The Boundary Between Dimensions Doesn't Exist for Otakus

The request from the Pantheon had to be carried out somewhere far from prying eyes. Thirin made her way through the city's shadowy back alleys, wrapped in darkness. She wore a robe that covered her entire body. It was a bit stuffy, but there was no helping it if she wanted to avoid annoying complications.

This place was known as the Alley of the Silent. Narrow, damp paths wound through where even sunlight struggled to penetrate. The dilapidated buildings on either side leaned precariously against each other, blocking out the sky. It was like an abandoned vein in the city, where shadows ruled even during the day. The Empire lacked the resources to maintain public order everywhere, and the inevitable result was that every city sprouted back alleys like mold. The more unauthorized personal armaments increased, the wider those urban shadows grew in proportion.

But none of that mattered to Thirin. In fact, she saw it as a good thing. Thirin was a former beggar, after all. Beggars were a quantum-mechanical existence—present everywhere and nowhere at once. If she didn't want to be noticed, she could vanish from sight as easily as breathing. Thirin opened the creaky door of a familiar building and stepped inside. She climbed the groaning stairs and grabbed the doorknob of the innermost room on the second floor. The sound of a lock clicking open came from within. She'd found the right place.

The room reeked of mold and stale dust. But that was fine. As a modern person, Thirin always wore a mask. She coughed.

Only half of it was fine. Thirin's sensitive senses picked up the smell even through the mask. She ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shrugged off the cumbersome robe and sat down on the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠creaky wooden chair. The black shirt clinging to her body revealed her elegant curves without restraint, while the tight leather pants proudly displayed the smooth lines of her long legs. A few strands of hair tied back loosely cascaded down, giving her pale neck a decadent allure.

Thirin crossed her legs, tilted the chair back, and rocked her body slightly. It was the kind of pose that would have netizens spamming donations if she were a streamer. Before long, slow footsteps echoed from the end of the hallway. The owner of those footsteps opened the door without knocking. When Thirin looked up with a bored expression, the hooded stranger spoke.

"Show some respect, woman."

A low voice rumbled from within the shadows.

"What stands before you is an avatar of the Pantheon."

"Hmph."

Thirin snorted. Not a shred of respect was visible on her face, but surprisingly, the priest showed no particular reaction. It was as if he'd only mentioned it out of formality and didn't actually need the respect of someone like her. The priest sat across from Thirin and pulled something from his robes, placing it on the table. It was a block of wood—high-quality laurel with excellent grain.

"A sacred object to be offered at the altar," the priest said. His voice carried not a trace of emotion. "If you commit any blasphemous mischief, I will ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sever your wrists and burn them."

Thirin brushed off the threat like it was nothing and asked, "Yeah, yeah, got it. So what do you want this time?"

The priest fell silent for a moment, then murmured in a low voice.

"The Mistress of the Moon and the Hunt."

Thirin nodded, pulled a small carving knife from her pocket, and began to work on the wood.

Scrape. Scrape.

Her wood-carving skills had achieved phenomenal growth in just one year. With a 500% experience multiplier, she could complete five decades of training in one, five years of practice in one year, or five days of work in a single ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠day. But Thirin's growth was even faster than that. If she'd started carving wood from the beginning, she would have been called the reincarnation of Michelangelo. If she'd carved stone, she would have been praised as Rodin's reborn soul. If she'd hammered iron, she would have been treated like a living Hephaestus.

Her proficiency could turn her into anything, yet the system only gave her a measly 500% experience boost. She had no idea what kind of idiot designed the system, but they clearly sucked at math. Still, it was fine. Thirin was a beautiful woman with a big enough heart—and chest—to graciously overlook such mistakes.

Mercy. That is a generous heart. Mercy. That is a big chest. One must forgive those weak with numbers. Because that is mercy. Forgive those weak with numbers. Please.

"......"

The important thing, anyway, was that Thirin learned quickly and adapted even faster. As she carved the wood, she thought to herself, Life really is unpredictable, huh.

How had she ended up in this bizarre transaction with a priest from the Pantheon? The story went back to when Thirin first arrived in this city and fell into a pit of self-loathing. Her martial arts had hit a wall, and her motivation had hit rock bottom. In that state of burnout, Thirin wandered the city spending money however she pleased. Modern people relieve stress through shopping and binge eating, after all. Thirin faithfully followed that modern behavioral pattern.

First, she entered a restaurant, ordered a mountain of food, and devoured it greedily. Then she went around the market stalls, buying up every useless thing she could find. And then she threw it all away. In the sense that she bought trash with money only to turn it back into trash, Thirin could truly be considered a modern person who had physically realized the meaning of recycling.

After repeating this nonsense several times, one day Thirin noticed the wooden dolls being sold at the stalls. They were incredibly crude. Literally without thinking, purely out of boredom, she sat down nearby and began carving a statue from a block of wood. The shape was based on a goddess statue she'd happened to see before.

The problem was that a priest from the Pantheon "happened" to pass by and see it. The priest flew into a rage, calling it blasphemy. Normally Thirin would have fought back just as fiercely, but at the time she was deep in burnout mode. She casually tossed the half-carved block at the priest's face and returned to her inn to sleep. That night, the priest came to her room and made the absurd demand that she carve the statue again.

Ever since then, this strange transaction had continued. Looking back now, it didn't feel like a coincidence at all.

Scrape scrape scrape.

Thirin kept carving the wood. The decadent, languid atmosphere that had surrounded her was gone. The blade never fought against the wood's grain. Like water flowing to the lowest point, it slid along the most natural path. There was no excess force, no trace of hesitation. This was no longer in the realm of mere technique.

An ordinary craftsman who hadn't reached enlightenment struggles against the material. They cut, trim, and forcibly impose shape. But not Thirin. Thirin was communicating with the material. She felt like she understood. Form wasn't inside the material. Form wasn't inside the sculptor. Form existed in both.

Thirin's eyes half-closed. What mattered was immersion. What mattered was forgetting consciousness. As if the carving knife in her hand was no longer a blade, as if the block of wood before her eyes was no longer mere lumber. A pianist ruins the piece the moment they become aware of the keys. A tightrope walker loses balance the instant they become conscious of the ground beneath their feet. The moment a person thinks about breathing, they suffer from the compulsion that they must breathe. The moment an office worker thinks they must sleep, they face a sleepless night.

Consciousness is nothing but an obstacle. All of humanity's greatest wonders were fished up from the far shore of consciousness, from the world of the unconscious. Perhaps consciousness itself was merely an accidental error in the brain during the evolutionary process—an illusion that it is the master.

It was the same for everything. Performance, painting, sculpture, and......

Scrape.

The knife tip flowed along the wood's grain. It offered no resistance. It didn't force a form. It simply liberated the 'Mistress of the Moon' that already slept within the wood.

Thirin thought in a daze. The sword dance she had performed under the moonlight, forgetting all thought. That was when she had realized the concept of Flow. At that moment, Thirin had not been Thirin. She had discarded consciousness, entrusted herself to where her body led, to where the sword flowed.

You must forget consciousness. Like a painter forgetting the brush, like a musician forgetting the strings, like a stonemason forgetting the chisel. Forget. Forget what you hold in your hand. Forget. Forget yourself. Forget. Forget the other. Forget. Forget the distinction between self and other.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.

Thirin saw the wood in a state of no-self. Thirin saw the wood, and the wood saw Thirin. The two were never two. Non-duality. They are two, yet never two. All is created by the mind. Emptiness and no-self. You must forget yourself and forget all distinctions. Unity of self and object. Only then can one achieve martial perfection. Unity. Only then can one become one......

"Focus."

"...Hmph, I know."

Snapped out of her trance by the priest's words, Thirin refocused on the wooden block. The carving was completed shortly after.

Tap.

Thirin set down the carving knife and pushed the finished product across the table. What had been completed was......

It was the kind of object that would earn coughs and subtle glares among the refined, knowledgeable intellectuals of the peninsula. The priest took one look at the goddess statue and exploded in anger.

"This... how in the world is this the noble image of the Mistress of the Moon and the Hunt?! This is nothing but a whore drowning in lust!"

Thirin clicked her tongue and took the goddess statue back.

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. Just wait. Your tastes are seriously picky, damn."

Scrape scrape.

With a few more strokes of the knife, the goddess statue's appearance changed instantly.

This time it was an obscene statue that would have intellectuals grabbing clubs to beat her, calling the police, and the responding officers opening fire for an on-site execution. In the peninsula, producing pornography was apparently that serious of a crime.

"......"

The priest had no response. To Thirin, it looked like he'd gone beyond some threshold of rage and had instead become eerily calm. The priest opened his mouth.

"Woman. Are you not afraid of the fires of hell?"

"......"

Thirin shrugged. The priest closed his eyes. It seemed like he was pondering how to report Thirin's blasphemy. When he opened his eyes again, he glared at her and said,

"...Carve it a bit more modestly."

"No way."

"......"

A moment later, the priest and Thirin clicked their tongues at the same time.

"“......Tsk.””

Looking at the priest who was glaring at her, Thirin said, "I don't need the money. I want to find a kid. I need an oracle."