#13. Metamorphosis (1)
I spent three more days in Utah and achieved only about half of what I'd initially aimed for. Why only half? Because I couldn't properly interpret the newly ripened fragments of magic in the white forest shrouded in mist.
What I'd expected were magical phenomena clearly divided into distinct functions, like the incantations I used myself—each with its own independent "code" corresponding one-to-one. But what the forest had actually produced were dozens of tangled clumps of magic, like skeins of thread where countless codes shared parts of each other in endless chains. Even with my Golden Age's Eye, I couldn't distinguish where the valid codes ended and the meaningless flows of mana began in those clumps. Each one was like a jumble of equations and ciphers that I couldn't guarantee to unravel, no matter how much effort I poured in—riddled with junk data that made separating the gems from the trash a nightmare.
The disappointment I felt was immense.
The soul's rank being too high can be a problem too...
Overwhelming biomass or species differences might contribute, but the core issue had to be the quality and rank of the soul. It might have existed even before modern humans emerged. Its estimated maximum age was a million years—back when Homo erectus was hunting with hand axes and learning to use fire. If I'd stayed in the forest from the early days, observing the changes day by day, things might have been different. Or maybe I should settle here now and devote myself to research.
But I wasn't a scholar. For me, knowledge was just a tool for business, management, struggle, and desperate survival. I couldn't dedicate my life to a single research subject. Not unless it was in the peaceful times after ultimate victory.
I'm mulling over that disappointment now because I'm facing a similar frustration in this Oregon forest where I've arrived after leaving Utah.
This fungal kingdom, sprawling across 2,500 acres and colonized by a single organism in the form of mushrooms, has presented me with a new headache. At least this soul is relatively young—eighty-seven centuries at most. Meaning the equations and ciphers it holds aren't as complex as those in the poplar cluster. Relatively speaking, of course. Eighty-seven centuries is no trivial span.
I felt crushed by the weight of that immense time. This is going to drive me mad.
The 2,500-acre fungal mass that disappointed me early on with its immature, localized circuits is now tormenting me with incantations of unknown nature. There's clearly output from the circuits, but no observable phenomena—pure eeriness.
As I'm stewing in this stress, a group approaches. They spot me and grin as they draw near, carrying the faint bitter scent of marijuana. No weapons, a mix of those awakened to primitive magic, but average level is low. Their circuits are unevenly developed, making most useless as ability users.
Radio from the security team: They call themselves Druids. They tried inviting us to join their faith.
Tch... Smoking weed in a group, they're probably not the authentic British Traditionalists (CRP) or American Reform (RDNA)—more likely idiots obsessed with half-heard stories and "spiritual experiences," aping the real thing. Even the so-called Traditionalists are just posers.
I make an unfriendly face and step aside to signal them to pass, but these fools grin and veer toward me.
A woman in just a white dress—no coat in this cold—greets me brightly, barefoot.
"Hello?"
"...Hello."
"Are you alone?"
"I have companions. I just wanted to be by myself."
"Oh dear. Sounds like something bad happened."
"Something like that."
"Oh no."
The barefoot woman clasps her hands, looking sympathetic.
"People with troubles shouldn't be alone."
...Is she insane?
I can't just ignore them and leave—passing this spot would break the continuity of the circuit I'd been slowly observing on foot. Already irritated, I'm tempted to beat them all and chase them off to vent. But that's not feasible.
This fungal kingdom doesn't match the mist-shrouded Utah forest, but its massive spiritual presence draws tourists and pilgrims just the same. Unlike the Trembling Giant, there's no overt danger on the surface, so sightseers wander freely, government researchers swarm, and armed military police and National Park Service Rangers (NPS) patrol to prevent damage. Any violence would bring armed cops and cocky novice ability users swarming from all sides.
That's why, like in Richfield before, I can blend into the forest as just another tree and focus on my work—as long as I suppress my mana field, how would potential enemies among all these ability users even find me?
The white-clad woman speaks kindly, as if offering charity.
"Perfect timing. We're priests who share the teachings of great nature and Mother Lady Amilaria with those whose hearts ache from life's hardships. Why not join us? We're just about to prepare a meal—eat with us and hear some good words. Your companions are welcome too."
Armillaria sounds impressive in pronunciation, but it's just the genus for honey mushrooms. These are mushroom worshippers.
"Thanks, but no—"
"Oh! Oh my!"
Before I finish declining, she spots something and bends down happily.
"Look! A fruit of life right here."
I squint at the lump of flesh she's calling a "fruit of life." It's tumor cells fattening themselves on mana essence even after the host dies—Immortal Cancer, as it's commonly known.
Unlike the varied names for primitive magic and awakeners by country and region, mana cancer and mana tumors have such distinct, visible traits that most nations call them the same.
The lumpy tumor the priestess found had wings, feathers, a head attached. The black-and-white stripes on the tiny head suggested some common North American songbird. Sparse feathers like a balding man's hair tufts swayed in the cold breeze.
"There, shoo."
She taps the tumor to scare off the ants gnawing at it, then calls a companion who rolls the plump mass into his burlap sack. Peering inside, I narrow my eyes again. Half-filled with similar-sized magical tumors.
Wait. She said they were just preparing a meal.
"You're not planning to eat that, are you?"
"Yes."
The priest smiles.
"It's a gift from great nature. Why wouldn't we? Dress the meat, score it, marinate, grill medium-rare—delicious. Sell the leftovers too."
"...People actually buy that to eat?"
"Of course."
She nods casually, then explains leisurely.
"Vegans ask first. They don't hate meat—they hate killing. This isn't meat from something deliberately slaughtered, right? So it's okay to eat. If you can overcome the visual repulsion."
"..."
"And demand's growing in China. They use it as medicine. Something like... Locker? Low-qua? Close to that."
Probably rou guo—meat fruit.
"Heard the effects vary by original animal and the land's energy. Places like Mother Amilaria's forest produce especially potent stuff. Don't know details, but we're happy."
Seeing the self-proclaimed Druid's pure smile, I feel mild revulsion. I'd predicted Immortal Cancer corpses bloating everywhere would add massive calories and nutrients to nature, but I hadn't considered humans eating them.
At least the Chinese make sense...
They eat elephant tusks, seal balls, powdered rhino horn, pangolin scales—anything that looks potent. Immortal cells that don't die with the host must seem irresistible. Come to think of it, signs appeared months ago. Black markets worldwide started trading Awakened animal corpses and meat at high prices. No doubt Chinese herbalists with connections to smugglers and guanxi fleeced buyers with talk of qi flows and meridians to cash in.
Objectively, excluding disgust, Immortal Cancer is the ultimate food. Slice off bits from an infinitely regenerating meat mass. It might already feed masses. Poverty's worsened globally; better cancer cells than starvation or cannibalism. Dissolved in stomach acid, it's just proteins and fats. Raw big chunks might be trouble—some toxic maybe.
"Anyway, what do you say?"
The priest invites again.
"Join our meal, unburden your heart. Hear about dissolving into the great cycle with all things, free of anguish or pain. Great nature and merciful Mother Amilaria provides all we need."
I smirk.
"No pain? Immortal Cancer is a gift too?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"They've been called. Their body returns to nature as a gift; soul enjoys eternal bliss in Mother's embrace. So we bid joyful farewells to the called, receive siblings' blessings, shed our mortal shell, and ascend higher."
Suicide.
Hands clasped in prayer, eyes closed like a rapt actor, she intones:
"Pain comes from refusing nature and Mother's call. Refusing to share what we receive, clinging to futile life. Lingering beyond the time Mother grants..."
Opening her eyes, she concludes:
"Pain is the individual's fault for defying the natural order. They waste time writhing, ignorant of better bliss beyond flesh. Truly pitiable. That's why we, the 'first enlightened,' spread Mother's teachings."
Happily deranged fools.
"Enough."
I shake my head.
"Go your way. No interest in your teachings."
"I can't. I must save your soul."
"No need."
"But—"
"No need. Don't waste my time."
"..."
Her smile fades slowly. Blinking blankly, she stares, then expresses disappointment in a low voice.
"Was Mother's wisdom through me just a waste of your time?"
"Yes."
"I see..."
She turns away, lost in thought.
"You're a really bad person."
In her retreating figure—or rather, precisely in the odd ripple in her pathetic mana field—I detect something strange.