Chapter 337: Designated Erasure - 『The Yellow King』(2)
Chapter 337: Designated Erasure - 『The Yellow King』(2)
Facing one another, we trade blows.
Whether that being is a lie or not.
Whether I am a lie or not.
None of that matters.
Only this single moment, facing each other right here and now.
To me, and perhaps to the Saintess as well, this is a fleeting moment of truth.
Is that not the very essence of a play?
To show a single, brilliant moment.
Even if it is a dream that can never be realized.
Within a play, it becomes possible.
The Play cuts out a moment of brilliance from a deceased person connected to the lead actor on stage, bringing them forth as a fellow performer.
It brings an impossible situation to reality as a stage.
That is the essence of the Yellow King’s play.
The Yellow King possesses many other powers, but every single one of them exists solely to set the stage.
Even if it is a phenomenon the Yellow King did not intend.
Even if the Management Bureau, despite knowing the danger of this power, utilizes it in a completely different way for the sake of the world.
That is simply what a play is.
And as actors upon this stage, the Saintess and I simply throw our fists at each other with smiles on our faces.
At first, we were evenly matched.
But as time passes, the balance of power begins to tilt to one side.
In this clash where white-silver hair and white-gold hair mingle.
In this psychological war where crimson gazes meet.
The one gaining the upper hand is me.
As my limiters are released and my body heats up.
I am able to land one more blow than the Saintess.
I am able to perceive her attacks just a fraction faster.
“If you’ve grown this strong, I suppose the world is in good hands!”
An evaluation from one who once bore the weight of the world.
From one who walked the path before me.
“So you can rest easy and get the hell out!”
In response, I throw an even heavier punch.
The Saintess barely manages to block it.
She swiftly raises her left hand vertically, letting my fist graze her palm to bleed off its speed, then strikes down on my extended arm with her open hand.
My punch’s trajectory is slightly altered, and the Saintess avoids the fist by tilting her head sharply.
It was a perfect defensive maneuver.
The Saintess evaded my attack without taking any damage, while I left my arm exposed and took a hit for it.
Had our skills been equal, or if the Saintess were superior, my right arm might have been snapped then and there.
However, the Saintess failed to inflict any significant damage on my right hand.
She merely managed to nudge its path.
That is the power gap that now exists between the Saintess and me.
Some might criticize my words and actions.
They might ask if I have no respect for the one who once taught me.
They might wonder why I’m shifting into an even higher gear when the outcome is already decided by my victory.
They likely wouldn't understand us.
They wouldn't understand what we are trying to convey to each other through this battle.
Why I am pushing my power even further.
Why the Saintess accepts my strength with a smile.
I will not give form to the imagery in my mind through words.
There is no need to express it in speech.
It is enough that the two of us understand.
It is enough that those who lived through that era nod in recognition.
It is an imagery shared by those who raced through the past.
Within the flurry of fists revealing that shared vision.
Finally, one side of The Scales collapsed.
A right straight, unburdened by feints.
Delivered at high speed.
It became an attack that the Saintess, who had overextended herself to dodge my previous strike, could not block.
That fist slammed heavily into the Saintess’s stomach.
“Urgh.”
The sound of the breath held within her being forced out all at once.
It wasn't a scream of pain.
Just a natural reflex.
But, most likely.
She won't be able to stand again.
Her internal organs are heavily damaged.
This was not a spar conducted within the realm of non-lethality.
From the beginning, it was a battle of total sincerity, where neither side cared if they killed the other.
Battles involving the Saintess were often like this.
She was someone who could make a person draw breath again even if their soul had only just departed.
Through the power she alone wielded—Divine Power.
The Saintess, who performed miracles of healing.
That remnant of her lay on the ground, clutching her stomach and looking up at the void as she spoke.
“…Ah, come to think of it, my Divine Power path has been cut off.”
She spoke in a nonchalant voice, as if she had only just realized.
…Wait a minute, what was this woman planning to do if I had been the one injured like this?
I want to snap at her.
But there’s no need to ruin the atmosphere by saying such things.
“Well, I’m going to disappear soon anyway, so I don't need miracles. A healing miracle. When I was in the other world, I used it so naturally that I never gave it a thought, but now that it’s gone, I feel a bit empty.”
Though she grumbled, she seemed satisfied as she gradually became translucent.
I spoke up for her final moments.
“Now that it’s gone, do you feel like believing in God?”
“God? There’s no such thing in this world. The source of my power is the Divine Power of a self-proclaimed god, but she only gave it to me after I beat her up with my fists. A benevolent god who embraces everyone, grants wishes, and destroys evil does not exist. Of course, I don't deny the comfort one finds in picturing their own god in their heart.”
I don't believe in God either, but she’s making statements that would require an apology to every religious person in the world.
I wonder how a person like this ever earned the title of Saintess.
Perhaps it was because I was looking at her with an incredulous expression that conveyed those thoughts.
“Still. I suppose. Even that self-proclaimed god… I treated her harshly every time, but… she was a friend. I realize it now that she’s gone. Sorry, Adona. I don't know if you can hear me, but sorry for working you so hard.”
The mood has turned into one of confession…
Then, as the one listening to the confession, should I say a word or two?
“If that’s how you feel, why don't you stop spamming miracles? Though there’s no point in saying this to a shadow.”
Because those miracles were the very cause of your death—a death that seemed so impossible.
Hiding the words I truly wanted to say within my heart.
I tossed out a joke.
To which the Saintess replied.
“It doesn't suit you, Ha-ram kid. Just go back to blubbering like you usually do.”
With those final words, the Saintess vanished with a smile.
I watched her disappearance for a moment.
* * *
A short while after the Saintess vanished.
I erased the small lingering emotion within me and looked around.
Another actor isn't going to come out, is he?
Shouldn't this be enough?
No matter how much of a prologue this is supposed to be, honestly, with those two, The Play is practically over.
Actors are supposedly deployed randomly based on the subject’s connections, but there has to be a limit.
To throw two people terrifying enough to flip the world upside down at me.
As I thought this and turned around.
It was standing there.
A being draped in a tattered, faded yellow robe that dragged on the ground, making it impossible to discern gender or even build.
Though the deep hood of the robe hid most of the face, it wasn't as if the entire face was bound tight.
Yet, the face inside the robe could not be known.
It wasn't that it couldn't be seen.
One could recognize that what was inside the robe was a face.
However, the moment one tried to describe its features to another, the thought would immediately vanish.
The Queen of the Magic Kingdom’s face was unknowable as if swallowed by the void.
But with the Yellow King, one simply cannot comprehend what form that face takes.
It is as if the mere concept of a face is situated there.
Because of this, someone gave this form of the Yellow King a name:
The Faceless King.
And someone else, a fan of the Cthulhu Mythos, gave him a Hero name to match:
The Yellow King.
The name of a Hero who does not exist.
“… Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn ….”
A former Hero whose records were erased, once considered for designation as an O-Rank Monster. Now, the Yellow King is a conceptual entity with not even a fragment of the original Hero remaining.
Despite my presence beside him, he showed no reaction, merely uttering an incomprehensible language.
He does not care about me.
He simply stands there, chanting in an unknown tongue with a voice like a whisper carried on the wind.
That voice is not fixed.
With every syllable, every word, every breath, it is a man, a woman, an Old Man, a newborn baby drawing its first breath, and at times, an electronic voice like a speech synthesizer.
However, despite the eeriness of that voice, it is not an incantation to bring about the end of the world.
It is merely that the Cthulhu Mythos enthusiast who gave him his name used it to prove the concept of this being.
A man who feared everything in the world, fleeing into a deep darkness of his own making, yet swallowed by the very horror he created; a racist who bore the name of Love; one who despaired at the dawn of an age of madness that began to sprout from what he viewed with affirmation.
The Yellow King was taught a language full of contradictions and devoid of meaning—one without form, without rules, and never intended for use.
By doing so, the faceless O-Rank Monster, who had forgotten his own face and sought to turn the entire world into a play to find his former Hero’s visage.
By obtaining a language that he alone in the entire world could speak, he very simply redefined his existence as an individual.
And although even he himself had forgotten what kind of being the original host of the Yellow King was.
He remained not as a monster, but as a Hero.
He chose to dedicate himself to humanity.
What the Yellow King had forgotten were his face and his life.
He had not forgotten the convictions sleeping within.
So, even though the Yellow King falls into the category of a monster by classification.
We accepted the one who held that heart as a Hero and respected him.
Well, even so.
In that state, no conversation is possible.
I can't understand a damn thing he’s babbling.
It’s unclear if communication even works.
This is when I really need Meteor.
I waited for about thirty seconds to see if Meteor would show up.
But no one approached me.
Only the gaze of someone watching me grew more intense.
“Phew.”
I let out a sigh and steeled myself.
It can't be helped.
It’s pretty bad for my mental health, but I don't know when Meteor will get here.
So, with heavy steps, I stood before the Yellow King.
Facing him, I stood on my tiptoes and began to lift the hood of the robe that blocked his face.
“ Y'gnaiih thflthkh'ngha.”
And with that action.
The Yellow King finally seemed to recognize me.
He uttered the words he says every time he sees me.
“Yeah, yeah. Seriously, tell me what that means sometime.”
Enduring what was to follow, I asked the question I’d asked many times before—the one the Yellow King never answered.
I lifted the hood.
There was no face there.
At the same time, countless faces I knew.
Faces of those who had already left this world flickered past in an instant.
The Yellow King was the Heavenly Demon Sword God, he was the Saintess, he was Dong-hun, and he was all those who remained in the places I had walked, those who now dreamed for eternity.
The moment I realized this, an endless longing swallowed me.
They drew closer to me, as if to embrace me, as if to kiss me.
Just as I was about to feel the warmth of flesh against my skin.
I snapped the chains of emotion binding me.
I thrust my hand between the faces about to touch.
“…That’s enough, right?”
With those words.
All the shackles were released.
The emotions that gripped me.
All the faces of the Yellow King that were making my perception run wild.
Once that approach ended.
The Yellow King took a step back, showing an action filled with reason.
“Mm. Ah. It is Hero Lee Ha-ram.”
Standing there was a woman I recognized.
A woman this time, huh?
As I scanned the Yellow King’s face, I knew my guess was right.
Just as I thought.
The face, the actions, the way of speaking.
She was the woman at the checkpoint who had verified my credentials before I entered this place.
A woman identical to her in every way.
She was standing here now.
As expected, she was an actor.
One of those who make up a portion of the Management Bureau staff—those who do not die, do not betray, and simply repeat the tasks they are assigned.
Those without connections who died because they couldn't even be supporting characters, let alone the leads of a play, and thus no one felt longing for them.
Because they have no connections, there is no one to point out historical inaccuracies.
So even if everything about them is rewritten, they cannot even comprehend their own falsehood.
An extra in the Yellow King’s play.
One of the slimy black systems that sit behind the Management Bureau’s secret information network.
And they don't cost anything in labor, either.
It seems the Yellow King’s face this time is hers.
Usually, he comes out as at least a supporting character, though…
Well, it doesn't matter.
Thinking that, I scratched my head for a moment.
“Stop acting like an extra and bring up the unified personality.”
I tossed the words at her.
And then, everything changed.
The smile that had been there, perhaps a remnant of a service worker’s mind, collapsed.
With a blank expression.
A being who closed their eyes to steady their bulging eyeballs and expressed all futility through their actions.
That entity spoke.
“…Lee Ha-ram.”
“Yeah, it’s Lee Ha-ram. You know why I’m here, right?”
There was no way he wouldn't know.
The Yellow King is that kind of being.
One whose hands reach into the deepest parts of the Management Bureau.
The Bureau isn't so careless with security that they would entrust everything to a single person, so the Yellow King doesn't have the authority to flip the Bureau upside down, but he knows almost everything at a certain level of secrecy.
By using another power of the Yellow King’s play, in addition to the power of the extras scattered across the world.
“…The Public Enemy Designation placed on the Geneva Branch. And the blockade. You mean you want to use The Play to enter.”
“Exactly. You can do it, right?”
If it’s the Yellow King, he can.
It would be impossible if there were no extras in the Geneva Branch.
But if even a single fragment of the Yellow King exists there, that place becomes a stage for the Yellow King’s play.
And the lead and supporting characters designated by the Yellow King can move freely upon that stage.
As long as I am confident I won't let the seed planted within me sprout.
It’s still okay.