The Red-Haired Madman (2)

When I pointed at the right door with my finger, the Curator's robe rippled gently, as if the statue had stirred.

"I will take the shortcut."

[...Are you not afraid of death?]

As if I could not be afraid.

The only reason I was doing this was because, climbing one floor at a time like this, I figured I'd never see Floor 100 in my lifetime.

[Does it trouble you that a visitor is sacrificed on each floor?]

[Is that why you chose to take the risk, and opt for the shortcut?]

"……"

The Curator had struck me where it hurt, and I found myself without a word to say.

After all, if I cleared this merciless quest the efficient way, the number of visitors I'd have to trample would shrink—at least a little.

[Don't worry. You have a talent for trampling others and climbing over their corpses.]

"I don't need any talent like that, so how about handing out group quests from now on?"

[Quests are the authority of the Museum and the Tower. I am merely the Curator.]

[Visitor Kim Jisan. Then, let us take the shortcut.]

Apparently the Curator had no desire to prolong the argument; it took hold of the right door's handle and pulled it open.

That suited me fine—I had no wish to drag this out any longer either.

Leaving the leaflet notice announcing my passage through Floor 4 behind me, I walked toward the right door.

When I pushed it open and stepped inside, a world unfolded before me that existed on an entirely different plane from that cramped white room.

"Whoa…"

'The road is long and winding—follow the shining stars.'

The shining stars. Only now did I understand what the Dragon King had meant.

A European village, mountains, a luminous moon and stars, cypress trees.

And that unmistakable palette and brushwork, crackling with movement.

I had stepped inside Vincent van Gogh's The Starry Night.

Rustle—

'No, no. Don't pull that up.'

Vincent van Gogh was someone I knew well enough without needing the Docent's power to dredge up his story.

I rolled the leaflet back up and stowed it away before it could ramble on any further.

'If my mind were in any state to appreciate it, this would be beautiful enough to knock me flat.'

As it was, I was liable to pass out for an entirely different reason.

"Hahk, hah…"

With no time to admire the dazzling scenery, I hurried forward.

The village road and the night sky stretched on endlessly, and no matter how far I walked, the way to the upper floors never appeared.

Just in case, I knocked on and tried the doors of every house and shop I passed, but it was useless.

'Every single door is locked tight. Is this its way of telling me to keep walking forward?'

Rustle—

'Damn it, my stamina's taken a serious hit.'

Gasping for breath, I stared at the paper floating before my eyes.

Three blocks still remaining meant my life wasn't in danger just yet—

Rustle—

"You can't just do that out of nowhere!!"

Given that I was yelling at a piece of paper, I suppose my mind really had gone half to pieces.

Blood still trickling from my ear, plus a long walk down that winding road—my anemia had gotten bad.

"When the hell is the door to Floor 10 supposed to show up…!"

Impatience got the better of me and I called out once more, but naturally the leaflet didn't answer.

Szzt—

Szzt—

Unlike before, an ominous signal tone sounded.

'…That alarm only plays in dangerous situations.'

I turned my head back to survey the road I had walked so far.

Hansel and Gretel had nothing on me—I had marked my entire trail in drops of blood.

It seemed it was time to sacrifice a shirt.

'If I tear up my t-shirt again and cut it with the dagger—'

"Damn it…!!"

I didn't even have the strength to close the paper, so I just barreled straight through it.

Obviously I lacked the strength to tear the hem of my t-shirt with my bare hands instead of a knife.

My ear was caked in blood, my whole body drenched in sweat.

'No…. I barely won that trial and got rid of one person. I can't die a meaningless death like this.'

The afterimage of the man who had crumbled into black powder flashed through my mind.

'And still…. without someone precious, how…'

The man's final words.

His mother, everything—it had all been lies. Only the words he spat out as a dying declaration could have been the truth.

'He must have been about to say he was glad he had no one precious, right…'

On that point, at least, I agreed with him.

If someone I loved were still alive beside me, death would have been that much more agonizing and cruel.

I would have hesitated far more often before reckless actions, too.

'For me, someone precious only comes back if I push myself to the very brink of death.'

Szzt-!

Szzt-!

Szzt-!

With the sound of tearing paper, my feet were stained dark.

"No—"

Staring at the ink that kept shrinking, I clenched my fist.

It was no use. I had hit my limit. I was so out of breath that—

"You're still far from your destination to be losing consciousness already, my friend."

At last, someone spoke to me as I walked on alone.

I turned my head toward the voice.

A white man with a scruffy beard was leaning against a wall, sipping at a drink.

"You are…?"

"Yes. Did using my soul make it sublime, in the end?"

"?!!"

Reddish-brown hair and beard. His face was etched with the wear of a hard life, but his eyes alone surged with fierce energy.

Dynamic, yet precariously so.

'Vincent van Gogh…'

To think I'd get the chance to speak with Vincent van Gogh.

Forgeting my pain entirely, I walked toward him.

"Are you data created as a visitor too?"

"If you're asking whether the soul of a person who climbs this tower belongs to you, then no."

Van Gogh shook his head firmly.

So he was a unique system of the Tower itself.

"Come, walk. There's a café I'm very fond of."

Without waiting for my answer, Van Gogh turned on his heel and strode off.

Hurrying to match his stride, I nearly fell over.

Van Gogh paid no mind to my injuries whatsoever, walking only his own path.

Whatever effort had gone into recreating the man Van Gogh, the seams of an NPC were showing.

'Still, this memory of talking with Van Gogh inside The Starry Night…. fake or not, I won't forget it as long as I live.'

Following him, I arrived at a café I knew well.

A ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠painting I'd seen so many times in books it felt like an old friend.

Café Terrace at Night. A yellow café blazing brilliantly beneath the blue of the night sky, luminous as the moon.

"Here, sit."

I followed Van Gogh and took a seat at one of the outdoor tables.

The waiter looked right at us, yet glided fluidly between the tables without taking our order.

"Here, you'll want to use this. It should ease the pain."

What Van Gogh held out was… a roll of bandages and absinthe.

Right—I'd seen this in war movies. Soldiers pouring vodka over wounds to disinfect them.

Granted, the hope there was mainly to prevent infection.

'Even so, in this day and age, is this really the right thing to use?'

Though arguing about modern medicine inside the Museum of Wishes was pointless, admittedly.

Still—pouring absinthe, that viciously strong spirit, into my ear? I hesitated.

"I had the help of a doctor, but you're hardly in a position to, are you."

"No. But I could try getting help from the café staff over there—"

"You cannot speak with anyone here but me."

As if to vouch for his words, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the waiter swept past me again, off to take another customer's order.

Inside this map, the only one I could communicate with was Van Gogh.

Which meant the only person who could help me was Van Gogh, too.

'Fine. Who knows how much further I'll have to walk.'

"Ha. Go ahead."

"I'll do it for you."

I steeled myself and accepted Van Gogh's offer.

And Van Gogh, without a second's hesitation, poured the absinthe into my ear.

Sssss—

"AAAAGH-!!!"

In war movies, the soldiers always grit their teeth and stifle their groans heroically.

Maybe it was because I'd just finished the rabbit's liver quest, but I could not hold back a single cry of agony.

Still, to endure as much as I could, I clawed at the tabletop with my fingernails and bore it.

"Once the absinthe dries, wrap your face in this bandage."

"Y-yes. Aagh, thank you…"

Van Gogh handed me the very same bandage he would one day wrap around his own face.

I took it, my whole face twisted in a grimace.

It hurt like hell. And yet… unbelievably, the pain vanished almost at once.

'It was just disinfecting. Why did the pain drop off a cliff?'

Rustle—

My stamina was still down to a single block of ink.

The absinthe hadn't raised my vitality at all—but it had wiped away the pain, at least for the moment.

This artificial effect—

'Is it designed to push me to endure longer in this map, and keep talking with Van Gogh?'

Once again, I was being steered to roll around on a board the Tower had rigged in advance.

The Museum's manipulations were familiar by now, but that didn't make them any more welcome.

"Was this map created because I chose your Soul Rental?"

"That, I couldn't say."

Van Gogh rummaged busily through his pockets, eyes rolling.

Though this was the Van Gogh before he cut off his ear, his mind already seemed so frayed that even his movements came off awkward.

"In any case, I wanted to thank you."

"…Why? I used the moment you were at your most tormented."

"True. Madness, and agony. You made me perform that act twice over."

That bizarre act of self-mutilation is the subject of endless speculation.

The consensus is that no one can ever read Van Gogh's heart completely.

Asking the Van Gogh recreated inside the Museum for the reason would get me nothing—he wouldn't tell me. He wouldn't know himself.

"And yet I'm grateful. Being inside your body, astonishingly, my confusion has been cut in half."

"……"

"It was calm before my eyes. The swirls of oil paint and the searing light that swam before me—they were gone. Astonishingly."

Van Gogh pointed at my forehead with his index finger and marveled.

It was as if he were recalling the sensation of entering my body through Soul Rental.

So the suffering Van Gogh had only found some measure of peace after coming inside me.

'Hold on. That counts as confusion decreasing?'

Van Gogh's soul, pulsing inside my body, had been about as far from calm as it gets.

Even after the Soul Rental expired, my heart had hammered so violently it nearly gave out…

Just how chaotic must Van Gogh be in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his normal state?

"What are you doing?"

Just then, Van Gogh pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from his pocket and tossed them carelessly onto the table.

I ventured the question cautiously as he scrawled across the paper.

Van Gogh was too absorbed in writing to answer for a while.

'Given his volcanic temper, I suppose it's better to just wait quietly.'

"I'm writing a letter to my dear brother, Theo."

Van Gogh muttered into the paper, nose nearly touching it.

Theo. Van Gogh's younger brother—and his most treasured ally.

Reading books about Van Gogh, I'd naturally come to know about Theo as well.

"Theo is a good brother."

"……"

"He grieves for my anguish, though he cannot fully understand it. And yet, even so, I paint for Theo's sake. For my beloved brother, I would give my very soul."

Van Gogh rambled on, monologuing one-sidedly.

Pouring his love for Theo into the letter, the paper filled to the margins with words.

Theo had read his brother's genius ahead of the times and supported him. A good-hearted brother who also wept over Van Gogh's madness.

"You're doing this to torment me on purpose, aren't you."

"What do you mean?"

"……"

Getting worked up at this fake Van Gogh, who was nothing more than a system, would be wasted breath.

And if someone knew my past and was tormenting me over it, that would be the doing of the Museum itself in the first place.

Screaming at empty air to cut out this conversation-with-a-purpose schtick wouldn't accomplish anything either.

"Hoo— tell me, do you have a brother as well?"

There it is. He just had to drag my family into this.

Yeah, this Tower is a perverted bastard, obsessed to the point of madness with tormenting its visitors.