Artificial Goddess (4)
External mana had eroded the brains of the possessed organisms, pushing them through a brief phase of abnormal hyperactivity before settling into a somewhat stable state. The hosts and participants, who had been trembling uncontrollably, now unleashed a barrage of disjointed words, overlapping without regard for who started first.
「Goddess? Goddess? Goddess? Goddess? Goddess?」
「O-Amilariaaaa, beautiful one, grant us peace, love, rest, bring peace to the world, save meeeee with candy and butterflies and flowers blooming on the hilltop paradise where honey flows, lead me with milk and Mommy Mommy Mommy ahhhnghiiik good forest forest forest mushrooms mushrooms mushrooms I love mushrooms love love」
「Wandered wandered wandered and came lost lamb that I am no home anywhere missed my bed chronic illness chronic chronic hungry my daughter sick my daughter hospital bills hospital bills hospital bills daughter daughter daughter daughter evil God spring grave gravestone coins on top funeral costs left as debt I offer my heart's peace to my goddess medical insurance painkillers power cut what then honey honey honey you died too why aren't you here I miss you goddess's embrace peace peace peace peace don't worry I'm okay now okay really okay」
「The goddess inside me inside me the goddess inside me inside me the goddess inside me inside-」
Even one voice alone would have been dizzying; tangled together, they formed an atonal cacophony impossible to parse. Was this the true nature of the fabled possession?
Though the mushroom worshippers' conditions were far from normal, the fact that human language still emerged from their mouths carried profound implications. To the Golden Age's Eye, possession appeared as the fungus's mana commandeering the human brain to mimic human consciousness. This insight transcended mere understanding or intuition—something not to be dismissed lightly. It felt akin to the sensation of the Golden Age's Eye capturing fragments of truth within the Essence of the Golden Age.
I hadn't experienced it myself, but it lingered vividly in my mentor's memories.
「Ah-hai-!」
The raving priestess shrieked oddly and bolted upright. After stumbling and rising repeatedly, she finally steadied her creaking, puppet-like body. A massive wave of mana rippled around the decorative pentagram at her core. Then, she jerked her head toward us.
「There? There? There? A person? There? There? There?」
This was downright chilling.
「There's someone? Who is it?」
Chattering this far, the priestess took a step forward and collapsed in a heap. She burst into mad laughter, then—without attempting to rise—began crooning a hymn utterly mangled in pitch and rhythm.
"Beautiful mother goddess, grant us peace and happiness."
The priestess seemed to lose interest in us, but her followers—clustered white-robed Awakened—did not. They approached cautiously in a group. I clicked my tongue and stood.
“Time to pull out.”
“Seen enough, sir?”
“Yeah.”
That was plenty. My men swiftly packed up, and I circulated mana through my circuit, erasing our traces. With gentle telekinesis, I swept the ground, burying footprints in soil, and forced dormant seeds to sprout with Life Incantation, crafting untouched virgin ground.
On the way back to the cabin, I mulled heavily over what we'd witnessed.
Can the mycelial network and human cognition truly intersect?
The priestess detecting me and Kyung-tae et al. couldn't have been her own power alone. She must have borrowed the colossal fungal body's senses... If that vast entity could perceive the world—itself—through human cognition and thought, what might follow?
A fungus achieving human-level intelligence was unlikely, of course. Its sprawl rivaled the distant southeastern poplar cluster, dwarfing even the Trembling Giant in sheer horizontal expanse—this national forest's mycelial kingdom overwhelmed them all. Such biomass couldn't sustain unified cognition like a human's, constrained by physics. Even spiritual constructs wouldn't evade those limits imposed by soul and circuit distribution.
The qualitative limits of its cognitive network were secondary concerns. But if worshippers' lingering mental echoes—“human reverberations”—accumulated over time...?
Like a drop of ink in a vast lake, they might fade into echoes—or pile up to birth a colossal ego.
Back in the cabin, lost in rumination even as I lay down, I arrived at a notion.
If we maliciously control the human minds the fungus peers through... could we induce a false god hostile to specific targets?
For instance, visions of collapsing London bridges or burning Westminster Palace revealed to worshippers as divine prophecy—how useful. Strictly, it'd embed strong echoes, compelling the possessed to perceive them, but if it served me, the essence mattered little.
Come morning, Kyung-tae heard the idea and grimaced unpleasantly.
“Ain't you scared, hyungnim?”
“Scared? Of what?”
“The birth of a fake god itself.”
Scratching his cheek, he continued. “A natural Awakened with insane power and potential realizing its own existence through human minds... Even an incomplete awakening terrifies me. It's like a super-strong wrecking ball you can't predict—glitching out, thinking it's God.”
I tilted my gaze at him.
“Why worry when we have nukes?”
“Huh?”
“No matter what this Lady Amilaria becomes, worst case, one ballistic missile ends it. What's to fear?”
“Uh...”
“If your nightmare happens, I won't even need to smuggle nukes—the White House will greenlight them first.”
“...Yeah, when you put it that way.”
With zealots already crying “humanity's holy war,” excessive self-awareness from Amilaria would invite nukes. How could a mere natural Awakened counter or defend against MIRVs plummeting from orbit at fifteen times the speed of sound, each warhead vaporizing a metropolis?
Until then, exploiting the artificial goddess as a distraction—draining the Round Table's focus and resources—was pure profit.
One issue remained: turning a vast lake toxic required potent, voluminous poison. Human minds fed to the fungus needed deep venom—not mere rational dislike, but religious fanaticism's long-term devotion. To time it right, we'd need far more possession-capable priests.
Impossible for me or my organization.
Unless it's someone already commanding hordes of devil-worshippers.
Thinking of Grace stirred unease. She's keeping distance now, weighing opportunity costs, but realization of these gains would flip her to zealous proselytizing. She'd sacrifice her daughters as disposable priests.
...Grace-596's scent resurfaced. Confronting that clone brought Grace's madness to visceral life, beyond mentor-memories' pale echo. It layered fresh aversion atop my reluctance for alliance.
In short: Can alliance even form with such deranged humanity?
Turning her womb into a factory churning out identical offspring like commodities, then discarding them as pawns—that madness exceeded my imagination. Best settle for knowing this card exists.
Improving erosion protocols alone justified carving out time from my packed schedule.
Kyung-tae spoke up. “One more question?”
“Hm?”
“Last night, that mushroom priestess clocked us dead-on, right? Not her power—borrowed from the mega-fungus?”
“And?”
“So couldn't a grand magus like you, possessing or connecting, wield way more power than her?”
“...”
I hadn't mentioned it was magical suicide. Kyung-tae read my face and nodded before I spoke.
“Sounds insanely risky.”
“Pack up. One stop before the airport.”
“Where?”
“Lady Amilaria Church.”
If possible, I wanted the priestess's firsthand feel of possession. If not her, then the participants.
Morning revisited the church amid free meal prep for the homeless. Lines already snaked outside the fence, ragged indigents waiting. Many Natives stood out, eagle feathers—illegal for non-Natives—now tattered, worthless ornaments amplifying their squalor.
Yet the gaunt, stoic Natives handled them reverently. To historic North American tribes, eagle feathers weren't mere decor, even legally permitted.
Over half flaunted them openly—a badge of shared resentment, identity for the marginalized.
Why trek here for a meal, abandoning reservations?
Useful phenomenon.
My target priestess oversaw prep, pristine unlike last night's harlot. A private audience? Bought with coin—not that the cult grew rich, but donations greased requests. Few problems money couldn't solve.
“Curious what merging with the goddess feels like?”
The priestess, wiping wet hands on her apron across from me, didn't recognize the repeat visitor. Half my face burned, scalp bald—a middle-aged man.
Beyond a threshold, Life manipulation obviated silicone masks for disguise.
She skimmed possession rituals but gushed post-merger sensations freely, delighted.
“Sometimes she feels like a curious child.”
“A curious child?”
“Yes. She seems fascinated by what I see, hear, smell, touch, even my private thoughts. I sense that curiosity.”
Curiosity? Fanatic testimony worth skepticism, yet no physiological lies.
Her face dreamy as a girl's, she continued. “Infinitely exalted, yet curious about our lowly human view. How deep and beautiful her love, striving to understand us.”
“I see.”
Chattering animatedly awhile, she ended: “What do you think? Sound absurd?”
“Not at all. I believe you, priestess.”
“Oh...”
Flattered, she beamed radiantly. “You're a truly good man.”