Observations on Mental Dissociation' by William Turner—still searchable today, that famous. Hired as physician, but real job: aiding Gedroits's Game R&D. Perfect talent with nowhere else to go for his secret project."
Creak—
W-Gedroits. The adapter with both old and young faces rose, one sneering, one ashamed.
"As research deepened, I couldn't help revering great scientist Andrey Gedroits. Unreachable heights bred envy with respect; his leash added humiliation. Rotting in his fold.... I met her."
"Her?"
W ignored my question. Instead, he approached the wall behind our seats, slipping fingers into a concrete crevice.
"Gaunt but bright. Gedroits said she was GG's core, first ark-master of humanity's grand digital realm, protagonist reclaiming stolen life."
Clunk! Rumble!
Where W inserted his hand pulled open, revealing a hidden door beyond the concrete. Nuclear bunker residential area—safest panic room for special disasters.
"Studying her mind and depths, I fell for her. Couldn't bear her, dying of leukemia, at this inexplicable experiment's heart. Someone must cradle her, give deserved care and treatment—that gripped me."
"Shameful, but I coveted even Gedroits's seat as Natasha's father."
The melancholic youth glared at the old man face to his right.
His hand knocked gently; a voice leaked from within; the stark, alien white door between concrete swung wide.
Hospital-white walls, eye-searing bright lights.
Myriad screens of all kinds hung, thick cables linking them.
All cables connected to her back—that familiar silhouette.
"Natasha Gedroits. Andrey's sole blood kin, dying of leukemia; predestined GG's sole admin. Original birthing first data soul. From her, first willful Type-3 variant: Collector."
New names aplenty, but neither matched what surfaced in my mind.
"World Tree.... ma'am?"
World Tree. GG's overseer managing countless sim worlds, silver-haired girl.
The woman before me looked exactly how she'd grow up.
『Seeing me evokes her—means you met her directly, right?』
Her voice vibrated from a diaphragm, not vocal cords.
『Pleased to meet you. Completer, endorsed by my sister-like 'World Tree'—I've wanted to meet you myself.』
World Tree—no, Collector in her form—greeted me with a serene sleeping face and beaming emoticon screen.
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