The Museum of Oz (1)

Cre-e-eak—

As I approached the building, the heavy doors groaned open of their own accord.

And from within the shadowed interior, a familiar figure emerged.

"Welcome."

"The Curator…."

An unwelcome face I hadn't seen in a long while. No—calling him a "face" wasn't right either. A headless torso.

I glared in silence at the Curator as he greeted me with both arms spread wide, then finally stepped inside. The fact that he had appeared within the building could only mean this was a quest location.

"It has been close, yet so long, Visitor Kim Jisan."

Strange phrasing, if you heard it one way; clumsy, if you heard it another. Was it because he wasn't human? Or because he had lived so long inside this abnormal tower?

"To think you've survived this far. I say it every time, but it truly is remarkable."

"Is it really worth remarking on? I doubt you've ever had any particular expectations of me."

"While everyone possesses an ability all their own—"

Instead of properly answering my words, the Curator simply unloaded his own thoughts one-sidedly.

"Visitor Kim Jisan has neither talent nor skill worth mentioning."

Ah, so that was why he found it surprising—he'd never expected anything of me in the first place.

The Curator fed his placid tone directly into my ear. To his stream of blather, I offered no rebuttal. There was no need to waste energy getting worked up, and honestly, it was an opinion grounded somewhat in fact.

"You merely rely on the memories you carry, nothing more."

"Of course, your Docent ability does lend itself well to climbing a museum."

"…."

"And yet I had assumed your own capabilities would fall short of the task."

Capabilities?

What business did he have sizing up my capabilities and passing judgment however he pleased? Arrogant word, that. Then again, given that the Museum had already dug all the way into my past, it wasn't as if it couldn't know my unremarkable stats.

"I misjudged you."

"…?"

One moment he's hurling every insult he can find, the next he's admitting he misjudged me?

"The knowledge data you possess."

"And the quickness of mind with which you deploy it."

"Even the sheer audacity of throwing your feeble body into the fray, stamina be damned."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Remarkable. Truly remarkable."

The Curator bobbed his severed neck up and down as he looked me over—examining my outward appearance, my inner attitude and abilities, as if running a scan through every last one of them.

"No need to lay it on thick. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Even if you did, nothing between us would change."

"…."

Being acknowledged by Jang Siwoon, Go Gyumin, and Yang Myeonghyeon had been quietly gratifying. Not once in my life had there ever been a moment when my abilities shone.

That said, I had no desire to feel warm and fuzzy over praise from the Curator.

At my cold reaction, the Curator tilted his head.

"Why do you hate me?"

"Ha."

At the absurd question, a breath of laughter escaped my lips. He knew perfectly well why I showed him hostility, and he still asked.

"Isn't it obvious? Think back on everything you've done so far."

"Hmm. I am the Curator."

"Exactly. The administrator of this Museum, aren't you?"

"…The Curator is merely an employee of the tower."

So he denied being the administrator, claiming to be staff instead.

…Which would mean the Museum has someone above him. A figurehead—a director, or a chairman, or the like.

Until now, I had always thought of this museum, this tower, as a world that conjured magic into existence on its own. The Curator had praised the tower so effusively, after all. But…

It's possible there's a power above even the Curator.

"Have you the leisure to be interrogating me, Visitor Kim Jisan?"

"For all that you were supposedly being pushed around on some higher power's orders, you had plenty of will of your own."

During the ballet performance of Beethoven's The Creatures of Prometheus, the Curator had said exactly that. That he was capable of stopping the dancer's moving legs—but chose not to.

And on top of that, he always spectated the visitors' suffering without a flicker of feeling.

If anything, he gave off the impression of savoring it, as though it were entertainment. How was anyone supposed to feel warmth toward a creature like that?

"What a shame that we cannot exchange compliments."

"Suit yourself."

"Your manners decay by the day, and yet you seem to grow spirited, Visitor Kim Jisan."

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Not like I owed the Curator any courtesy. But spirited?

"You call something like that 'spirited,' inside this tower?"

"Killers' spirit is still spirit."

"Ha."

"It may suit you better than incomplete goodwill."

"…."

"After all, you never had the talent for that hypocritical act of dispensing goodwill in the first place, did you?"

The Curator launched a surprise strike straight at my soft spot. The days when simply being good was my one virtue—all of it, flatly denied.

For an instant, my parents' faces flashed before my eyes, but I barely pulled myself together and deliberately narrowed my gaze.

"Anyway, hurry up and tell me where this is. And what the quest is."

"With your knowledge, Visitor Kim Jisan—surely you've already guessed?"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

He was right. This space awash in emerald green. A world that looked ready to unleash magic at any moment.

Emerald—the fantasy work that sprang to mind fastest was—

"This is the Museum of Oz."

Figures. An exhibition themed on The Wizard of Oz.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. A children's book in which Dorothy, a girl from the real world, adventures through the magical land of Oz. The Emerald City, home of the Wizard, was the first setting that came to mind among all the novel's backdrops.

"I am the temporary Oz. In place of the departed Oz, I serve as director of this Museum."

"…I'm sorry, what?"

"And you, Visitor Kim Jisan, are the One-day Curator."

Oz was the ruler of this land in the novel. The great wizard Dorothy believed would solve her troubles—who turned out to be nothing more than a con man.

I knew him as a character who was basically a magician of lies. What's with this 'director' business all of a sudden?

And on top of that, me, a curator? I had absolutely no desire to stand in for him, not even for a day.

"What is a curator?"

"One who plans a museum's exhibitions and manages its works."

Just as he had introduced himself the first time we met, the Curator explained his own duties. Then, the moment he extended his left arm in a grand sweep—

"!!"

The smothering darkness vanished, and every lamp hanging from the Museum's ceiling flickered to life. Yellow light bloomed here and there, illuminating the surroundings in crisp clarity.

Where I stood was the museum's lobby. Gazing from a distance at the entrance to the exhibition hall behind the Curator, I could just make out the partition walls of the gallery.

"Since Director Oz departed, this Museum of Oz has fallen into ruin. There are no citizens left to view the exhibitions, either."

Ruin didn't seem to describe the museum's interior at all—it was lavish and spotless. Not a speck of dust on the railings, even with the director gone. The "ruin" evidently had nothing to do with the building's condition.

"I would like you to re-curate the exhibition hall."

"That will be all."

And there he goes—rambling on about whatever he pleases and leaving whenever he pleases. As always.

The Curator vanished as he always did, hiding his body away within his swirling robes.

If re-curating the exhibition hall was the quest, then what had fallen to ruin must be the exhibits themselves.

"The Museum of Oz, huh."

I roughly remember the story, but the details are hazy.

I recalled being fairly swept up in it as a kid, reading all that fantastical stuff. But it was a book I'd read quite young, so the finer plot points and character details had blurred.

I remember the main cast, but there are just so many characters in it.

"Docent. Summarize the plot of The Wizard of Oz."

Shhhk—

So the Oz book I read was the first in the series. Most people probably stopped there, too.

Being knowledge data entered back in childhood, the content had gaps here and there. My memory was good—I'd surely committed most of the book to mind properly after reading it once—but…

Still, as long as this ability runs on my memory, I can't assume every scrap of information is correct.

I passed the spot where the Curator had stood and entered the exhibition hall.

Must not have been disturbed in ages—only here, the dust has settled.

The doors at the exhibition hall's entrance were already open. There was no need to soil my hands fumbling with the uneven, ornate entryway carvings.

…This is the gallery?

Compared to the rather narrow entrance, the interior of the exhibition hall was staggeringly vast. But partition walls had been installed all over the place, making it look awkward for anyone to move around freely.

The partitions have turned the whole floor plan into a maze.

No wonder visitors stopped coming, if this was how they curated things. It was only the tower's planning, sure—but as I threaded my way down the winding path, I idly grumbled to myself anyway.

"…?"

Before long, the path opened into a fairly spacious area, the kind suited for displaying exhibits. And at the center of that space stood a glass case.

I looked down at the silver-trimmed placard beneath the case.

No description of the exhibit whatsoever—just a name on a plaque.

And frankly, the fact that the lion from the original story was a museum exhibit was unsettling from the start.

Cre-e-eak—

Just as I was running my hand over the gleaming silver plate, one of the partition walls sank into the floor below, carving out a new fork in the path.

Beyond it, I could see a doorway fashioned from circus tent fabric.

"…."

Circus tent—another name that surfaced in my mind instantly.

Without hesitation, I strode straight toward that tent.

"Keh-hk!!"

And just as I lifted the flap to step inside, a sudden burst of raucous coughing rang out through the Museum.

"I am the director of this Museum. Oz."

A frail old man's voice drifted out from within the tent. For a voice so drained of strength, it carried remarkably far and clear.

"I played the roles of the Wizard of Oz—and of an ordinary man from Omaha."

This Oz, like Vincent van Gogh whom I'd met on the lower floors, seemed to be fully aware that he was data.

"But this Museum must not be allowed to crumble. Lyman Frank Baum's story must endure forever."

Oz showed no intention of emerging from the tent, reciting his lines in a steady drone.

Fair enough—in the original, Oz goes back to the real world. So this must be his lingering consciousness, left behind in the Museum.

"Who are you? Are you one fit to be entrusted with this Museum?"

"…I am the One-day Curator of this Museum."

"I see. Then I shall watch, and see whether you can restore the Museum of Oz to what it once was."

Oz's voice faded away completely, and stillness settled over the Museum once more. Certain that the introduction was over, I lifted the flap properly this time and stepped inside.

"Kh-hk…."

The dirt dust tickling my nose set me off coughing. A floor of packed earth. A storeroom smelling of mildew. Magic tools, presumably Oz's, scattered all around.

Are these the tools for this quest?

Wondering, I kept walking. The path hadn't ended yet—too early to go picking up Oz's magic tools. I pushed aside the tents that appeared again and again along the way, pressing deeper and deeper into the storeroom's farthest reaches.

"…?!"

What is all this?

Oz's magic tools were the fake. They had to be.

From the very top of the towering display shelves down to the floor, countless works of art were packed in, edge to edge.

Shhhk—