Chapter 192 : Chapter 192
Chapter 192: The Masterless Wasteland (4)
'Iris?'
Monica's eyes went wide.
Abel had definitely said it. Toward Nizam, who was dripping with blood, he had called out the name Iris René von Orléans.
Why was that? Nizam was a man with the features of an easterner, and Iris was a woman who commanded a venerable ducal house. For Monica, following the situation was a struggle. She had simply been pulled along by Nizam's hand on an outing. For some reason Nizam had guided Monica down into the sewers, and......
'What in the world is this......'
The circular chamber where the wastewater pooled.
Facing the heap of refuse that stood at its center,
Men and women, young and old, who looked like vagrants, had been harming themselves.
As though possessed by something.
'It must be because of black magic.'
The faintly spreading sweet fragrance.
Without a doubt, it was the residue of black magic. Those enthralled by the black magic tore at their own throats, clawed at their skin with their nails, and kept on hurting themselves in every way, but,
'No one is injured.'
They were not wounded.
And because they were not wounded, they screamed.
- It doesn't hurt. Why? It doesn't hurt......
- No! I can't offer my blood anymore. I can't offer my flesh anymore.
- Don't take our pain from us! Pain is all we have!
- Blood and flesh, blood and flesh, blood and flesh!
- Offer them to the new god! The blood and flesh of us all!
Only one person was wounded.
Only one person was shedding blood.
"......Fwoo."
Nizam's breath, rank with its iron tang, scattered.
Nizam wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Thick blood streamed down onto the stone floor.
"Mr. Nizam?"
Monica opened her mouth.
Her voice was slack. Surely because she was confused. Which was precisely why Nizam smiled.
"Sorry, kid. You've had to see something unsightly, haven't you?"
Nizam's hand came to rest on top of Monica's head.
A hand not stained with blood. Nizam stroked Monica's hair with his clean hand, and,
"But it can't be helped."
He then reached out with his blood-wet hand.
With his bloody hand, he groped at his own face. Just like that, he drove his fingers in and tore the skin away, and,
"When it's for the greater cause, you have to know how to conceal."
As though a husk were being shed, it was revealed.
The copper-toned skin tore and came away, and the short-cropped hair broke off and fluttered loose, and after the sharp male voice vanished as if by trick,
"──One's own self."
Iris's face was revealed.
Light-red eyes and violet hair. Unmistakably Iris's features. Iris's head was attached to Nizam's body. The face of a fair lady combined with the physique of a lean-muscled man — the result of a seamless disguise, no doubt, but to Monica it only appeared grotesque.
"Hah."
And so she laughed.
Iris let out a hollow laugh and looked at Abel.
Abel shrugged with a nonchalant expression.
"Please, someone explain, for goodness' sake......"
"Bear with it a little longer."
There is no time, and.
Iris cut Monica's words short.
Then she took a step forward. Believers who had been writhing on the stone floor, who had been kneeling and sobbing, who had been moaning or shrieking — they stared at Iris. Iris cut through and advanced between them.
"I was completely had."
Meanwhile, Abel murmured, arms folded.
As he watched Iris pass by his side.
"What have you done with the real Nizam Hashemi Rafsanjani?"
"I sent him off on a holiday."
Iris replied with a light bow of her head.
"He's probably off at a resort right now, pouring down one glass of wine after another."
She had needed a commoner's identity.
The identity of a guide in Cyurio suited her perfectly.
Because while exploring the surroundings, she could observe local movements.
With the Duke's face, the range in which she could operate was narrow. She would be exposed to countless eyes. And so Iris had disguised herself as Nizam Hashemi Rafsanjani, the Cyurio guide.
"But it's the truth."
Iris whispered.
"The guides of the Rafsanjani family have known your name for a very long time. Through a woman called Lilith Problem."
"Most likely so."
"She's moving, isn't she?"
"It seems so."
Abel and Iris faced each other.
Before long they nodded in unison. There was no need to explain further. Abel and Iris were members of the Mother God's Left Hand, come from another world, and the existence of the two was exerting influence on history past as well.
Lilith Problem, the Saintess of Foresight who had lived a thousand years ago, was observing the future and acting accordingly. Lilith's actions were serving as a catalyst, influencing the two of them.
"Are you well?"
Abel asked in a low voice.
Blood had caked around the edges of Iris's mouth.
"My organs are only lightly damaged."
Iris answered lightly, and,
"I've already healed them, so you needn't worry. Taking on another's wounds is something I'm used to."
Murmuring, she turned to look at the believers.
The believers' expressions were utterly dazed. Transferring another's injuries to herself. It was one of the Saintess's authorities that Iris possessed.
No matter how they clawed at their skin, their bodies would remain whole, and no matter how they strangled themselves, their breath would not be cut off. No matter how they harmed themselves, it was merely transferred as a trivial injury. Because of Iris's presence, the believers had become incapable of being wounded, and because they had become incapable of being wounded, they had fallen into despair.
'That's how it should be.'
Iris came to a stop.
The crude divine image crafted from refuse.
Facing it, she thought.
'The more you wound yourself, the more your longing is fulfilled......To someone, that must sound like an alluring promise.'
The eyes composing the idol converged upon Iris.
The pupils gradually shrank. The eyeballs shriveled back as though from sudden light.
Before long, a voice echoed forth.
<We know.>
We know, and.
Four voices tangled together, echoing.
<One cannot bear another's wounds.>
One and another remain forever severed.
The friendship between one and another deteriorates into illusion, the love between one and another is twisted by desire, the cooperation between one and another concludes only in ruin.
The only being who can be not-another to another is God;
Only God can take upon Himself the suffering of all the world;
<And so we ask.>
Who are you.
Who are you.
On every side are our eyes and ears.
We saw with our eyes. We heard with our ears. And so we know. You are Iris René von Orléans, the Duke of the Black Swan.
<And yet who are you.>
Who are you.
That you would come to rob us.
Rob us of our believers, of their lives, of their souls, of their blood and flesh.
<──Answer.>
"Well, then."
Iris waved her right arm.
She extended her index finger and drew a line through the air. It was the motion for opening a Pocket Plain. As a chill wind stormed through the sewers, meanwhile,
"I'm afraid I can't tell you."
──Thud!
Sweeping the air aside, a mace came down upon the stone floor.
A chained mace was clutched in Iris's right hand. Judging by its size, it was not a weapon but a spire. A gigantic red iron pole with five iron weights dangling from it. Iris grasped it tightly and wore a smile.
"Because I've forgotten as well."
Whoomph.
The five iron weights rose into the air.
Iris swung the chained mace.
As lightly as a flower stem toyed with.
"What my true name was......"
Ka-BOOM──!
The idol was smashed.
Countless eyes spilled out, focus lost.
Iris ground one of them beneath her heel. Crushing an eye, she turned to look behind her.
Silence. The believers were gazing at Iris with stunned expressions. From between their teeth, moans like the stirrings of wind escaped. The black magic that had commanded the believers' minds had been dismantled, but the desires and memories they had harbored all the while were their own. And so they could not help but wonder.
What on earth had been happening all this time.
Was it for the best? Was it for the best that it had ended this way.
- No!
And so, the blind old woman shrieked.
Groping at the stone floor, she wailed.
- No, no, no. I was going to be able to see again! Just a little more offered, just blood and flesh offered, and I would have been able to see! I was promised. I was given hope. So why......
Abel let out a sigh.
Even if it was the outcome of having been played with by black magic, to someone it had been, without question, hope. To those who have no hope, even a hollow hope is precious. Just as he was thinking that and taking a step toward the old woman,
"I'll do it."
Iris whispered toward Abel.
She stepped up beside the old woman. The old woman did not notice Iris, only groped at the stone floor. Picking up fragments of the idol, she poured out her weeping.
"No one can show it to you."
Thunk.
The mace clattered onto the stone floor.
Startled by the clang, the old woman raised her head.
"No one can let you see."
Iris bent down.
With the gaunt old woman drawn into her arms, she whispered.
"Even if it were a god — even a god could not let you see."
A god cannot save you.
You are so very noble that not even a god could save you.
We are beings that precious.
Iris whispered.
"Of course......, words like this will be no comfort to you at all."
Then despair.
It is fine to despair. I will help you.
No matter how deeply you despair......,
"So that you do not crumble."
I can help you.
I cannot save you, but I can help you.
"So you, and all of you."
Iris looked around at the believers.
For an instant her face looked faintly stricken, but then she smiled softly and opened her mouth.
"......It's time now to face despair."
No one opened their mouth.
The sweet residue of black magic had faded, and the stench of the sewers was in full bloom.
There was only the sound of water. The sound of wastewater flowing in from every side. The filthy runoff poured without pause, and the believers who had put their faith in a hollow god before long began to sob.
No one held to hope any longer.
***
"Let me be honest."
Iris began, with her index finger held aloft.
"I had a bit of a heart to tease you, too. When would I ever get the chance to pull a prank on you, after all? Acting as a cheerful guide was surprisingly entertaining."
"You didn't look like someone with a cheerful disposition."
Abel murmured in an offhand tone.
They had emerged from the sewers and returned to the inn. Abel and Iris sat across from each other at a table, and Monica had been carrying a tray bearing teacups.
"What will become of the believers?"
"The Orléans family will take them in."
Just as Monica was about to set a teacup beside Abel,
Abel shook his head. Monica shrugged and withdrew the cup.
"They've been exposed to black magic for a long time. They'll suffer aftereffects for a while. I've already requested the aid of the clergy. After the purification, I'll provide them with living expenses and housing, and help them live on my estate. Living not as vagrants, but as proper subjects."
Because that's the reason I was born into a ducal house.
Iris murmured.
"Oh my."
Meanwhile, Monica set a teacup down beside Iris.
Iris, taking hold of the cup, looked up at Monica.
"Thank you, Monica. As a reward, I'll treat you to a snack. There's a good bakery nearby. Ten portions of it would be easily within your capacity, I imagine?"
"No, I can't......"
Monica stammered.
"By the way, um......"
She then looked back and forth between Abel and Iris.
"Could someone please explain now?"
Why are you using honorifics with him in the first place?
Monica asked.
"Your Grace of Orléans is higher in rank than Professor Argento. Back at the Brilliant Sun Royal Palace, Professor Argento was the one using honorifics with you, but now......"
Have your positions gotten reversed?
At that question from Monica,
"Ahah!"
Clap.
Iris clapped her hands and answered.
"Isn't it obvious, really?"
What about it is supposed to be obvious?
Monica thought, furrowing her brow. She really didn't understand. Truly nothing made sense. From the bizarre scene she had witnessed in the sewers, to the sight of Iris sitting primly and using honorifics with Abel. All of it felt uncanny.
"I'm less a Duke......"
But the most uncanny thing was something else entirely.
"Than, in truth, simply a Saintess."
Zzt.
A halo unfurling above Iris's head.
Monica tilted her head. For a long while she gazed blankly at the halo, and then,
"Heh......"
She tugged one corner of her mouth upward and laughed, and,
──Crash!
The tray tumbling to the floor. The teacups shattered and a crash rang out.
Like a scream.