Pride (2)
Pride
The self-conceit of one who, lacking all humility, looks down on others — arrogance overflowing without restraint.
'...No matter how many times he looked at them, they were hopelessly, utterly base.'
The old man's creed was Pride itself — nothing more, nothing less. There was nothing in this world that pleased him. Living things could not survive without consuming something, could not so much as move without taking a moment's rest, and were forever spoiling their own affairs through some formless thing or another. Yes — through sentiment. Through things like love and friendship. The boy sprawled before him at this very moment was no exception.
Why could they never grasp the grand design? He would say it once more: the will of That Person, whom they served, was never the extinction of mankind. It was, if anything, a kind of purification — sweeping the waste called evil out of the world by exterminating every last wicked soul. A cause that served humanity and delivered the world — nothing less than a great and righteous undertaking.
And yet why did this boy continue to defy them so? Of course, he knew the answer to that as well. 'A thirst for revenge — petty beyond all measure.' Hatred for the culprits who had made his life what it was. Resentment at being snatched without warning from the quiet life he'd been minding and dragged to this place, made to die over and over. All of it had pooled and festered into that pathetic thing called vengeance — all without the boy having the faintest notion what his actions were doing to the world.
'Despicable. Truly despicable.' To the old man, the boy's conduct was deeply, profoundly displeasing.
Second to One alone, above all the world beside — in the old man's world there had ever been only that single exalted being. Every other living thing existed for the sake of That Person and himself, and even those who shared his membership in the Church were no exception. To be sure, he worked alongside them and planned with them, in the interest of efficiency. Not once had he ever thought of them as comrades.
'And having thought on it, I find this whelp all the harder to forgive.' If only this one boy had lent his quiet cooperation to their great cause, there would have been no need to keep company with such lowly creatures at all. That Person, whom he followed so devotedly, would by now have already revealed Himself to the world — and this world would long since have been purified, and then some.
"Haah... haah..."
"...I confess I cannot begin to fathom what meaning your life is supposed to hold."
A base and wretched existence — one that could not live without others, that leaned on those around it at every turn, that was dragged this way and that by its own feelings. What meaning could a pitiful, miserable life like that hold, that it would show such ferocious hatred toward those who would save the world? If anything, the boy ought to have been proud to be chosen as That Person's vessel. In truth, the old man would gladly have offered up his own body to That Person, had it been within his power to do so.
With a deep sigh, he looked down at the boy still pinned beneath him. For a body that had fought a Majin brought to full completion, it looked remarkably whole. And yet within it, he could see something a little different.
'...So this one was attacked before my power had been fully harnessed, hmm.' That a Majin steeped in his power had come to be born made it all but certain. It was only natural — his power was, to ordinary living creatures, poison itself. Without question, the one who had not yet fully become a Majin had somehow kneaded that power, and kneaded it again, before unleashing it in an attack. A complete Majin would have had no need to go about scattering the power at all — strength alone would have been more than enough to deal with a boy like this.
"...Tch. Thinking it over only irritates me further."
"……"
"What could That Person possibly have seen in a thing like you?"
"……"
"Even granting that your mana circulation had been sealed — to think you are someone who could be held at bay by a mere wretch like that."
His temper alone would gladly have killed the boy then and there, but That Person's body was not his to take by his own discretion. Besides, the time had not yet come...
"Haah... why does That Person visit such trials upon me..."
"Khh... haaahh..."
Tch. To think he must leave untouched a creature whose mere sight set his irritation boiling like this. And there was still work remaining — the power of his that yet lingered inside the boy's body had to be drawn out. Honestly, leaving it be would have cost him nothing. But his power could not be suffered to coexist, even for a moment, within That Person's body. That would be an affront to That Person — blasphemy itself.
"Well — lying there as you are, you can still hear me, I trust."
"……"
"Not that groveling on the ground doesn't suit you better in the first place."
"……"
"From this point on, I am going to free one of your arms."
"……"
"Then all you need do is open that glass bottle and drink what is inside."
"……"
"Your eyes are profoundly displeasing, I will admit — but I shall overlook them for now."
The moment the old man's fleshless hand moved through the empty air, the boy's fingers began to twitch — that glare, still steeped in vicious venom, showing no sign of thawing.
"Now, then — drink it quickly—"
"Kkh—ugh—!"
"...Can you not understand plain speech?"
The boy's hand shot for the old man's trouser leg — and was stopped then and there. In the space of a heartbeat.
"...Hm. Are your eardrums so inferior that they have gone and degenerated as well?"
"...Bullshit... you cripple."
"...Vulgar of tongue as well, I see."
And then — at who knew what — snickering laughter burst from the boy's mouth. A situation now the exact reverse of moments before.
"Me...? Fuck... what's so good about me?"
"...I don't understand."
"...?"
"I was given to understand that humans were social creatures."
"……"
"Yet you think of nothing but yourself, from beginning to end."
"...What?"
The boy's voice began to tremble — as though he had heard something never meant for his ears. His pupils shrank as if struck by some great shock, and the light went out of those irises — that blackish glow he had still, somehow, thought rather beautiful.
"Without even knowing what meaning our work holds."
"……"
"If a single punk like you were sacrificed, everyone would become happy."
"……"
"Your one life could bring happiness to every person around you."
"……"
"So why do you refuse to be sacrificed? Ought you not to embrace it as glory and offer yourself up of your own accord?"
The boy's eyes trembled harder still, but the old man paid it no mind. He truly believed this was simply how things ought to be. The rest of creation had never merited even a flicker of his interest. This world was, at bottom, That Person's; every other living thing was merely a byproduct propping Him up; and he himself would stand at That Person's side, aid Him, and purify this world. The process would be far from smooth, no doubt — but what did that matter? They were all byproducts regardless.
"That Person deigned to choose a punk like you with His own hand."
"……"
"Ordinarily, bowing your head to the ground in gratitude would scarce have been enough, would it not?"
"……"
"He is bestowing a single thread of meaning upon that meaningless life of yours."
Crack—
The instant his words ended, the glass bottle in the boy's mouth was crushed to pieces — because his jaws, fury no longer containable, had clamped shut.
Crunch, crunch—
"Ohh...?"
"……"
Blood was already streaming from his mouth where the shattered glass had opened it — and still the boy did not stop. If anything, he began to chew with even greater ruthlessness.
"...I told you to drink it. I never said to eat it in that fashion."
"……"
"Honestly — you have caught me off guard. You may well be proud of yourself."
"……"
"...Shall we see how long you can keep up that glare of yours?"
The old man's foot began to press down, ever so softly, upon the boy's hand. For no reason whatsoever — simply because it displeased him. A base, wretched thing like you has no right to look up at me so brazenly. That was all.
"……"
Yet the boy's expression showed not the faintest sign of changing — not even as the heel of the old man's shoe bored into the back of his hand, not even as the glass he kept chewing stabbed into his gums over and over. Even when the enraged old man slammed his head down into the ground with greater force, his expression and his gaze did not waver in the slightest. He simply went on chewing the glass, endlessly, over and over.
"Your way of venting your rage is rather unusual."
"……"
"Well — with your body immobilized as it is, I suppose spitting your fury out properly would be difficult."
"……"
"Your flesh is already ruined and your mana will not answer — as you well know."
"……"
"Hm... and yet."
The old man's gaunt finger plunged into the boy's mouth. Very deep — and very rough.
Krrunch—!
Just as one might expect, the boy's teeth sank in and tore at the old man's finger — with force enough that, on an ordinary man, it would have split flesh, crushed muscle, and snapped bone.
The final convulsion of a man who had lived his every moment under duress — a movement so desperate it made vividly tangible the grief of every grudge he had never been allowed to voice, and the injustice of a life stolen from him, wretched and pitiless beyond words. The old man paid it no heed and carried on speaking.
"Your body is no longer yours alone, you see..."
"……"
"So you ought to treat it a little more preciously—"
At that instant, the old man's finger was severed — cleaved away by an attack from who knew where.
"...?!"
But the attack had not come from the boy. The old man could hardly have missed a movement from the one pinned directly before his eyes. Judging by the cut of the wound, it had come from behind—
"Was it you?"
"...?"
"The bastard who laid hands on my daughter."
From within the black shadow emerged the figure of a man.
The old man racked his memory, straining to place him. Pink hair was a rarity in this Empire — and a man capable of severing his wrist, rarer still. A little more thought, he believed, and the face would come to him — if only his wrist had not been cut away a second time at that very moment.
"...I may as well ask your name, then. What is it?"
"You don't need to know. And I have no intention of telling you."
It was the meeting of the Empire's sanctioned murderer and Pride, apostate of the Church.