The Anointed Ones (1)

Surveying the landscape around me, I felt a twinge of discomfort. It was a savage dreamscape unlike any I'd had before. The ground beneath my feet in the dream was an industrial complex once occupied by thirty thousand peasant workers. The surroundings were littered with crushed corpses. The floor was sticky with dark crimson blood. Though it was winter in reality, the season in the dream was summer. Hot gusts of wind blew intermittently. The stench of rotting human flesh permeated the humid, sweltering air, driving the discomfort index sky-high. Beneath a glaring sun in a cloudless sky, gray flakes drifted down. What kind of snow falls in this heat? I wondered, peering closer—only to realize the flakes were clumps of pulverized human bone ash.

One of the trampled corpses suddenly opened its mouth.

"Please... spare me."

Its discolored eyes stared blankly into the void, unfocused. The pallid skin held no spark of life, and half its body had vanished somewhere. In this still-life state, only its cracked lips moved, producing a parched voice.

"I was just standing watch. I got ten kuai ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a day for it."

Only then did I recognize the corpse's face as that of the dim sum shop owner. The voice repeating his final words sounded mechanical, like a broken recorder.

"I have a son who'll turn twelve next month. He's got no family but me—if I die, no one will look after him. Please, spare my life. Please, spare my life. Please, spare my life. Pleasejustsparemyjustsparemyjustsparemy lifelifelife—"

Crunch. I stomped down on the cheekbone below its eye, shattering it. Out of sheer irritation. Yes, that was it—pure annoyance. Nothing more. As the half-head rolled its eye toward me, I swallowed a sigh and brought my foot down hard again. Corrupted fluids oozed from beneath my soiled shoe. Dozens of syringes embedded in the corpse's forearm rattled from the impact.

Another body amid the pile spoke up.

"Devour me."

This one wore the face of that bastard mentor of mine.

"Exploitation is human nature, and all humans are innate imperialists. Thus, you need me as your tool. Accept me—make me your extension. Receive the anointing of your inborn essence. Then shall you be reborn a complete human. The seat of the 'Homo diluvii testis'—witness to the Great Flood—is not far off."

A headache surged. Pressing my temple, I unleashed a telekinetic blast. The blood-crusted floor tore apart in shards, flinging human fragments in shockwave patterns. Where the corpse pile had flown, a pitch-black hole gaped open. At its heartless shadow sat the massive white skeleton of a beast. That accursed mentor's remains.

"Such profligate desire."

With that final utterance, the bastard fell silent. No other corpses spoke to me, and silence returned to the dream. But it wasn't the silence I craved. I tried to assert control over the dream. Lucid dreaming under willful command had become routine. Changing the scenery should have been child's play.

"……."

Why wasn't it working? The image I willed was a serene mountain lodge blanketed in falling snow—an ideal haven I longed to reach someday. But it half-succeeded, mangling the dreamscape. Half was winter, half summer. Where cold winds blew, vast snow blanketed white; where hot gusts raged, dried blood from tens of thousands stained rust-red. Even now, the sea of corpses and blood in the industrial zone resisted my will. Left alone, it would push out the mountain vista I'd summoned. As if it had some restorative force.

This was my dream. No other dominion existed but mine. The conclusion was obvious.

No way. I rejected the thought as absurd.

I awoke in the dim cabin. The electronic clock fixed to the desk showed early afternoon, but with the blackout blinds drawn over the single porthole, no sunlight could enter. Not that light mattered much to me anyway. Sleep quality had been poor, but I'd managed about six hours since returning from the hunt. No more setting alarms every thirty minutes like before. My life was improving, bit by bit. And it would keep getting better—as long as I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠didn't fall in the survival struggle.

Like all dreams, the filthy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠residue faded quickly. But the lingering drowsiness was harder to shake. Suppressing the urge to lie back down, I headed to the attached shower. I stripped haphazardly and turned on the hot water. With fewer passengers than capacity, the water stayed consistently hot. Standing under the pouring heat, I thought:

What nonsense about anointing.

The senile ghosts of the "Round Table of Light and Truth," especially the cabinet ministers and delegates of the Round Table Cabinet, loved calling themselves the anointed. To them, the anointed were messiahs—the saviors destined to lead humanity to redemption. The sacred wisdom of the Golden Age was their holy oil poured upon the soul. With such rotten minds, they addressed each other as "Sir"—lesser nobles' sons with no claim to inherited titles. Their chosen-people complex stemmed from twisted compensation for what they lacked. No matter how filthy I was, I wouldn't plunge into that sewer. To those in high, bright places, imperialists and I might all look like devils—but no gaze was more irrelevant to my self-judgment.

After a cursory shower, I dressed, armed up, and headed to the office. Reports to review and documents needing approval would be piling up, plus rechecking the dawn hunt's results.

Suyeon, at her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠desk, paused her work and stood.

"You're up already, sir?"

"Yeah."

"It's too early."

"Slept enough."

"Not enough. You need more rest."

"……."

As I stared, Suyeon opened her notebook. The work log—god knows which volume—tracked my sleep hours by date for the past month. Fixing on a page, she said:

"Forgive my impertinence. But your health is my constant concern. Your average sleep this week: four hours twenty-two minutes. Over a month: five hours forty-seven. And that doesn't account for time to fall asleep, so actual—"

"I get it. Thanks for caring. I'll try for longer next time."

"……Yes, sir."

A flicker of dissatisfaction crossed her blank expression as she closed the notebook. A momentary shift—maybe my imagination. Even after all this time, distinguishing truth from lie via biosignals was her limit. Rare exceptions aside. The Golden Age's Eye showed much, but my processing had limits.

As I sat, Suyeon asked:

"Breakfast?"

"Saving time. Call the galley—simple stuff. Coffee and sandwich."

"Yes, sir."

"You?"

"Eaten."

"Good."

Subordinates skipping meals was trouble. Suyeon called from her station, then excused herself instead of sitting. I powered up the laptop—not a standard one, but a rugged model meeting MIL-STD durability. Survives three-story drops; waterproof closed. Storage protected from flooding in worst case, and easily removable. Fingerprint and password boot done, I started with the head office secretariat's daily trends report: society, economy, culture. Summarized intel I deemed essential.

Amid the pages, a name I hadn't thought of in ages:

Juan's Army, huh. I mulled unpleasantly over the traces of my alias, Hwang. "Falange" could mean political society or club, but checking attached links explained the secretariat's "army" translation.

Thought he'd be a one-off face for some party...

By-elections drew full party effort regardless of term length—they predicted nearby races. An independent landslide was a political upset. Staring at Perucho's news photo, he looked gaunt—no more potbelly. His sunken eyes gleamed fiercely even in print. On his left wrist: the Omega Seamaster I'd gifted as Hwang. Nine months—just nine. A father's awakening after losing his daughter might fade, but the short term could be opportunity. No major blunders, and he'd leverage supporter fervor plus mayoral creds for higher office before it cooled. Or dump unfinished business on successors. Article's end noted expanded naval hospital support as mayor.

Lost in brief reverie, Suyeon entered with a tray of sandwich and coffee.

Wondered what kept her—fetching food herself.

"Send underlings."

"Just picked it up."

Stubborn in odd ways. The stacked sandwich: over two portions for normals. Sipping coffee first, I eyed Suyeon at the familiar taste on my tongue.

Seated quietly, she asked:

"Any orders, sir?"

"……No."

This was definitely her brew. Beans fixed, but I distinguished hers from Kyung-tae's or others' subtle differences.