One Last Question
"I'll ask one last time."
That miserable bastard.
Master's face twisted behind his mask. His mouth had gone bone-dry. If he stopped concentrating for even a second, he felt as though his breath itself would seize up and choke him.
—Number 53, that son of a bitch! He's a Player too! He's wearing a mask, but I'm certain of it! So please…!
The man whose throat had been severed by a Death God. After his death, the truth that he had been a Player came to light, and his body was incinerated — and before he died, he had pointed the finger at Master as another Player.
Was this what it felt like to stand barefoot on a path of thorns?
Every person in the banquet hall was murmuring, staring at him. Even Obsidian — that woman — was nowhere to be seen.
I never should have approached them.
The auction ran for a full fortnight. Approaching people to build connections, to assemble "his side," had been the fatal mistake. A few scraps of information he had let slip, thinking they were fellow Players, had come back as poison.
Had he known it would turn out like this, he never would have gone near them at all.
A bitter taste filled his mouth.
Every warp has been suspended. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
A hopeless situation. They had frozen the warps temporarily — meaning no one could leave, and no one could arrive. As for a place to hide? The entire Darkan Territory had already been sealed off. Sealed so thoroughly that not even an ant could slip through.
And the most absurd part of all:
There are no civilians. From the very beginning, this auction was bait to find Players.
Not a single ordinary citizen was anywhere to be found in the city. Before freezing the warps, they had evacuated everyone during the hours when all attention was fixed on the auction. The response had been far too swift to have been improvised after discovering that the man who died in the auction hall today was a Player. They had already known there were more Players inside Darkan Territory, and they had prepared accordingly.
Perhaps the Special Auction itself had been a trap designed to catch Players all along.
A pitiful beast caught in a snare. Or a fish trapped in a glass bowl. Master's predicament was no different.
A tip-off? Are they using Death Gods to root us out? Or how exactly do they plan to prove I'm a Player?
He had to dispel the stares fixed on him first. But how? Point the finger at someone else? Without knowing the Death God Religion's methods, he could see no way out.
But if he simply stood still, he would die. He had to do something — anything.
Thud.
At that moment, someone in the banquet hall began to move.
The master of Skull Crusher. The escort of Number 2, the one who had crushed a Transcendent flat. He walked slowly toward Number 1, quietly held something out, and after Number 1 examined it, the man gave a deep nod.
"This man is not a 'sinner.'"
Not a sinner. The moment he spoke those words, it was settled. The nobles' attitudes flipped one hundred and eighty degrees.
"He carries none of the foul stench of a 'sinner.'"
"Mm. Anyone who can wield Skull Crusher must be of the Giant race. And no Giant has ever been a 'sinner.'"
There was something else that made no sense.
…Just who was Number 1?
The nobles treated the man as though he did not exist — as if looking him directly in the face was forbidden, as if even pretending to properly hear his words was not allowed. And yet his every word and action clearly held sway over everyone present.
Was this man some kind of Voldemort whose name must never be spoken?
What did he show him?
Master stared until his eyes ached, dying of curiosity over what had been presented to prove the man was not a sinner.
Ding.
Ding.
Ding-ding-ding.
The sound of bells rang out. The great doors of the banquet hall swung open, and Executors of the Death God Religion appeared, black hoods pulled low over their faces. Among them, the one wearing a silver fox mask — the same man who had performed the final incineration at the auction — stepped forward and spoke.
"We will 'disinfect' you one by one, in order. Step forward before me according to your numbers."
In order of numbers.
Something was off. One of the nobles stepped forward and opened his mouth.
"Hold on. Are you saying that we — nobles of the Empire — are also subject to this?"
"Of course."
"…You dare treat us as 'sinners'?"
At once, the Empire's nobles twisted their faces into expressions of pure outrage and began to protest.
"Is this even remotely acceptable?"
"You dare suspect us?"
"This is an outrage…!!"
"Lord of Darkan! Was this your plan from the start?"
They had assumed only the external invitees would be under suspicion. Extending the disinfection to the Empire's own nobility was a step too far.
But the silver fox mask did not so much as flinch. The Lord of Darkan, for his part, merely stood with his arms crossed, watching in silence. Which meant this had been the plan all along.
That white powder…
What kept snatching Master's gaze, though, was the powder the Death God Religion's Executors were carrying. That powder had unmistakably swapped bodies between Earth and Pangenia. If that unidentified powder could act across dimensions, it was dangerous.
"Refuse, and you will be branded a 'sinner.' Number 2."
Number 2. His escort had been confirmed free of sin — but Number 2 himself had not. The summoned Number 2 stepped forward before the silver fox mask.
"…"
Silence passed between them. Yet Number 2's expression shifted, subtly, moment by moment. They were clearly conversing — transmitting thoughts in a way that made no sound.
What are they talking about?
Master's mouth went dry. The curiosity was driving him mad.
"Move to my right. Next, Number 3."
A moment later, Number 2 took his place on the silver fox mask's right side. They did not announce the result. If the man who had appeared to be his escort had been cleared from the list of suspects, then Number 2 himself might also have received a "clean" verdict. But even that was far from certain. The fact that they had interrogated him at all meant he had not fully shed the status of a person under suspicion.
"Move to my left. Next, Number 4."
One by one, the "disinfection" continued. By what standard they were being divided, Master could not tell — but the numbers splitting left and right remained roughly even well past Number 20.
Damn it all.
Half and half. Did that mean fully half the people gathered here were Players? The Special Auction had been a trap to catch Players from the very beginning. Plenty of Players lived in Pangenia with their true identities hidden, so even if some had infiltrated the Empire, it would not have been strange. All Master could do was resent the choice that had led him so willingly into the snare.
But regret came too late.
Master looked at Number 1 again.
Those two. Why do they keep staying together?
Number 1 was a being who occupied a position entirely his own. And yet he continued to remain alongside Number 2's escort. That meant something more than a simple confirmation that the man was not a "sinner." For someone to remain constantly near Number 1 — a man whom even the Empire's nobles, even the Lord of Darkan Territory himself, could not stand beside…
Those two are the ones doing the judging!
The fox-masked members of the Death God Religion were window dressing. The ones truly identifying "sinners" — identifying Players — were clearly Number 1 and that escort.
"Next, Number 53."
Master clenched his fist inwardly. His turn had come at last.
…Son of a bitch!
There was no time. He could see no way out at all. And yet — maybe, just maybe.
Those two might not agree…
As long as there were two judges, a sliver of hope might still remain.
—You've had the Heir's mark engraved. The Executor who delivered this token to you.
The mark the Executor had secretly carved into the Imperial Token. It was proof that the Heir had been found.
—Then where is the Heir?
He meant Hell. I conducted myself with as much composure as I could manage.
—Should I present him now?
—No. An Orthodox is not a being who reveals himself just anywhere. We can confirm it together at the Main Temple. But why have you come wearing a black goat mask?
The Main Temple. The central stronghold of the Death God Religion!
The fact that he had mentioned it directly meant Number 1 was indeed connected to the Death God Religion — and not merely connected, but almost certainly a man of considerable rank. I had shown the Imperial Token expecting that either way, some kind of conclusion would follow. If he were connected to the Imperial Family, the Emperor's seal stamped on the token would matter. If he were connected to the Death God Religion, he would recognize the token and react accordingly.
A black goat mask, huh.
Back in the Abyss Labyrinth, after seeing Hell, the silver-fox-masked Inspector who had handed me the Imperial Token had clearly told me to wear a golden goat mask whenever I visited the Empire.
—I didn't have a golden one.
—…Hmm. That nearly became a serious problem. In any case, if you are truly the Guardian of an Orthodox… then you cannot be a Player.
He shrugged, as if apologizing for having tested me last time. So had the claim that he was "MintChocoIsDelicious" just been bait? A way to check whether I was a Player?
—You hold the same authority as I do — a Guardian of an Orthodox. At the very least, the Executor who delivered the token to you was certain of it. I will trust that certainty.
The Three Imperial Swords. The silver fox mask's conviction had saved me. For now, it seemed I had managed to slip through. Moreover, the way he looked at me had shifted in a peculiar way.
—A new Guardian has not appeared in a very long time. And a goat mask, the symbol of Baal, no less… I find myself genuinely curious as to whose Heir you serve as Guardian. Very well, Guardian of the Golden Orthodox. From this moment on, you and I shall conduct the "disinfection" together.
Did each Guardian have a different symbol? He was looking at my goat mask with genuine curiosity. Before long, the followers of the Death God Religion filed in. Watching them, he spoke.
—Those called forward by number will undergo a first screening by the two of us, to determine whether they are sinners. Guardians can identify Players with a high degree of accuracy. When your judgment and mine align, the subject will be classified as a strong "sinner candidate."
—And if we don't agree?
—Then, for the time being, the stigma is lifted.
For the time being, the stigma is lifted. Removed from the list of suspects. Was that really true? Had this man truly abandoned all suspicion of me?
This is a test.
Number 1 almost certainly already had people he had inwardly confirmed as Players. And he had said that a Guardian of an Orthodox should be able to recognize Players to a certain degree. This was clearly a test of my eye — a test of whether I truly was a Guardian of an Orthodox.
The problem was Hudson.
Number 2 — Hudson, called forward immediately. I knew he was a Player. But what about Number 1?
—A Player.
Before long, Number 1 rendered his verdict.
…Perhaps he had been certain Hudson was a Player from the very start. What should I do? If this was a test to gauge my intentions? If this, too, was a trap…
—Not a Player.
—Oh?
Hearing my answer, he let out a faint, intrigued laugh. A moment later, Hudson was moved to the right-hand position. Disagreement. The right side seemed to be the position for those who had "evaded suspicion."
Next, Number 3.
—The young lady of House Derseian. Someone with whom you have frequently clashed. So then — you answer first. Does she appear to be a sinner?
A woman who shared a name with Isabella — the young lady of the Derseian family. She stepped forward with an expression that said her pride had been wounded. Handing me the power of life and death over her — it was a thoroughly strange arrangement.
—No.
—I think the same.
Our judgments aligned on "no." The young lady of House Derseian moved to the left.
…Hadn't the right side been the position for those who had "evaded suspicion"?
After that, the "disinfection" continued without pause. Left and right remained nearly half and half. It seemed the left was actually the position for those who had been cleared. And Hudson was still standing on the right.
"Next, Number 53."
Number 53. Master was called. The man who had been pointed out at the auction hall earlier — the one everyone was already certain about.
—A Player.
—…A Player.
There was no denying it. Master moved to the right — the same side as Hudson.
And so the "disinfection" of every auction participant came to an end. Forty-eight people stood on the left. Forty-eight on the right. An exact five-to-five split.
Then he asked me once more.
—I'll ask one last time. Do you still believe Hudson is not a Player?
The Revealed Truth
Korea. The Hero Alliance.
Ever since the erosion rate had climbed and monsters began pouring through warps with increasing frequency, they had risen to become the alliance that represented the nation.
Day by day, the volume of articles pouring out only grew. Before long, more and more people had come to see them as Korea's hope — as heroes on a global stage.
And at the center of all that praise stood one man: Park Taewoo, President of the Hero Alliance.
Slap!
Park Taewoo flung the newspaper he had been reading onto the desk and scowled.
"…Ha. Damn it all."
"What's wrong, Mr. President?"
An Alliance member beside him glanced at the newspaper's contents and asked, puzzled.