Chapter 27
What I am about to do is not a simple ritual.
It is a structural failure meant to precipitate memory into blood, an intended fall, a designed pain, and—
“……”
…I collapse as a prepared offering for that failure.
Before this incident reached here.
When Lee Yeon-woo stayed alone in the hotel.
One day, he read. And he remembered.
“Annotations of the Crimson Core…”
A grandiose name.
“…Annotations on the Crimson Core?”
Intuitively interpreted, it could be called “Exegesis of the Red Heart.” The naming sense is crude, and the implications within are far from sane.
‘From the beginning, it was never a book one could expect to have been written by someone sane.’
A scripture of a pseudo-religious cult venerating blood. Fragmented commentaries derived from various texts were compiled, though for what purpose no sane mind could fathom, in an extremely crude collection.
“Testimonies of failed experimenters and their offerings, annotations, dissection diagrams, mixed with bizarre prophecies and screams. Laying them out like this, it almost sounds like a literary composition.”
“Yes.”
“Of the thirteen chapters, nine were deemed impossible to execute.”
Was this meant as a cautionary book?
“I’m not sure….”
The hotel’s library was filled with dangerous books.
Not merely subversive in content, but physically threatening by existence alone. Even flipping through the thick hardcover gave Lee Yeon-woo a brutal headache.
And now, even a nosebleed.
“……”
“…Thank you.”
Lee Yeon-woo saw the tissue Coco offered. A stiff box of tissues she brought with her head. He accepted it without refusal.
Fortunately, the nosebleed stopped quickly.
“A truly remarkable book in every sense.”
“Yes.”
“…But there may still be a way to apply it.”
Chapter Six, “Blood’s Refusal of the Heart.”
“Blood cannot replicate the body.”
Lee Yeon-woo lowered the book.
“But it can remember you longer than you can.”
This was unlike any scholarly paper he had ever encountered. If categorized, it would belong in the magical arts. A diary, stained with dried blood, penned by a deranged mind.
Thick, viscous, clinging passages. As if marrow had been drawn directly from vessels using a syringe. The contamination gnawed at his brain, yet he suppressed it with reason as always.
“If the heart is set down, the blood responds.”
The sentence broke perilously, like a rupture.
“Restoration responds to purpose, not form. Emotion must be bound to prevent crossing borders. The soul will drift if unstitched. Who designs the structure of blood?”
The moment he read it, it was the blood itself that reacted first, not the eyes or brain.
“That is not your memory. You have borrowed it only for a moment. Do not presume to be its master…”
His pulse surged, veins on the back of his hand quivered.
It was not pain.
It was alienation.
“……”
…I had never felt this before, yet I understood.
‘This is a sense aimed at memory itself.’
Lee Yeon-woo looked down at the book, furrowing his brow.
“…Truly, this is the work of a mind not of sound judgment.”
He tried to approach it with humility, as one learning the basics of a field, but honestly, it was infuriating. The scent of blood-soaked history permeated every line.
For someone like Lee Yeon-woo, who pursued a career within the bounds of common sense, this book caused physiological disgust. This was less knowledge than a sin. Isn’t it?
‘Beyond simply being dangerous, its very existence is unethical.’
The book, commonly shortened to Annotations of the Red Heart, was like the residue of a forbidden ritual. The traces of failed myths left in a grotesque display.
“The purpose is the replication of consciousness through blood… and the establishment of immortality, presumably.”
Obvious.
“Obvious, and therefore more unpleasant.”
“Yes.”
There was a faint, disorienting feeling beyond mere unpleasantness.
“A cost-effective study relying on blood.”
What a long-standing history this study must have.
“According to the book’s view, it began the moment humans recognized the existence of blood.”
“Yes!”
“The grace of our ancestors is indeed boundless.”
Extreme selfishness triggered disgust, but as a scholar, the curiosity could not be denied. Humanity’s endless pursuit of knowledge occasionally brought strange satisfaction.
‘Those dreaming of immortality, then as now, were surely numerous, so data accumulation itself is unsurprising.’
What audacity.
‘To commit such acts for it, and even leave them in writing… such nerve. I, a petty civilian, could never imagine it.’
Or perhaps they simply had no thought at all.
Yet the author’s psychological state was not Lee Yeon-woo’s research subject. He organized the text to fully comprehend the messy, unfriendly writing.
“To summarize: the premise is that blood can create flesh, preserve memory, and replicate the self. They studied consciousness that could exist even without a body.”
“Yes.”
“Part of the body is excised to collect blood, a repository of self is established, then body reconstruction is attempted… bold. Most attempts ended in failure, but synchronization between self and blood broke down or went berserk, yes?”
“Failure.”
“Yes, failure. There are many intriguing phrases. ‘Let he who has no heart lead the blood.’ Rich in interpretive possibilities… hmm…”
“No.”
“Yes, dangerous indeed. Yet still fascinating.”
And horrifying.
‘How many must have been sacrificed for this?’
A thirteen-chapter tome, thick, heavy, and old. Every line written in blood.
‘It is not merely an issue of ethics.’
Has any history or study in the world been so anarchic? Yet in these records, one could sense zeal, not malice. The desire to restore the self was laid bare.
Disgusting, fascinating, and therefore meticulous. Almost like a living organism.
‘And if I define this truly as a living organism, does it deserve respect?’
A research subject that forces one to grapple between ethics and benefit.
“……”
This ritual requires a sacrificial offering.
“…Maintaining a living state while influencing the structure of blood… perhaps a medium capable of emotional disturbance. Yes, in this way, the five basic components of blood—emotion, will, memory—could be included.”
Several books alone provided a grasp of the mechanism. Outcomes were predictable.
“When placed within this formula, the blood will react most strongly at the sight of someone’s death. Thus, the victim must not lose their self until the moment of killing.”
“Yes.”
“Perverts. Repeating the same acts knowing full well it is impossible.”
All failures, failures, failures. Records filled with nothing but side effects.
“…The victim’s blood did not collapse, but emotion and soul condensed together. Deep collapse overtook all involved, absorbed into the blood’s self… such.”
Lee Yeon-woo felt a mix of pity and exasperation. One capable of writing such a book would surpass most surgeons in skill, yet recorded only failures.
‘But it covers a subject closest to the one I am investigating. A little more study and I might understand it, though I have barely begun to trace the movement of blood myself….’
Yet.
Still.
Interesting.
“……”
Velmareth quora solven dei.
Rithmar, rithmar, delashta in keen.
Myorn be unspoken, skinrend to namefall.
Red upon red. hush the breath that never left.
Take not me—take what knew me….
Velmareth….
Velmareth….
Velmareth.
Velmareth.
“……”
“No.”
“Yes.”
Blood clung to his eyes, flowing sticky along his jaw like tears.
‘In that sense, I suppose I am crying after a long while.’
He could feel the blood reacting to the words. Something stirred within him as the blood scraped at his insides, drawing up memory-bound emotion.
‘Why? Because I thought of the victims in the records? The knowledge wasted in vain? The time tragically abandoned?’
Either way, he hated it. Truly hated it.
‘Embarrassing.’
And uncomfortable.
“……”
He wiped it; blood stained the glove.
“…I understand well that this is not something I am currently capable of attempting.”
That day, Lee Yeon-woo abandoned research on the ritual. He felt he could not handle it. In his current emotional and sensitive state, nothing would work.
‘Side effects are severe too.’
The original goal: to make blood a vessel of self and existence, transferring to a sustainable blood-body even after discarding the physical body. But side effects were too great.
‘The blood, integrating self, memory, emotion, and soul abnormally, goes berserk. Incomplete self-decomposition, emotional contamination, memory overload, misaligned soul… ultimately collapsing the boundary between self and blood….’
Sensory distortion. Memory overemergence. Autonomous behavior of blood. Doubling of self. All recorded side effects indicated self-loss.
Tragically amusing. Attempts to preserve existence instead annihilated it, leaving it decayed.
“Failed specimens repeatedly mutter certain phrases, unable to die or live, left forever as blood. This is called deep collapse of blood.”
A dangerous ritual.
“Deep collapse of blood?”
“Yes.”
“The term itself is frightening, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”