Chapter 72
Chapter 72
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 72
Chapter Title: A Normal Customer
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It's been a while—a normal customer has finally shown up.
"Aaaah!"
And by normal customer, I mean one who fears me, of course.
Look at those trembling pupils and quivering lips. The spitting image of a regular person's face.
His build is pretty sturdy, but aside from that, he reminds me of my very first customer, that uncle.
A closer look reveals he's a bit worn out compared to his robust frame, but who cares about that.
I just want to wrap up the sale quickly.
"G-, Gonna report to the Bureau..."
Quite the familiar pattern.
His call won't even connect anyway, and even if it did, nothing would come of it.
"Hello, customer."
He drops the phone he'd been fumbling with and snaps his head up reflexively.
Fear toward me radiates from every twitch of his body.
If I were a tale that fed on fear, I'd be dancing with joy, but for me, this level of passivity is just annoying.
"This is the Tale Shop. Please choose the item you want."
A flicker of confusion crosses the man's face.
Even as he freezes there, limbs shaking, he strains to resolve that doubt.
I have no idea how they train office workers to deal with tales, but if the advice is 'observe the tale closely,' he's following it to the letter.
"Customer, sorry, but please pick an item."
Prodded by me, he finally shuffles toward the display shelf.
"Let me explain the items first."
The man listens—or seems to—with no change in his expression.
"Customer, so which item will it be?"
"Th-, that one..."
The man points shakily at one item.
I reward his choice with a smile.
"Good choice."
His tension eases a bit at that, his rigid face twitching ever so slightly.
Of course, it only took ten seconds for that face to crumple again.
"Aaah! Help!"
He's darting around the cramped shop interior like he's fleeing me, clawing at the walls with his nails.
This all started the moment I mentioned the payment method.
Should've just taken it from him right away like usual instead of dragging it out like this.
Someone stop that guy.
This is making the transaction way too inconvenient.
He might accidentally lose his head at this rate.
The shop's saying so too, and I'd really prefer he just calm down.
I don't want to force the customer into overspending, after all.
"This won't do."
"I-I knew it! Aaaah!"
Muttering that, he suddenly switches direction and charges straight at me.
You could call it a headlong rush right at me.
A self-protective reflex born of extreme terror, no doubt.
Fear has always reshaped itself into violence since time immemorial—much like how playing horror games makes you want to beat the ghost to death.
Thinking about it, no one's ever attacked me before—not even the Bureau.
Though it's so pathetic that I'm seriously debating whether to block it or not.
Soon, that massive bulk is nearly upon me.
"Sigh."
I didn't want to do this.
I quickly extend a tentacle to restrain the man's movements.
If the customer had been a woman, this might've triggered age restrictions depending on the ratings.
But since it's a burly middle-aged guy, it barely squeaks by.
Hell, it might even satisfy a certain audience.
Whatever, not important.
"Aaaak! No! Get off, get off me!"
"Shop?"
Got it.
The man's wails soon shake the shop, his struggles intensify, then finally cease.
His nostrils are still flaring fine, so he's just passed out.
I send the unconscious man out the door, just like before.
"Hmph. This one's exhausting in its own way."
The guys who weren't scared of me were actually easier to deal with.
"Anyway, shall I pick up where I left off?"
The uncle interrupted the flow, but business that needs doing should be done quickly.
While you were dealing with the customer, I gave it some thought, but...
Sorry, I still can't think of a way to prove my claim.
Honestly, the very fact that the shop can't prove its own trustworthiness lends it credibility.
Isn't that solid proof of contradictions not just in the shop's memories, but in its perceptions too?
I thought it was nonsense at first too, but the more I mull it over, the more the shop's view makes sense.
I'm just reluctant to believe it.
How could I want to believe it?
That history itself has already been altered in the future.
But even if that's true, how do I prove it or fix it?
If so, did history change from the moment I possessed this game character? Or had it changed even before that?
What caused the change in the first place?
Way too many new problems crop up.
But assuming the altered history is correct, there's only one thing I need to do.
"I need to investigate the changed history."
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ The man staggers unsteadily through the narrow alley.
His strength gives out, and he collapses to the ground.
"I-I got caught in a tale... But I'm alive, so that's a relief."
He'd sensed his own death coming from the shock of blood loss after losing his finger.
Yet when he woke, not a drop of blood anywhere.
Tales usually start by killing people, so a shopkeeper who even staunched the bleeding felt almost kind.
He had no money to fix the finger, but the factory where he worked was full of guys missing one or two digits anyway, so it wasn't a huge deal.
"If I report to the Bureau, they'll sort it out somehow."
He slowly hauls himself to his feet.
"Nah, maybe I shouldn't report it. If I play this right, I could sell it off and really improve my finances."
Optimistic fantasies keep him going, gradually steadying his shaking legs and dulling the sharp pain from the stump.
"Home first. My wife's probably waiting."
His home was poor, but his loving wife was all he had.
How long did he drag his weakened legs? His tiny rented room finally came into view.
It wasn't big or clean, but it was where he found peace.
If the door hadn't been open, it would've stayed that way today too.
Unease washed over him.
And such unease always turned real.
"Aaaaah! N-No!"
How could you even call that a person?
Something in the middle of the room floor, soaked in fluids, its form lost amid thousands of tangled DNA strands.
His primal instincts screamed beyond reason that it was his wife.
A storm of rage incomparable to his tale encounter raged within.
He wanted to scream every curse in the book, but all that escaped were faint groans.
He couldn't wallow in grief forever.
"Gotta report it..."
The man's hand trembled violently.
No restrictions blocked his report this time, yet he couldn't bring himself to dial.
Probably because he'd lost the two fingers he used most.
At least, that's what he thought.
Whoosh—
Suddenly, the sound of a toilet flushing.
Only one place nearby had a toilet: the bathroom inside his home, naturally.
"D-Do you know what you've forgotten?"
Behind him, an old man emerged from the bathroom.
The former owner of a gambling den.
Once called "Chairman," but such titles were a luxury he no longer deserved.
"What I said... Some bastard made me lose chunks of my memory..."
The old man's hand gripped a cleaver crusted with blackened, melted blood.
"Damn it. Can't remember that part."
The old man cackled like a madman.
"Gotta remember it to move on, but this is a real pickle."
The cleaver flashed, reflecting the light through the window.
"Fuck... That little shit fucked up too much."
He'd kill the bastard who harmed his wife, no matter what.
He summoned every ounce of remaining strength and charged at the old man.
Flames roared to life in his heart, but will alone couldn't solve everything.
His labor-hardened body, dulled by frenzy and grief, proved fatal—it failed to block the cleaver slipping between his ribs.
A literal mortal wound.
"Was just gonna kill this woman today. Sorry about that."
With those final words, the old man slipped into the bathroom, washed the cleaver and his hands, and vanished.
No signs of life stirred in the house, like a dying ember.
No movement after a minute, just the foul stench of blood after five.
But five minutes later, the man slowly rose.
An ice cream stick in his hand.
The item bought from the shop: Non-Melting Ice Cream.
Its power: absolute negation of one corresponding attack.
Fear and grief had only kept him down—he was still alive.
He strained to reach out with his arm and contacted the Bureau.