Chapter 43: Ritual
Chapter 43: Ritual
A spell that sends an egg-mayo sandwich and a warm Americano straight into a Constellation's studio apartment.
And in return, it summons the Constellation—whose strength sits just a hair above the average adult male.
Where would you even use a thing like that? Wouldn't it just turn out to be a disappointment?
For a while I worried a talent this hyperspecialized might develop into something utterly useless. That worry lasted only a few days, though, before it proved itself profoundly stupid.
"You have six today. Will that be manageable?"
"Yes, it'll be tight, but looking at the size of the items, I think it's doable."
I'd thought sending an Incarnation's goods to a Constellation's space was no big deal, but people in this world saw it very differently.
Naturally. It was exactly the sort of world that was obsessed with Constellations.
"I'm counting on you today!"
"Of course. These are today's offerings, correct?"
Incarnations of art-aligned Constellations were swarming Lee Ha-rin, hanging on her every word.
Incarnations of unfamiliar Constellations—Humanity's Last Dirge, Canvas of Destruction—had converged on the Academy, apparently after contacting her magic-studies instructor.
"Yes, yes. These three paintings. I really am counting on you..."
Being at the Academy in the center of the continent meant people came pouring in from every land.
From ink-wash landscapes brought by someone in a hybrid of hanbok and kimono,
to a forearm-sized sculpture carried in by a mustachioed sculptor in a flat cap.
Incarnations kept arriving, lugging artworks bulky enough to need shipping.
Having been born and raised in the Republic of Korea, all I could think was:
Isn't a ritual when you set a table, light incense, and pour a cup of wine on holidays and memorial days?
That's why I couldn't grasp the idea that Lee Ha-rin had "talent." But here, things were different.
Unlike other mages, Lee Ha-rin could send an offering to another Constellation "intact."
Successfully performing a rite for a Constellation you aren't contracted to—that is a talent.
Keeping the offering from being forcibly converted into points—also a talent.
Preventing it from spoiling or degrading in the process—a talent as well.
Using the word "ritual" this way felt deeply alien,
but it got easier to swallow once I thought of her as a kind of priest.
Basically, a priest of Apollo praying to Zeus, and Zeus actually listening.
Offerings delivered 100% intact, with no burning or damage, at express speed.
When I put it like that, she wasn't a ritual priest or a cleric—she was a same-day courier.
Seeing her burn incense over a magic circle in a corner of the Academy looked like a third-rate gag from a Yank game developer drunk on Orientalism, but the effect was undeniable.
"Oh! O-oh! Did it work?!"
"Yes, it succeeded."
Because the three paintings displayed at the center of the magic circle had vanished.
A gaunt middle-aged woman, who'd been fretting even after hearing Lee Ha-rin's confirmation, threw herself into a deep bow in the middle of the circle. Her beaming face told me the Constellation must have sent a message. She looked a little too ecstatic for someone who'd just gotten a few words, but there was no helping it.
There aren't many art-related Constellations.
Honestly, in a world that's ending, what are the odds an artist survives to the very last?
The chances of an artist themselves—or someone who sponsored artists and collected their work—actually becoming a Constellation.
And since those few Constellations scoop up every artist in this world,
the way poets in my old world sought to join the literary establishment, artists here sought contracts with Constellations.
Which naturally meant that unless you were in the ultra-famous top 1%, a Constellation had no reason to notice you.
They have thousands of people to watch—when exactly are they supposed to admire every single piece through their TV screen?
So, the artists flock to the people who've learned ritual magic.
If the Constellation doesn't care for the work and converts it to points, fine. If they call it amateurish garbage, fine.
If it gets shoved into a corner of the Constellation's mansion and forgotten, that's fine, too—just let my Constellation see my work with their own eyes, just once.
They carry that yearning around along with stacks of money, and that's what opens a livelihood even for a niche field of magic.
My parents really weren't wrong when they said to learn a trade if you wanted to earn a living.
The only problem was that it wasn't exactly a combat specialty. That, more or less.
※
In the dream world, Lee Ha-rin prostrated herself flat on the ground.
"What's this about?"
"I believe I have shown excessive courtesy to Constellations other than yourself."
As if we were back at our very first meeting, she pressed her forehead to the floor and showed no sign of getting up, no matter how many words I tossed at her. Not that I have some bizarre fetish—I had no reason to enjoy someone performing a deep bow right in front of me.
"Wouldn't you rather rub my shoulders, at least?"
"Yes, understood."
She'd completely ignored comments like "sit here beside me," but the moment I mentioned rubbing my shoulders, she scrambled to her feet so fast I could only stare. Did I have to order her to do something for me, rather than simply tell her to do something, before she'd listen? With that thought, I flopped back down on the sofa.
Lee Ha-rin, who'd been approaching, froze mid-step.
She'd probably meant to stand behind me and work on my shoulders, but what I'd conjured up here was a standard four-person leather sofa. Naturally, the backrest was flush against the living room wall—meaning there was no way to stand behind me and massage my shoulders from the back. She couldn't exactly order me to sit up, and if she tried to stand beside the sofa to rub a lying person's shoulders, the posture would be absurdly awkward.
"It's fine. Go on."
"R-right..."
In this situation, the only option was to climb on top of me to massage me, wasn't it? I could feel it even without looking—Lee Ha-rin was thinking the same thing, hesitating. Because she was right in front of the sofa, scraping the balls of her feet against the floor, then furtively lifting one foot and lowering it again.
After a long hesitation, she straddled my back.
Her body weight pressed into my lower back and stomach. Had I lost muscle along with my physical talents? She felt unmistakably lighter than before.
The soft give of her ass pressed against my lower back just as I felt her smooth hands settle lightly on my shoulders. She'd done some training, but she'd never professionally wielded a sword or fired a gun, so her small hands were free of calluses. Yet her grip was unexpectedly strong as she kneaded into my shoulders, and my body sagged into languid relaxation.
I'd been planning to use a massage as a pretext to start some less-than-wholesome skin contact, but her fingers pressing delightfully into my shoulders and the nape of my neck cleared my head for a moment, and I just blankly received the massage. Lee Ha-rin's hands worked down from my shoulders, her thumbs digging into the base of my neck, then moving along my arms.
Her touch was wonderfully deft as she massaged from my shoulders to my forearms. My body was built of firm, toned muscle—no sagging flab anywhere—so it was all dense sturdiness, but her small hands pressed and kneaded, and I could feel the tension in the muscles unspooling. Considering this was a dream world where muscle fatigue shouldn't even exist, why was I feeling nonexistent fatigue unravel?
I'd been a Dream Demon for over a year now, and I was still thinking about the baffling mechanics of the dream world when Lee Ha-rin's hands began shifting, little by little. From my forearms and elbows, her touch tracked back toward my spine, and she stirred restlessly on top of me. Then she turned herself around and began massaging my legs, and at the same time I started sensing a deep, knotted tension from her.
'What should I say...?'
The burden pressing on Lee Ha-rin was simple.
My ass.
'If I just shut up, will she take the initiative...?'
"I-I'll massage your legs now..."
I left her to it as she started kneading my calves in a tiny, creeping voice, and I sank into my own dilemma. As someone receiving this massage with an ample helping of ulterior motives, I did harbor a small hope that while she fumbled around my thighs and rear, she might stealthily reach forward a little. But I couldn't just outright say that, could I?
I didn't want to open my mouth and say something like, "Hey, can you grope my ass a little."
Her shy hands, noticeably weakened, fidgeted around my calves. A delicate grip that didn't dare rise above my knees, let alone venture toward my thighs or ass. If I spoke, I felt like the mood would shatter, so I reached a hand behind me instead.
It was an awkward angle, reaching behind my own back while lying face-down, but I tapped Lee Ha-rin on the small of her back, and she tactfully turned herself around again.
As she lifted her ass slightly, I turned over as well, lying on my back. With a little spring of my hips, I shifted position, and naturally her ass plopped back down right on top of my goods.
Lying there, I watched Lee Ha-rin's face blaze scarlet as she felt the half-erect thing beneath her and shot up like a singed animal.
"Your massage technique is excellent. Won't you keep going?"
"Ah, um, that's..."
When I said it with a smile, Lee Ha-rin lowered her ass again, stealing glances at me. She couldn't just plop down carelessly on a Constellation, so she descended with hesitant slowness, and I matched her by shifting my body slightly up and down. Then, wearing a slightly unhappy expression, she started pretending to sit.
Like an invisible chair—she was holding her ass just raised with the strength of her thighs alone.
'Still, that's probably pointless...'
We were in thin clothes, skin practically rubbing against skin. How was there supposed to be no pressure down there? Especially after all that rolling around and sitting up and lying back down—my loose shirt had been swaying around in the commotion. Lee Ha-rin might have been hovering her ass just above my groin, but my cock had shot up like a time-lapse of a plant growing. What was she going to do about it?
"This really does feel wonderful... Please, knead every last spot."
I took Lee Ha-rin's hand and guided it. The girl was feeling more burden, more reverent guilt and apology than she was feeling arousal. Staring at an erect cock and sinking into self-criticism instead of confidence—we had a long way to go.