The Shaman Desires Transcendence

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Flames began to rise and burn the city.

It’s neither a burnt offering to the gods nor a festival for an evil being.

Yet amidst these overwhelming flames, people dance, sing, and offer themselves to the divine.

Some call the song they sing a scream.
Some call the dance they perform a struggle.
Some call the offerings they make a human sacrifice.

But what does it matter?

Even if it seems wicked at first glance, the outcome is good.

The good and powerless have fallen asleep.
Those stained with blood and the wicked remain awake.

Thus, those who heard the voice shriek and offer themselves as firewood.

What problem is there in allowing those who sleep to warmly greet the morning?

Those who kill die, and those who save live.
A few criminals die, while many ordinary folk survive.

“Devote yourself, sacrifice yourself, become firewood.”

Ashtosh Singh gazes at their deaths with an emotionless face.
He shifts his gaze to the city engulfed in the massive flames.

Criminals leap into the flames and perish, while those with guns blow their own heads off, comrades are shot in a frenzy, and those who used knives in their robberies stab themselves.

I see countless dying, their minds filled with madness and self-destructive instincts resonating with his voice.

Yet despite witnessing this, Ashtosh Singh remains apathetic.
His eyes hold sorrow, but it lacks warmth, and though he sighs with each death, there’s no compassion.

Perhaps it’s a sorrow that converges inward rather than radiating outward.
It felt more like analysis than empathy.

When the brothers who believed in Sikhism were dying earlier, this old man seemed to show some sadness.
But he displays no compassion toward the dying criminals; could he be watching them with the heart of a stern judge? Is he intending to decisively judge the criminals and bestow blessings upon the good, causing their demise? Is that why his eyes appear so devoid of emotion?

Well, it might differ depending on perspective.

Some might say yes, while others might say no.

[ Ah, Sh, To, Sh, Sing! ]

[ You shameless fool trying to contemplate the collective unconscious! ]

[ A demagogue who controls people with religion, blowing life back into dying flames with offerings! ]

[ This wicked farmer treats people like livestock, seeking to increase and maintain the number of beings–!!!!! ]

[ Using petty tricks to hide his shadow among the crowd! Do you think I wouldn’t know you illuminated the night with flames? You set fire to the wood to engulf me! Me!!! ]

[ Daring to obstruct me——-!!!!!!!!!!! ]

Someone within the flames he creates confidently declares.
That fire sorcerer sees people as property.
Thus, killing a few to save the many is merely minimizing losses.
It’s something he cannot accept.

* * *

The sorcerer, Pierre Martin, was going mad.

Phantoms and substance.
The variable of special ability complicates the destination.
A hopeless journey, like searching for a jewel the size of a speck of dust in murky waters.

Though it’s not rare for a shaman to sacrifice everything for their goal, it’s also not uncommon to go mad in the face of that vastness.
It’s not uncommon to meet a tragic fate by striving for a goal and culminating in destruction.

Among those not-so-rare examples of ruin, Pierre Martin desired success.

What reason is there for attaching phrases like ruin or failure to the lives of those who fell into destruction?
Certainly, those descriptors stem from their lives being filled with tragedy, but like the saying ‘the dragon is drawn by the point (punchline)’, it’s because their life’s period hasn’t been properly marked that people can assert their lives are tragic.

If only they had met their end properly.
If only they had fulfilled their purpose at that finish.
Could their lives truly be called a failure?

Can we label the word ‘destruction’ to those who complete their destiny and end their lives?

We don’t say, “The candle was destroyed,” just because it melted down after igniting a flame.
We don’t say, “That pot failed,” just because it broke after providing countless meals.

No matter how many tragedies there are, if one can fulfill their purpose, how can we claim it was a failed life?

Thus, amid his descent into madness, at times finding clarity, Pierre Martin yearned for one thing alone.
That was an unforgettable obsession, close to a delusion but never to vanish.

So he did not hesitate to wield magic.
Regardless of the side effects or the costs that came crashing down upon him, it mattered not.
He only feared disappearing without fulfilling his role; when he died was irrelevant.

If he attained enlightenment at night, dying at dawn would be satisfactory.

While he was anxious about achieving enlightenment, there was no hesitation in his purity of desire. And there were no feelings of guilt in his research to attain it.

His mad ego said,
“If one cannot distinguish between phantoms and reality,
what difference would there be between what exists and what’s an illusion?”

His delirious self said,
“If one cannot differentiate, then both are valid.
If one cannot distinguish, then both are invalid.
Distinguishing lies in my heart, and if my heart is absent, then nothing exists.”

His sane self said,
“Everything begins in the heart and ends in the heart.
Even if my heart is divided into many, the purpose is one.
Though the beginnings may differ due to separating and uses, the end shall yield the same singular outcome.”

Thus, Pierre Martin stepped foot in China, hoping to achieve his purpose.
It matters not who’s offering their know-how or who provides the information.
If value is felt, even a stone rolling on the ground holds significance; without value felt, even a gold mountain lacks meaning.

Even if he had received information, he alone contained it, and he alone took steps believing that information.

Thus, whoever benefits from the deeds he undertakes here is of no concern to him…

As long as his experiments succeed, as long as he could achieve his purpose, everything else is insignificant.

As long as they didn’t interfere.

Didn’t interfere!

“Ahhhhhhhh—!!!”

In the stinking, filthy sewers, Pierre Martin screams.
His body was battered from the cost of powerful magic he had performed, yet he endures the pain, screaming and howling.

With each sound he made, the parasites of the gutter were startled, causing a ruckus and inflicting horrific pain, trying to crawl out of his throat as they soaked in the filth of the sewage.
His body, trembling reflexively from agony, tore open the scarcely stitched wounds, causing him to vomit the organs he gathered.

A horrific pain that can’t be termed human.

The cruel and disgusting cost brings oversized pain that’s maddeningly dreadful, but even so, Pierre Martin does not stop expressing his emotions.
He could not endure without releasing the rising anger and madness.

Therefore, Pierre Martin was the master burning the creations he had conjured.
He screams toward Ashtosh Singh.

“You lumberjack who sees people as firewood! Why, why do you obstruct me!!!”

What?
You burn criminals to help many good folk?

“Merde!!!”

Is that all the nonsense English fools who claim to be gentlemen can muster!

“You only want to minimize losses! You’re just killing sick livestock when a plague strikes and hoping the remaining livestock survives! Whatever intent you attach, the fact that you’re calculating profit and loss hasn’t changed, and you’re just wrapping your interests in a suitably ideological facade!”

Pierre Martin shrieked.

“Collective Unconscious, Collective Unconscious, Collective Unconscious, damn it! Putain Merde!”

You obstruct my experiment for just that reason?
This experiment, which could’ve possibly succeeded.
One that could’ve ended my long wanderings?
You blocked it just to prevent the scope of the collective unconscious from shrinking?

“You wretched environmentalist! To protect the ‘environment’ of the collective unconscious, you dare to hinder my experiment that could explosively increase or make the collective unconscious healthier! You won’t allow me to proceed because it’s a current loss—!!!!”

It’s just a city.
The exchange rate is merely one person for one.
It’s just an honest exchange rate, merely creating a replacement.

How many wars are there in this world?
How many people die?
Yet the number of births continues to rise without showing the slightest sign of decrease.

It’s just a handful among them.
Yet out of sheer dread of losing that momentary loss—
You couldn’t afford to let that experiment go, which could yield overwhelmingly greater profits later.

It’s not even asking for an investment.
It’s not pleading for help.
You merely needed to sit back and watch—!!!

“Moreover, there’s no noble motive to build merits, nor is there a lofty intention. Do you think I wouldn’t know, Ashtosh Singh, that to you, people are just firewood, and what you truly value is the flames!”

I’m furious.
I’m truly furious.
Had there been some noble purpose, I wouldn’t be tearing my hair out like this.
If it was out of pity for not wanting to see people die, out of compassion, out of goodwill—!!!

“Heh… this is a conflict between purposes… Ashtosh, Ashtosh Singh… I can tell just by waiting for you to appear after I’ve been wrecked… I, I, I—”

Do you think I’ll just endure this?

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

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