Protests at the Necromancer's Gate
We returned to the dimensional gate where Elama and Razma were waiting.
"What are you dawdling for? We're gonna be late for the appointment."
I brushed off the annoyed Elama with a vague excuse about the situation, then hailed two taxis and we split up. Now it was really time to head to the on-site inspection.
Elama rode with Razma, and I got in with Irool.
"Come to think of it, Brother Jian, your bag looks a bit heavy. Shall I help you with it?"
"Nah, it's fine. I can manage."
"You must have prepared quite diligently. I'm almost embarrassed, since I basically just showed up with my body."
"Everyone has their own role, so it's unavoidable."
The bag was heavy not because of the documents I'd brought, but because it contained the robot weapon that would protect my life. I had no idea what might happen, but the thought that I might have to pull out the Colossus inside made my heart heavy. And the fact that the one I might have to use it against could be my fellow trainee Irool made it even worse.
Still, there was nothing to do but go and see. The idea that someone stole Irool's medicine was just speculation. It might really have fallen into the trash bin next to it by mistake, or rolled into some crack where it couldn't be found. There was no need to fuel my anxiety with baseless ominous imaginings on my own.
Just because he's an angel doesn't mean he wields miraculous powers like turning a city to ashes or people into pillars of salt, as in Earth's myths. The HQ directors aren't prophets or gods—how could they predict that Irool, out on a business trip to Dimension 16, would suddenly have a PTSD episode and go on a rampage slicing up undead?
It was just my own thought, but it was utterly groundless and ridiculously far-fetched.
"……."
Thinking it over, though, among the external directors at HQ, there were no gods, but among the major shareholders, there were. Like the shareholders I ran into on the hiking trail during the new employee training at Dimension 12's Olympus.
"…Hades."
He'd been walking Cerberus, greeted me warmly, and even dispensed nectar from a vending machine before leaving, probably.
"Why bring up a major shareholder's name all of a sudden?"
"It's nothing."
Well, that's that, and this is this. I'd done way too much pointless worrying over one missing bottle of pills.
"I should catch a nap until we get there."
"You look tired, so that sounds good. I'll wake you when we arrive."
Irool smiled as kindly as ever.
Please, let everything be fine.
It took us about an hour and a half by taxi from downtown to reach our destination. Dr. Marcus Bernard's hospital in the suburbs was a five-story building perched on a quiet hill a bit removed from the city, with hardly a sign of life around.
As we drove up the empty slope, I glanced at the sky—it was dark and heavy, like rain could pour down any second. I was trying not to think ominous thoughts, but these little things kept staging dire omens in my head, and I didn't like it.
I was just here to check if the excellent doctor's hospital, who was applying for a loan, was running straight, and if that renowned figure was diligently immersed in research every day. I had no idea why I should be worrying about my fellow trainee's past and PTSD, who looked way older than his apparent age.
Of course, I couldn't show up here and say my sleep was restless, so let's head back early with my colleague.
Squeezing out some courage, I opened the taxi door.
But then.
"The evil doctor attempting to resurrect the undead—step down!!"
"Step down!!"
"Lackey of the devil who betrayed the natural order!!"
"Lackey!!"
"Cursed minion of hell!!"
"Minion!!"
A group was gathered in front of the hospital, shouting into megaphones lines that would make anyone in Seoul Station think they were crazy.
"…Good lord."
A religious group? No, probably not. There were no specific religious symbols, and their chants didn't reflect any clear doctrine.
The hundreds of protesters were, naturally, all living people. The largest group among them were elderly folks in wheelchairs or missing limbs—victims of accidents or injuries that left them disabled. Their faces were uniformly etched with unnatural fury, and I hadn't known about this even while researching Dimension 16 before coming.
"They're survivors from the Great War era."
Irool was the one who identified them.
"How do you know?"
"Even in Dimension 16, there were many who were drafted back then. Look, there's one of our kin missing a wing."
The man Irool pointed to was missing one wing. The halo floating above his head was cracked, looking like it could shatter any moment. The light flickered unsteadily on and off, making me worry that when it stopped, the angel's spark of life might extinguish too.
"It doesn't seem like they're protesting because undead were the enemies in the Great War. Why come all the way out here…."
Honestly, I couldn't understand it. If they hated undead in general, they should be downtown, not at this remote hill hospital. Undead made up the largest population in Dimension 16.
"It's probably not about dredging up the old days. It's something much more immediate."
"Like what?"
"They don't like that the revived undead are sharing the medical insurance budgets and benefits allocated to them as war veterans. And some of those revived include their old comrades."
It made perfect sense. I didn't know how veterans were treated in this world. But having welfare budgets that might have gone to them split among undead who were not only revived but lived semi-permanently—that had to be intolerable. Especially since their disabilities and psychological traumas were inflicted by none other than the undead.
That said, blaming it all on the undead was unreasonable. During the Great War, undead lacked free will and were mere puppets controlled by necromancers. It had taken decades, but the undead regaining free will and citizenship across dimensions factored in that context.
Of course, I knew well that understanding this intellectually was separate from accepting it emotionally. If I'd gone through the same, I couldn't have stayed this neutral.
"People already thinking undead are encroaching on their rights—so yeah, I get hating a doctor who treats undead-only diseases and lets them live even longer."
From the undead's side, these folks would seem ridiculous. If you're so jealous, get necromancy surgery and become undead yourself—half-mocking advice like that. But if it were that easy, everyone nearing death would choose it.
For ethical, physiological, religious, economic, and myriad other reasons, people refuse to become undead. I probably would too. Death felt like a distant terror since I wasn't even thirty yet, and I didn't want to cling to life wretchedly using powers I barely understood.
Maybe I could think this way because I had little to lose. No loving wife or kids yet. No need to worry about those left behind after I died. My career was young, nothing I'd built with my own hands to take pride in. No lingering attachments.
"……."
In ancient times, burying retainers or servants alive with them was something only kings or equivalent nobles did. With much to own and lose, they preferred taking their wealth, honor, and trophies to the uncertain afterlife rather than going empty-handed.
Becoming undead might be an extension of that mindset. Not everyone can empathize with the wealthy, but fearing loss is universal. I couldn't yet imagine lingering in the world as a corpse, nor want to. But if unfulfilled dreams remained, or cruel fate struck just as I grasped my desires…
Would I still make the same choice? At that thought, I could somewhat understand and empathize with both the undead's desire to keep living and the protesters' rage at sharing resources with them.
"Don't worry. Even if any of those people out there had bad intentions, they couldn't do anything."
Noticing my unease, Irool spoke calmly.
"Whether it's a registered protest with the city government or not, the police are guarding the hospital. If they rush in recklessly, they'll get arrested."
I nodded silently. The ominous premonition dominating one corner of my mind lingered stubbornly. All I could do was pray no radicals willing to risk their lives were mixed in.
"Right, Brother Jian. I mentioned one of our kin earlier, but don't worry too much. Even angels can't wield power if their halo's in that state."
"…What could they do if the halo was intact?"
"I'd rather not say."
Irool's words reignited my anxiety, which had briefly subsided, sending it surging wildly again.
"What are you all doing? Hurry up and get inside."
That was when Elama, stepping out of the second taxi that had just arrived, called to us.
"The director's waiting."
"So, should I go thank him or something?"
Elama replied curtly and led us around the ground parking lot occupied by protesters, entering the building through the emergency patient entrance.
"We're from the Dimensional Credit Vault. Is Dr. Bernard available?"
Three minutes before the appointment. We headed straight to the first-floor administration office and stated our business.
"Yes, he's waiting inside."
A sturdy nurse led us to the elevator.
Finally, the time to make a decision was approaching.