The Museum of Oz (3)

The ruby fragment that the Happy Prince had sent out into the world through the Swallow.

Thanks to it, Princess Tunan had at last come to feel the warmth of love.

"My name, too, is love…"

The moment the ruby fragment slipped into my item window, Tunan's low voice rippled through my ears.

"Now, the last one — the Scarecrow."

It looked like I was going to defy the Curator's expectations on this exhibition floor too, and clear the quest successfully.

The Scarecrow's brain — most likely connected to Athena, goddess of wisdom. Intuitively, the meaning and symbolism line up, and it's not literally shaped like a brain, so I was sure that was the answer—

"……"

Except that, of all things, I found an olive sitting right there within arm's reach.

"…Right. So it's not this one. Got it."

For an olive, Athena's very symbol, to appear here — the exhibit seemed to be blatantly telling me the Scarecrow was not about Athena.

I had to find something else.

I've got nothing. Guess I'll have to go to the Scarecrow and dig for hints.

I had planned to move only after securing everything, brain included, but I had no choice — I decided to exhibit the Tin Woodman first.

"Yes."

The instant I tossed the ruby fragment, the jewel slid into the glass tube just as it had before, and the displayed ruby began to radiate a warm glow.

"Ah, it's warm…! I have a heart! Now I too can know love—"

"Yes, yes. That's lovely. A beautiful love."

"Wh-hey, hold on!!"

I didn't have the time to sit through the Tin Woodman's victory speech. When I cut him off with a curt farewell and turned to go, his voice grabbed urgently at my back — but I was already sprinting toward the nameplate marked Scarecrow.

"Looks like loving you is more than I can manage, kind sir!"

The Tin Woodman's grumbling voice faded behind ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me.

The moment he gains a heart, he's already dishing out first-rate sarcasm.

When I'd touched the silver plate bearing the Cowardly Lion's name earlier, a voice had come through. I hurriedly rubbed the Scarecrow's silver plate with my palm, and sure enough, a scratchy voice played back as if from a recording.

"I want a brain. A brain!"

"But didn't Oz already tell you that wisdom has ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠been heaped upon you? Why would you need a brain at all?"

"I gained wisdom, sure, and I'm clever enough. But that's just knowledge. It isn't thought."

Picking apart his words, I found the Scarecrow was quietly dropping hints. On his adventures with Dorothy, he had earned wisdom on his own. But what he truly wished for in this quest was—

"I want a brain that can think. I want to think about you, too."

Srrk—

As the Scarecrow finished speaking, I moved on, craning my neck up at the emerald hourglass.

"…Halfway gone, then."

Roughly forty percent of the emerald powder remained. Not a shortage, exactly — but nothing like enough to grow complacent over.

"Thought. Thinking, hmm."

From here on, I decided anything unrelated to the quest could just be swept away.

Clang—!Clang—!

Leaflets fluttered endlessly into the air, each announcing a vanished item, but I paid them no glance.

"You will treat the Museum with care, will you not?"

"Let's go over it again. What quests have there been so far?"

"…And here I thought you'd be docile. A far more insolent Curator than expected."

I had no intention of wasting attention on NPC small talk. Muttering to myself, I retraced every quest I'd cleared so far. For nearly all of them, I'd found the related objects inside the display cases — yet the ones that seemed like correct answers, like Athena's olive, always slipped slyly away from any connection to the Scarecrow.

Let's think from the very beginning. Floor 1 — Floor 1 was Dante and—

"…!"

A flash of revelation streaked through my mind.

Rodin and Dante.

I'd found almost every exhibit tied to the lower floors — everything except items from Floor 1.

Especially something as massive as The Gates of Hell couldn't possibly go unnoticed. The reliefs bolted on, different from the real sculpture — that kind of thing.

Oh.

"The door!"

Apart from the storage room, this Museum was immaculately cleaned. Yet in exactly one place, dust lay thick in the air.

I retraced the partition walls I'd passed and ran back to the entrance of the exhibition hall.

"Ha. That's it, isn't it?"

The dust was so dense the reliefs' shapes were barely legible — that's why I'd missed it. And since the door had been standing open from the start, I'd plunged straight inside without ever giving it a proper look.

I rubbed at the protruding parts of the door, brushing the dust away.

The torsos I saw on Floor 1.

The torsos that had been artificially attached to The Gates of Hell. With the dust wiped off, I could finally be certain. This entrance was The Gates of Hell from the Floor 1 quest, transplanted wholesale.

But The Gates of Hell itself couldn't be the answer. The statue related to the Scarecrow's thinking, to thought—

The Thinker, by Auguste Rodin.

The statue perched at the very summit of The Gates of Hell. Even buried under dust, that pose was unmistakable. A man sitting hunched forward, chin propped in his hand — this was unquestionably modeled on the famous Thinker.

If I slam into it and knock the statue down, it might shatter.

Every exhibit, whatever the material, had shattered the moment it touched the floor. I needed to reach out and take that statue directly into my Leaflet.

How do I even get up there?

The only figure left in my Soul Rental slot was Vincent van Gogh.

Asking Van Gogh to suddenly go rock climbing would just burn a soul for nothing.

"This is insane."

So I'd have to do the climbing myself. As it happened, the torsos the tower had attached jutted out here and there — decent handholds and footholds, honestly.

"Ugh…!"

Stepping on the torsos, I hauled myself upward with everything I had. Clambering over a replica of Rodin's work — the feeling should have been profound or something. It wasn't. I was too exhausted from scaling a door to spare any energy for emotion.

There's no instant-death threshold here, so even if I tip over backward and fall, one drop won't kill me.

Though it would absolutely wreck my stamina.

Wait — if my stamina drains all at once, that's it. Game over.

"Ugh…!"

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ominous daydream made my foot slip for a split second. I barely clutched a jutting relief and pressed on, reaching upward.

Wiping my sweat-slick palms alternately on my clothes, I stretched my arm toward the top.

Almost — my fingers can reach it!

I didn't have to climb all the way. The moment my hand touched the statue and got a grip, the Leaflet would appear. Straining every muscle, I leaned my body toward the Thinker's foot.

"Gwaaah—!!"

CRASH!!

"Agh, that nearly killed me…"

Stretching for the statue, my foot had finally slipped and sent me crashing to the floor. Rubbing my back, I checked the dimmed ink gauge. My whole body throbbed, but I was alive — good enough.

"Is spiritual torment truly nothing but suffering? Unlike the present, where one can walk, the past and the future exist only as thought."

The Thinker, now inside my Leaflet, murmured to himself in anguished contemplation.

Now I had to get to the Scarecrow's glass tube — but my right ankle had apparently turned, and it stabbed hot with every step.

"Yes!"

I answered before the Leaflet could even finish scrawling its words.

"I can think! Now I can truly think!"

"Hah."

"I can remember her again. Dorothy — oh, Dorothy! Our dear friend Dorothy!"

Watching the Scarecrow rejoice, I knew: flawless success.

I was letting out a sigh of relief and examining my puffed-up ankle when I noticed something. …It was far too quiet.

Every exhibit's been displayed. Why isn't the Leaflet showing up?

By now the quest window announcing my success should have appeared.

Kugung—!

"?!!"

Just then, a partition wall sank into the ground, exactly as it had when the storage room was first revealed — but this time, instead of a new door, a glass tube rose up from below.

Oh, come on. Frowning, I touched the silver plate bearing Dorothy's name. A young girl's voice began to tremble with sorrow.

"Everyone I left behind misses me. Find an exhibit that will let them remember me forever."

"Ha. A hidden quest, huh."

Dragging my aching leg, I ran back toward the storage room. My injury was severe enough that running hurt, but I clenched my teeth and moved.

"!!"

The exhibits filling the storage room had been completely replaced. Even a cursory glance showed they had nothing whatsoever to do with any previous quest.

"Find a new exhibit for Dorothy, who has gone home."

Oz helpfully laid out the hidden quest.

Earlier, I'd been able to find items by retracing the elements of past quests. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠But this—

This is a needle in a haystack.

At least this time I didn't need the Docent. What Dorothy had asked of Oz had been crystal clear from the very beginning.

Dorothy's one and only wish was to return to her home in Kansas.

And according to the summary I'd read, Dorothy had ultimately clicked her silver heels together and gone home.

"Though if the silver shoes are the answer, that'd be boringly obvious."

Srrk—

I put on a calm front with my muttering, but my heart was pounding. The soft hiss of falling emerald powder kept sounding in my ears.

Thirty percent left now? Or twenty?

These were items I was seeing for the first time, so I had to examine each one closely. Even so, the number of displayed objects was smaller than before — Oz had clearly arranged things to lead me to an item connected to Dorothy's wish quickly.

I don't have to dig into every corner; a single sweep will show me everything. He wouldn't have placed so many objects that success inside the time limit would be impossible.

I widened my eyes and swept my gaze around the room. A classical painter's self-portrait. A book of Shakespeare. A Goryeo celadon.

"Something related to home. Related to home—"

Then, among the countless artworks and objects, one painting seized my eyes.

"The Angelus…!"

Jean-François Millet's The Angelus. The Angelus — the evening bell. A painting depicting two farmers finishing their day's labor, heads bowed in prayer to the chime of the church bell.

Even without invoking the Docent, I knew what Millet's Angelus meant.

"Jean-François Millet. A painter who celebrated labor. The Angelus depicts the peace of everyday life — gratitude for the harvest and for work."

I organized the scattered information by speaking it aloud. The couple in the painting offer not some grand desire for the future, but a humble prayer.

They don't crave advancement; they give thanks for the present, for today's ordinary life.

With that thought settled, I lifted the Angelus's frame at once.

Chwararak—

"Yes. Acquiring it."

I hurriedly slipped the Angelus into my Leaflet and was about to dash back to Dorothy's glass tube — when the two figures presumed to be the couple in the painting murmured a single sentence in unison, like a chorus.

"What do they pray for? Two strands there are."

Two strands?

Unlike every line I'd heard upon acquiring a material so far, this one left an unresolved question hanging.

Did they mean home and the abundance of labor — the two halves of everyday life?

Srrk—

The sound of falling emerald powder snapped me back to attention.

"Ah! I have to hurry!!"

Now was no time for painstaking deduction. My injured ankle had already slowed me down enough as it was.

Still, there's a good ten percent left.

"Hnngh—"

Shuffling along, I kept checking how much powder remained in the great emerald hourglass. And the moment I reached Dorothy's glass tube, I flipped open my Leaflet and pulled out the Angelus.

"I'm exhibiting it now!"