Chapter XVII: The Outer God Babysits

61

Edward threaded the line through a roller, one end attached to the edge of the cradle and the other to the footrest of his piano.

"... What are you doing?" a voice asked from the cradle.

"I want to work. This allows me to rock the cradle with just a pedal, and my wife has praised the idea." Edward sat down at the piano, a pencil tucked behind his ear. His right hand played a few scales on the instrument, which he'd recently adjusted, while his left held a dozen stave papers.

"Have you ever thought I might actually be a mythical creature?" The True Creator, lying in the cradle, glanced at Edward with a mix of annoyance and disdain. Propping himself up on one arm, he watched Edward busily scribbling notes onto the staff and remarked, "You are really leisurely, and you still have time to deal with work." 

Edward barely glanced his way. "You've been down for six days. Have you figured out when you'll reimburse me for my clothes and travel expenses? My wardrobe comes from a tailor in Queens and cost nearly a hundred pounds."

The True Creator fell silent for a moment. "... Next time, definitely."

"In the centuries you went mad, your followers have commissioned me to write more than a dozen hymns and masses. If they had a proper troupe, they would've even asked for operas based on the holy scriptures. And they never paid. Do you have any idea what my compositions are worth? I'm giving you a discount—let's call it 2,500 pounds to settle everything."

The True Creator, flipping through the ledger, lay back down. "I'm a baby. You go and tell that to the person in charge of the Aurora Order."

The odd relationship between the two evil gods had deepened, somehow, through their financial disputes.

In the quiet study, the Abyss Angel recalled the general content of the play he was going to work with Miss Wall, a comic opera, consisting of a warm and beautiful beginning of the male and female protagonists in love, the tear-jerking process of the male protagonist's death, and the ending of the great revenge.

Then there should be ... in the overture that hints at the plot of the whole play. A wind instrument plays a low voice representing a calm male protagonist, and a string instrument plays a lively and playful high voice representing the female protagonist. Interweaving them together, following the twists of the plot to construct the whole piece, the orchestra is arranged according to the situation, and when the time comes, it will be cut according to the detailed script. Edward made a mental note to finalize the piece by the end of the year.

"The Aurora Order's been in chaos ever since your last... global broadcast. I imagine that's the only reason you're here with me right now," Edward commented dryly.

Edward quickly drafted the main theme in eight bars. He continued to speak, "The brief cessation of whispering, the euphoria of the shepherds' way through the upper echelons of the group. This is already very suspicious, and if you stay in the Aurora Order, it will cause even more commotion, when the Steam, Night and Storm knows about this, they will send you to death."

"The Aurora Order has been in turmoil lately." The True Creator calmly replied, "I want to reinvent the image, reclaim the brilliance, and connect my present self with my past self."

After that he continued, "There are some believers who believe that I am only doing evil for the sake of righteousness and fearlessness. There was also a part of the devout believers who rejoiced in my declaration, and there was a struggle between the two factions. "

"But the weaker faction won't last long. Sage Tenebrous is keeping an eye on things, hoping to capture them all in one swoop. They are my anchors, so I'll attempt persuasion first. If that fails, I'll dispose of them."

"Sounds like progress," Edward replied, continuing to improvise harmonies.

"When you were in Tingen, you planned to slaughter the city for a promotion, right?" Edward's ally asked.

"Exactly. If I'd succeeded, six of the nine massacres would have been completed, and I was seventy percent confident of advancing. The city would have become a dead zone, a hunting ground for the dead, an abyssal projection on Earth for at least five hundred years."

"And the actual casualties?"

"As of now, all traces of my work have been purged by the church. The total stands at 4,351. Quite modest, actually—a zero less than what I'd usually aim for."

Edward's fingers paused on the keys as he suddenly tilted his head. "Wait a minute."

"My disobedient student has come to visit me," he said, a hint of intrigue in his voice.

"He took his time," the True Creator murmured from the cradle, eyes narrowing.

62

Today marks the sixth day since the tragedy, and Admissor sits on the steps of the workhouse's entrance, gazing at the sun with misty eyes. The children are chattering and playing in the street after their lunch lessons, oblivious to the events that had recently unfolded.

As he had seen in the river of fate, Tingen was nearly consumed by a sea of blood, but, miraculously, the red moonlight shone once again, saving the city. Only a few were swept away by the catastrophe—among them, a handful of the workhouse's perennially infirm and sick residents. They had passed quietly, as if merely sleeping, with serene expressions. The abbot, now over seventy, conducted their funerals with care. Their relatives were notified, and the bodies were sent to various churches in accordance with their faith, where priests held collective requiems before burying them.

Suddenly, Admissor heard hurried footsteps behind him.

Those are Flats—Dean Flats. He turned around and saw the dean rushing out to meet a young man standing at the door of the workhouse. The man had dark gray hair, dressed in old, outdated coats covered in dust, smelling of engine oil—a remnant of his long journey on the steam trains. The dean approached him anxiously, whispering something urgently. The young man listened with a serious expression, nodded, and together they entered the workhouse.

Inside the dean's office, the old woman closed the door with a heavy sigh. Her hands trembled as they clutched a blue handkerchief.

"Chief, you've finally returned." Her voice was laden with grief. "Last week, Tingen was on the brink of disaster. The half-'monster,' Admissor, was the first to see the warning signs, but despite our best efforts, we couldn't prevent it entirely. The church has counted more than three thousand dead, though it's impossible to estimate how many more fell during the disaster."

Richard nodded solemnly. "What does the church's investigation reveal?"

"The official report claims that panic broke out after a robbery involving firearms, followed by a fire in the streets. Many of those affected were so overwhelmed by despair that they lost the will to live, falling asleep and never waking again."

Richard repeated quietly, "Died in their sleep... What else have we heard?"

The dean hesitated before speaking. "A woman suspected of being a witch died under suspicious circumstances. It was a brutal, tragic death, and the church's investigators suspect involvement of... a devil. They believe the witch's death was part of a ritual, an offering to the devil itself. The church hasn't announced further details of their investigation, and we have no more information."

Richard's brow furrowed. "The workhouse—is it stable for the month? I saw the ledgers; we only lost fifty pounds in August, which is a significant improvement from July."

The dean's expression softened slightly. "The children are doing well. None were harmed during the disaster. Even little Alia, who was recently admitted to grammar university, is safe. She's working hard." A small smile formed on her lips. "We've also received an order from the church's welfare institute. The children have been helping with simple garment work, earning us enough to offset some expenses. This year, we've managed better than I expected."

Richard nodded. "I've just returned from Feynarpotter. Thanks to the merciful Mother Earth Goddess, I've secured enough funds to last through the winter. We'll be able to order cotton from Intis in bulk. This year, we'll renovate the beds, and there'll be enough to make warm clothes for everyone, so the children will have a warm New Year."

As he spoke, Richard pulled a small notebook from his pocket, jotted down figures, then opened his suitcase and counted out fifty pounds, placing the money on the dean's desk.

The old woman looked alarmed and immediately pushed the banknotes back toward him. "We have enough this month! The children are already eating well—vegetable soup, wheat bran bread with meat cubes. We don't need your subsidy!"

Richard gently but firmly pushed the money back toward her. "This isn't for general expenses. It's for the emergency that struck Tingen. The families of those who died need support. This will help ease their hearts."

At that, the dean's smile faltered, and sadness crept back into her eyes.

"Of the six who passed away, five were long-term residents of the workhouse, who helped us as best they could despite their frailty. There was only one child—a little girl whose parents are still alive. She'd only arrived last month."

The dean's voice quivered. "She was born weak and terminally ill. Her parents prayed and pleaded, but no god answered their prayers. They spent all their savings trying to save her, but in the end, they had no choice but to send her here. She died peacefully, with a smile on her face... though there were tears in her eyes."

After a pause, she continued, "Her parents accepted her death calmly. They took her body and buried her in the cemetery."

Richard closed his eyes and muttered a soft prayer. "Life is a parade of pain and joy. We can't fight death, but we can try to give people comfort while they're still with us. She's at peace now. No more pain, no more colds. Bless her and praise the Lord."

The dean echoed his prayer, her voice barely above a whisper. "Praise the Lord."

After a moment of silence, Richard rose and left the office. He made his way to a small, secluded prayer room in a corner of the floor, closing the door behind him. Kneeling, he began a quiet chant.

"You are the essence of Withering,

You are the great being behind the Veil of Shadows,

You are the Monarch of the Deep Darkness

You are the Eye of Living Decay...."

"... Merciful Your Highness Edward · Vaughan – Lord, your devout believer prays for your gaze and for your response. "

After repeating it three times in a row, and waiting for several more minutes, a strange gaze finally came, the small prayer room was dim for a moment, and the light filtering through the window growing pale and cold.

"Richard Ernst."

A vision appeared before the Angel of Temperance's eyes: a swirling black mist, within which a figure stood, its form indistinct.

His teacher asked, "What's the matter with you?" 

63

"What's the matter with you?"

When I asked him that, I already had an idea of what he would say. He never prays without reason—usually for some indulgence or financial assistance. But this time, I knew his question before he asked it: Why did you kill those innocents?

"Lord, why did you come down to Tingen and take away people's souls?" Richard, half-kneeling, kept his head bowed. "Thank you for your response."

"This was a ritual for my ally, the True Creator, to descend to earth," I replied, my voice steady. "Enough death and souls are the bare minimum for a true god to manifest."

"... You fulfilled your promise—to bring peace to the desperate and leave the hopeful unharmed. Thank you for your mercy."

There was a heaviness in Richard's tone, a mix of sadness and helplessness. I understood that all too well. After 200 years, even I had not fully adjusted to my role as a demon. I still clung to the notion that I was different from the others—still believing I could use "humanity" to reclaim a semblance of compassion and kindness. I, too, felt sadness and helplessness. But Richard Ernst is one of the few who truly has the right to condemn me. His order and goodness are rare, but ironically, they were instilled in him by the "demons" he now seeks to admonish.

The rest of our conversation was simple. He continued to reproach me, condemning my actions, and I, in turn, did not hide behind my usual demonic tricks. I admitted frankly that these 4,351 lives were a new blood debt on my hands.

Richard is exceptional—annoying, but useful—so I'm not going to recycle him for now. After a worthless conversation, he said goodbye, and I said goodbye and cut off contact. Five minutes passed which is the norm at this point, after a century of similar exchanges.

But the work continues, and the opera has barely reached its overture. I glanced down at the manuscript in my hand, remembering I had returned home yesterday. I should write back to Miss Fors Wall, inquire about her well-being, and perhaps arrange a meeting to check on the progress of her script.

TBC

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[Original Author's notes: This transitional chapter occurs during the day of Klein's awakening.

*Strictly speaking, the Monarch has no fixed gender. Having existed as a mythical being for tens of thousands of years, the Monarch is referred to as "he," but gender, in this case, is fluid and self-defined.

*In a later episode, Edward will face condemnation from others for the indiscriminate killing of innocents in Tingen (you can probably guess who). At that time, Edward won't calmly admit to his actions. Instead, he will use demonic sophistry to twist the logic and manipulate the other party, attempting to make them question their own beliefs. The goal will be to push them toward losing control due to the collapse of their faith. While not entirely successful, this confrontation will plant seeds of doubt and instability that will eventually corrode their mind.

However, Edward does not use this tactic with Richard. There would be no point—Richard is truly qualified to condemn him. Edward knows this and doesn't bother to defend himself in front of him.]