Chapter 202: The Terror Live 1
Chapter 202: The Terror Live 1
Honestly? I was fine.
the one who got hit was my Clone.
A duplicate body conjured with magic—never mind how much money the Academy poured into it. A fake vessel designed to filter out unpleasant sensations like pain and disgust, leaving me with nothing but tranquility. A life where I lounged around in a convenient avatar, enjoying nothing but comfort and the company of gorgeous women. I'd said this world felt like a game before, and I'd meant it.
In fact, I'd ducked on reflex the moment I sensed the killing intent and blocked the attack clean, so I even got to feel a little smug about it—look at me, still alive and kicking.
So the anger I aimed at the Academy this time was, at worst, the irritation of getting my game character slapped with a three-day ban for no reason. After all, I could just log back in on an alt—possess another magic Clone and descend again.
But that was just how it felt to me.
"Ah, hold on. If you're about to slam your head into the floor, don't."
"To think you would still concern yourself with a useless old woman like me even now—I don't know what to do with myself."
"At least you're self-aware about the 'useless' part."
The Academy Board of Directors was primed to bow their heads the instant our eyes met, like zealots hurling themselves into a protest. And beside me, Lee Ha-rin snapped at every word out of anyone from the Academy's mouth as if she were picking a fight on purpose. Han Ye-ji and Song Ye-na stood at my sides, idly fingering a taser gun's trigger and a sword hilt. Kim Ha-eun, at least, was keeping quiet—too busy flying her drones to start anything.
Naturally, the whole continent was in an uproar, and the Academy was no exception. At the center of that uproar stood my Incarnations, obviously. Four of them, glaring down at old women three or four times their age, while the Academy's directors, who looked like they'd aged decades in a single day, bowed their heads in the middle of it all.
All while a military march rang in from outside the window.
— Advance and sing! Alongside the steel treads!
— Beyond this bitter winter where the gales howl! When the blizzard rages, we march!
— Comrades who guard the radiant light, we raise our heads toward the sun!
I averted my eyes from the oppressive sight of those old women bowing deep and let my gaze wander. Beside the old women, behind the old men, a crowd of uniformed elders stood with veins bulging in their necks. A mass of retired soldiers, countless banners snapping in time to a medley of unfamiliar war songs. These were the veterans who had come running to the Academy the moment they heard my avatar had been damaged in a terrorist attack.
The Eastern Front Sword Forest Association, the Southwest Front Armored Vehicle Fellowship, the Last Cowgirls, the Holy Cross Knights—banners emblazoned with every kind of insignia, and a sea of pure-white hair blanketing the Academy grounds. Some of these elders had names that belonged in history books, judging by the way the cadets who'd come to join the protest stood there with their eyes wide as saucers.
'How many medals is that?'
A dozen or more medals glittered on the chest of one snowy-haired, tight-bunned old woman. Liver-spotted elders slammed flagpoles that looked over three meters tall into the ground with heavy thuds. Battle-scarred platinum armor, a half-burned knight order's banner—mementos boasting of their war records were arrayed around them like museum exhibits. And the more these relics piled up, the darker the expressions on the Academy officials' faces grew.
"How did so many people get here in a single day...?"
"The Academy covered about half the cost, but most of the retired veterans' associations are still arriving at the Academy's port—some even towed their own fishing boats here."
"Fishing boats?"
"Yes, well... some pulled military connections to borrow inland patrol vessels, some came by helicopter—all sorts."
The Academy's Board of Directors might even feel a little wronged, from their perspective. Their security had been breached because of the Heart of the Exiled Serpent's unique magic trait. They'd gone so far as to bring in a spirit-specialist Constellation to do a whole renovation, and they'd still been breached. At this point, it wasn't a failure of the Academy's leadership—the enemy was simply too damn good at their job. Of course, if the Academy, the party at fault, dared to voice that excuse aloud instead of me, the victim, then it wouldn't be veteran associations showing up—it'd be a mob of armed deserters. And the Academy knew that. Which was why they were now pulling out all the stops to welcome the protestors come to curse them out. They knew perfectly well that making a single peep of complaint right now would get them beaten even harder.
— The filthy blue blood soaks the furrows of the field!
— Let there be no father shedding tears for a fallen daughter!
— At your call, the sisters of the Southern Continent bound up their hair!
Of all places, my Clone and the Academy Board had run into each other on the path near the training grounds, not back in the lodgings. Some of the retired soldiers, their eyesight apparently still sharp, looked straight at me and began inching closer, all while pounding their banners and armor and worn-out weapons and bellowing their war songs. At this point, it wasn't just the Academy Board feeling the pressure—I was starting to get a little unnerved myself. The experience of being surrounded by hundreds of old women stomping their feet and singing war songs wasn't exactly a common one, and it was loud enough to make my ears ache.
I was still debating whether to ask them to give the singing a rest when the thunderous voices cut off all at once, as if they'd sensed my dilemma. At the same moment, a single old woman walked slowly toward me. Wrinkled far more deeply than the other veterans, she leaned on a cane and approached, step by unhurried step.
"Ma'am, honored elder—"
"Shut your mouth."
The voice that cut down the Academy's chairman mid-sentence was sharp and clear, even while the old woman's steps looked unsteady. A silence fell over the street, broken only by the sound of her cane striking the ground: tak. Tak. Her gaunt wrist rose, fist clenched tight, knuckles and elbow lifted to her chest. Some kind of salute unique to her old unit, maybe.
Then her parched lips parted once more. The lyrics she hummed, out of nowhere, were a touch brutal.
"The bare heads swing, they say—dangling from the rafters, they swing."
"...."
"The neatly braided heads swing, they say."
I had no idea what kind of song that was, but I kept my mouth shut and matched the gravity of the mood. I held her gaze, and once the slow humming ended, she spoke again.
"Soldiers at war die for many reasons. From monsters that charge mindlessly, to contaminants like poison gas. But of all things, what the common soldier feared most was—"
"Mental attacks?"
"Yes, that's right. Contaminants could be blocked by a hazmat suit, but curses that shatter the mind? The average soldier had no way to defend against those."
What was she getting at, opening with such a heavy topic? And just who was this old woman that even the Academy's chairman seemed terrified of her? Seeing veterans from all four continents moving in perfect concert, I had a feeling she was a much bigger deal than I'd first assumed. She continued speaking slowly, as if conducting a Zen riddle. Powerful people must carry some weight in their voices, because I felt myself focusing, and my Incarnations did the same.
"So many of my old comrades died. My subordinates—countless dead. And many Incarnations were sacrificed as well."
She spoke and then let her fingers drift to her medals, her head bowing low. Her already-bent back curved further, as if it might fold in half. With her head still lowered, she spoke.
"It seems I am far, far too late in offering my greetings to the one who devoted himself to those victims. I am called Svetlana. I lead a small veterans' association on the Northern Continent."
The moment her name was spoken, sharp intakes of breath rang out from all directions.
※
For a woman of 104, Svetlana looked remarkably youthful. But her age wasn't what had startled people. She was the hero of the war song I'd heard moments ago—the one about the bitter winter gales. Northern Commander Svetlana. Svetlana Who Endured the Bitter Cold. The Devoted Svetlana. She was a historical legend who had pulled the continent through one of its great cyclical crises. The kind of figure Lee Ha-rin would shed tears of awe over, instead of her usual tears of bloody rage.
'This girl looks like she cries at the drop of a hat.'
Statues of her stood in the cities whose front lines she'd pushed back to reclaim. Her battles, her feats—they appeared in history textbooks everywhere. The reason a legend of her magnitude had come to the Academy was simple.
"Because these youngsters here were rather untrustworthy."
"Honored elder—"
"Did I give you permission to open your mouth? I must be getting old. My memory's gotten so hazy already."
"I apologize."
Svetlana tapped her fingers against her cane in evident displeasure. With each sharp tak-tak of her fingers, the Academy's directors flinched and shrank back, as if they had no idea what to do with themselves. A living historical legend standing beside a descended Constellation who was also the victim—the attention we were drawing was intense. So I suggested we all go inside my lodgings to talk. They swarmed in after me. Made sense. They'd come here to apologize; they couldn't exactly slip away now. And if any clueless director tried to bolt, being surrounded would be the least of their worries.
"So. What's your reason for creating this whole situation?"
"Both to offer my apologies to you, Constellation, and because I have information that must be delivered."
The moment Svetlana stopped tapping her cane, several of the bowing directors shot to their feet. I flinched at the magic flaring in their hands, but my Incarnations didn't react—they trusted the legendary Svetlana, apparently. The old woman looked at them the way you'd look at a beloved granddaughter and opened her mouth.
"A message from the Incinerating Tyrant."
"...Him again?"
"I was told to deliver these words: 'What happened eighty years ago will repeat itself.' I imagine you yourself might not understand, Constellation, but your Incarnations will know what it means. As will these incompetent whelps behind me."
Again, a collective sharp breath—the sound of people sucking in air in shock. I glanced around. Everyone had understood except me. I felt a faint sense of exclusion.