Chapter 12
Chapter 12
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: Fate for the Prologue Boss (3)
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***
“Oh.”
The 'Writer' gazed at the auditorium where the entrance ceremony would take place and let out a sigh of admiration.
A massive space that could seat tens of thousands, built with the latest construction techniques and the finest materials without sparing any expense, complete with seating on both sides.
It was a place you could believe was a World Cup stadium rather than an auditorium.
'In the actual story, it doubles as a stadium during athletic events.'
His admiration stopped there. Seeing in person a space he had described in writing was an intriguing experience, but it was also a place he had visited countless times already.
As the Writer strolled through the auditorium, his thoughts turned elsewhere.
The prologue.
Outside the work, it was called that, but within the world, it would come to be known as the Bloody Entrance Ceremony.
The death toll varied by version—anywhere from a few hundred to several thousand victims—but it was always a tragedy.
'Hundreds to thousands, huh...'
An enormous number, yet it didn't really hit home. To him, the deaths of nameless extras without even a single line of dialogue meant nothing.
The Writer paused, took a seat in the stands, and reviewed the setup.
It all started with a prophecy a seer gave to a certain necromancer.
—You will die at the hands of someone hundreds of years your junior, and that person will enroll at Lord Howe Academy five years from now.
Instead of fleeing in terror, the necromancer came up with a response befitting his profession.
—Why not kill the one foretold to kill me first?
Simple enough, but he ran into another problem.
How was he supposed to find—and kill—his destined foe among the brutal, powerful students of Earth, nurtured with support from nations around the world, all fresh recruits at Lord Howe Academy?
The necromancer pondered long and hard. He built his power and nursed his hatred.
His conclusion was simple—terribly so.
—Let's just kill them all.
If he slaughtered every single freshman at the entrance ceremony, problem solved.
Unfortunately, the necromancer had both the will and the ability to carry out that madness.
'Well, it ends up being a self-fulfilling prophecy anyway...'
In the end, he assaults the Lord Howe Academy entrance ceremony and gets killed by the protagonist.
That catapults the protagonist to fame worldwide and sets off a chain of events.
The problem was...
'Who the hell is the protagonist?'
The Writer bit his thumbnail as he looked down at the auditorium.
This world resembled the novel he wrote, but it wasn't identical.
The broad strokes matched, but some parts were completely different, missing entirely, or beyond his understanding.
'It's definitely fused with other works...'
Truth be told, he wasn't the sole creator of this world.
It was a franchise universe—someone else had built the world, and he was just a contracted writer who penned a novel within it.
Of course, as a creator himself, he didn't stick strictly to what was given. He invented his own protagonist and crafted settings fans went wild for.
But the same went for the film directors, comic artists, and game developers.
'They really should've kept the protagonist consistent.'
The Writer recalled the head of the world-building committee he'd met before. A rich parvenu who respected creators' autonomy as long as they stuck to the lore.
Thanks to that guy, protagonists varied wildly by medium—not just in gender, but even race.
The movies featured handsome male leads, the comics had the mangaka's masterpiece waifus, the games...
'None of that matters here—they don't exist in this world.'
The Writer shook off the useless thoughts. After falling into this world, he'd tracked down every protagonist he knew of, but none matched.
He'd even half-hoped he might be the protagonist himself, but that seemed unlikely.
If he were, he wouldn't have possessed this body from a good family but with zero talent.
'What if the protagonist never shows up?'
That led to another worry. What happens after the prologue starts if there's no protagonist?
Surely it wouldn't end with the necromancer killing everyone right from the prologue. The end!
Absurd, but then again, possessing a novel world was absurd reality.
'...Should I just skip the entrance ceremony?'
Once it starts, there's no escape.
The prologue boss, the necromancer, would surround the auditorium with undead he'd prepared for five years, and the sheer numbers would block every exit with their bodies.
With all the civilians at the ceremony, no high-level magic or heavy artillery support was feasible.
All they could rely on were the individual students and a handful of capable attendees.
That alone, he could probably survive.
'But the real problem is phase two...'
The necromancer himself. In the novel, he was fragile as a fitting prologue boss, but in the games and movies... just thinking about it made him break out in cold sweat.
A grotesque feast of flesh and horror.
'Yeah, better skip the ceremony.'
He sized up the auditorium where the freshmen would gather, then shook his head.
'No, no. Dodging from the start leaves no room to get involved in the story.'
For the future, he needed to ride the plot. Bonus points if he helped the protagonist and built connections.
Follow the story, snag hidden elements or the protagonist's lucky breaks...
He could live a glamorous, wealthy life utterly unlike his old one.
'Speaking of attending, maybe I should make an impression on the heroines and deal with any annoying extras?'
With that grim, vicious fantasy as his last thought, the Writer turned and walked out of the auditorium.
The darkness of the silent hall stretched long behind him.
***
Iron Dung Beetle regulated his breathing.
First breath: shotgun blast, sweeping away the zombies blocking his path.
Second breath: mana gathered in his feet.
Third: he kicked off, leaping over the zombies' heads.
By the fourth, he soared above them.
But the wall of zombies was too thick to clear in one bound.
Even after vaulting dozens, he plummeted back into their midst.
Or nearly did.
Thud! Iron Dung Beetle landed on a zombie's head instead of the ground and sprang up again. Zombies reached for him, but their rotten hands fell short.
Behind him, zombies belatedly piled up, rotten flesh stacking into a nauseating barrier.
In that instant, light burst from the shotgun in Iron Dung Beetle's hand.
Boom!
Magically silver-plated lead slugs hammered the wall of flesh.
Iron Dung Beetle was drenched in chunks of meat and putrid blood. The stench assaulted his nose and soiled his clothes.
But he didn't stop. Glancing at the necromancer closing in, he saw the bastard frantically channeling mana into his wand.
“Immortal King! You who conquered even death!”
The moment Iron Dung Beetle pushed off the last zombie's skull, the necromancer completed his spell.
Crackle!
The wand emitted light. A vile green glow, defying nature, hurtled toward Iron Dung Beetle.
It targeted the vulnerable mid-air moment. A triumphant smirk crossed the necromancer's pale face.
But it vanished in less than a second.
The instant the magic clashed with Iron Dung Beetle, a rainbow of light erupted from his waist.
[The Curse of Decay! To think that vile curse still lingers in this world!]
At that moment, a noble... voice echoed in Iron Dung Beetle's mind.
[Virgin! I shall protect thee!]
Hearing "virgin" made Iron Dung Beetle barely resist the urge to drop the unicorn horn in his hand.
He twisted in mid-air, extending a leg toward the necromancer—a heavy flying kick utterly unlike Park Neti's style.
“The unicorn horn?! What twisted grudge do you have against—urgh!”
It struck the necromancer's back perfectly as he turned to flee.
A superhuman kick loaded with emotion. The necromancer flew a short distance like a hit-and-run victim before crashing to the ground.
Iron Dung Beetle landed and immediately sprang at him again, denying any chance to recover.
“Guh, wait... ack!”
Iron Dung Beetle grabbed the crawling necromancer by the throat and hoisted him up. His golden eyes pierced the necromancer's pale face.
Without a word of negotiation, he squeezed. A crack echoed from the neck, and the body went limp.
Iron Dung Beetle tossed the necromancer aside. The corpse of the deceiver of the dead slumped lifelessly.
[Virgin! We have triumphed...]
Iron Dung Beetle released the stick in his left hand and turned toward the path leading away from the pier.
Beyond the necromancer's corpse truck, something crawled along the ground.
“Hey.”
Iron Dung Beetle sauntered toward it. As his footsteps neared, it sprang up and bolted.
Unfortunately, it wasn't fast enough. Iron Dung Beetle lunged once and seized its nape.
It thrashed wildly as if to escape, then realized the futility and began begging.
“P-please spare me! I-I don't know anything!”
Iron Dung Beetle met its eyes. The middle-aged Clerk clutched a bag of Awakening Potions, teeth chattering.
“I haven't even asked anything yet.”
“Th-then ask away! Anything I know, a-anything! I'll tell you everything!”
The words didn't make sense, but Iron Dung Beetle didn't mind and asked.
“Who gave the order for this deal?”
“...”
“Yeouido? The Blue House? Just how deep do your lines run with the necromancer?”
The Clerk's face twisted. He squeezed his eyes shut and answered in a trembling voice.
“W-will you... spare me if I tell you?”
“No.”
Instant reply. Iron Dung Beetle tightened his grip and added,
“But your family will live.”
The Clerk's face drained of all color. His lost gaze darted around before fixing on the dead necromancer's corpse.
Seeing the broken-necked body, he let out a deep sigh like a man resigned to his fate.
“The ones... behind this deal... are the Patriots.”
“The Patriots?”
“Those who sacrificed everything for our country and people.”
Country and people? The unexpected words made Iron Dung Beetle frown.
“Explain precisely. Who are the Patriots? Some group or organization? Or...”
“I don't know why you killed the necromancer, but you're Korean, right?”
The Clerk cut him off with a question of his own.
“...And if I am?”
“Then please... just let it go? Not for my sake, but for the country and people.”
The Clerk stared blankly at the bag in his arms. Iron Dung Beetle's eyes naturally followed.
He knew exactly what was in that bag.
Awakening Potion.
The dream elixir said to awaken latent mage potential in a slim chance.
Because of that potion, the Cleanup Guild smuggled corpses and sold them to the necromancer.
Because of that potion, the government killed his comrades and humiliated them.
And these scum, who did all that, dared call themselves Patriots while spouting nonsense about nation and ethnicity?
It was laughable.
So laughable he had to ask again.
“You sold your own citizens' corpses like trash, and you call that for the nation and people?”
“H-how did you... guh!”
Iron Dung Beetle's grip tightened. The urge to snap his neck right then surged.
“Enough bullshit. If you want a quick death, tell me who the Patriots are.”
Writhing in agony as his neck bones ground together, the Clerk answered.
“The P-Patriots... beyond the dimensional gate, the temporary cam—”
[You bastard!]
Something's shout cut off the Clerk. Iron Dung Beetle recognized the necromancer's voice and turned.
The necromancer's corpse lay unchanged. Instead, atop the truck he'd brought, something defied gravity and rose into the air.
A dark red rectangular box.
So intuitively coffin-like that it was obvious at a glance, it hovered in place.
[How dare you! How dare a worm like you sever my neck!]
Clunk! The coffin opened, revealing what lay inside.
No lower body—just a lone upper torso skeleton.
The skull's eye sockets blazed with the same vile green light as the wand the necromancer had wielded.
“So the real body was separate.”
No wonder it felt too easy.
Iron Dung Beetle flung the Clerk aside and chambered a round in his shotgun.
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