Academism (3): Dream Border Paradise
The night air cools slowly. Faint light seeps through the cracks in the workshop window. I stand before the door for a moment, peering inside. Then, quietly, I turn the knob.
Click. The rusty hinge creaks softly beneath the darkness.
The interior is strangely tidy. Human body sketches plaster the walls. Canvas draped over something. Sculpting tools neatly arranged. Thin gypsum powder settled on the floor. Beneath it all lingers the faint scent of dry paint and turpentine.
I step inside slowly. My toe lightly nudges a piece of gypsum on the floor.
One wall holds materials for the exchange event, meticulously organized. Trinity. Gehenna. Millennium. Participant academy lists, sponsor rosters, venue blueprints, projected visitor numbers—all documented without a gap.
“...Truly a unique culture,” a small laugh escapes me. “To run cities under the name of academies.”
I flip through the materials slowly, then halt. At the center of the workbench sprawls a large blueprint.
『The Descent of the Angel』
I press the edge of the paper with my fingertip.
At the blueprint's heart, human forms tangle in intricate complexity. Overlapping arms and fingers. Ribs unfurled like petals. Lines of bodies twisting upward toward the ceiling. Beautiful. At least when it comes to handling form, the sense is impeccable. The original owner of this body must have been a remarkably talented artist.
But.
“...A bit tame.”
Too neat. Too safe. Beneath the name of angel, it conceals far too much.
My gaze drifts slowly beneath the blueprint. In that moment, a name from the phone screen flashes in my mind.
Rakuka Yumesakai. Mongyeong Nakka. A flower blooming at the dream's border.
My fingertip pauses for the briefest instant. Then I smile slowly.
“...In that case, I suppose I'll have to adjust the direction a little.”
My fingertip slowly covers the title of the work.
『The Descent of the Angel』
No. That's too common. Too ordinary.
I roll a new name slowly on my tongue.
“...Mongyeong Nakto.”
A paradise existing at the dream's border. A place where everything opens and blooms.
“Hehe... Perfect.”
A voice so small no one could hear.
“I'll make you a work worthy of the name Yumesakai... that's a promise.”
In that instant, an object on one side of the workbench catches my eye.
A disassembled pistol.
I pick it up briefly. The cold metal seeps into my palm.
Click. I carefully detach the magazine.
“...Fascinating.”
Weapons of this form are new to me. In the city, gun regulations were excessively strict. Workshops with permits were rare, and actual users even rarer.
Yet.
Bang.
A gunshot echoes from below the window. My body stiffens for a moment. I turn slowly toward the window.
In the plaza below, two students aim guns at each other.
And.
Bang.
One student's body jolts violently. A thin red stain spreads across their clothes.
“...Ugh.”
A short groan. But the student doesn't fall. Instead, they rub the hit spot irritably and raise their gun again.
My eyes widen very slowly. My fingertips freeze unconsciously on the windowsill.
Bang.
Another shot. The body reels backward. Yet they steady themselves again. The student catches their breath and pulls the trigger as if nothing happened.
I watch the scene in silence for a moment.
“...They don't die...?”
Truly astonishing. Students shoot each other. Yet they live and move.
I gaze slowly down at the pistol in my hand.
Indeed. In this world, is murder even possible? At that rate, it'll be far more difficult than I thought.
I ponder briefly. Then, very slowly, I set the pistol down.
“...No need to attempt anything risky right now.”
I can test it leisurely later. For now, finding the safest method is best.
My gaze returns to the blueprint.
Mongyeong Nakto. A paradise where human exterior and interior bloom together.
In that case, what I need are forms already complete.
In that instant, one idea surfaces.
The cemetery.
A very slow smile spreads across my face.
“...That will certainly be much quieter.”
Night.
The cemetery's iron gate rattles in the wind. Creeeak. The rusted hinge echoes long into the darkness.
Mist blankets low, and the soil, heavy with rainwater, lies sodden.
I pause before the gate. Then bow my head very quietly.
“...Pardon the intrusion.”
A solemn greeting, out of respect for those buried here.
I step slowly inside.
Tombstones stretch endlessly into the darkness. No gunshots. No laughter. Only the sleeping remain in silence here.
In that moment, a flashlight beam sways from afar.
“Who's there!”
A low voice. A groundskeeper approaches.
Ah. Caught.
My gaze naturally drops to his waist.
A pistol.
I stare at it briefly, then exhale very softly.
“...Everyone carries one, it seems.”
Bang.
The gunshot tears the night air. I twist my body urgently. The bullet grazes past my ear. Thin gooseflesh prickles my skin.
Aaah. This is far more dangerous than expected.
In an instant, I kick the ground. Wet soil splatters everywhere. The distance collapses in a flash.
The groundskeeper's eyes widen in shock.
“Wha—”
My hand plunges into his throat. His body convulses violently. The flashlight drops to the mud and rolls wildly, scattering light.
A choked gasp. Thrashing arms. Nails rake my wrist.
But I don't release my grip.
“...My apologies.”
“Tonight calls for a bit of quiet.”
I speak in a soft voice. The struggles weaken gradually.
And.
Thud.
The body collapses limply.
I gaze down at it briefly. Arms splayed in the muddy water. The faint flashlight beam sways.
Still breathing. Good.
“...I'd love to take you along too.”
A small laugh.
“But any more noise would be troublesome.”
I turn slowly. Mist brushes past my ankles. The scent of damp earth and wet grass spreads beneath the air.
I halt my steps. Gaze down at the nearest grave.
A long crack mars the tombstone's surface, and the soil has sunk deeply.
My fingertip lightly brushes the surface.
“...Far too old.”
At this stage, the form is likely badly degraded. A pity.
I walk on slowly. Deeper in. A relatively small grave catches my eye.
I kneel and touch the soil. Cold. But not fully set.
Few traces of rain erosion, and the flowers at the base haven't wilted yet.
My fingertip pauses briefly.
“...This one passed very recently.”
My gaze drops lower. Soil condition. Moisture. Subsidence. And the faint scent lingering beneath the air.
“...Less than a day ago, it seems.”
Truly fortunate. This will do perfectly.
The shovel tip lightly touches the soil surface.
Scrape.
Wet earth crumbles softly. I watch it for a moment. Then smile quietly.
“...Hehe.”
“If it's like this, a light cover-up should hide it nicely.”
I raise the shovel slowly. The wet handle clings slickly to my palm.
And very carefully, I dig the first scoop.
Squish.
The heavy clod splits wetly atop the blade.
Squish.
The shovel sinks deeper into the earth. The damp soil scent thickens.
My fingertip pauses briefly. I know full well what I'm doing right now.
Yet my hand doesn't tremble in the slightest. On the contrary.
It's almost reverent, as if standing in a cathedral.
“...No need to worry.”
The shovel tip plunges into the earth again.
“I swear it on my name, 'Yura'.”
Wet soil crumbles quietly.
“I'll make sure everyone remembers you forever.”
The shovel digs a little deeper.
“Through my hands...”
The corner of my mouth lifts slowly.
“...you'll bloom again in the world's most beautiful form.”
After a brief spell of work.
My gaze slowly sweeps the entire cemetery.
“...One won't be nearly enough, after all.”
Beneath the mist, tombstones stretch on endlessly. Like a field of flowers yet to bloom.