The Shaman Desires Transcendence

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Sludge made a clanking sound with every movement of the foot.

Pierre Martin wobbled precariously, as if he could plunge into sewage at any moment, yet somehow managed to keep himself steady and moved forward.

Pain was a familiar companion.

For those who made magic their trade, pain was an inevitable fate.

Pierre Martin pushed through the excruciating pain like it was an awakening drug and continued to advance until he finally reached his destination.

It was the Secret Research Institute.

“Ahhhhh…!”

A sound erupted from him that seemed as if it had been scraped from the depths of Hell.

The voice that flowed out was infused with dreadful pain, already so familiar yet impossible to ignore.

His vocal cords, damaged from being bitten and mangled by mudskippers and earthworms, could barely produce a coherent sound, and with every utterance, the bubbling blood clots added a bizarre noise.

What came out from his throat was closer to noise than voice.

And his ragged movement only reinforced that image.

Anyone who saw Pierre Martin would think of him not as a human, but rather as a zombie or a ghoul.

“Z…ombie…”

Perhaps he was closer to a zombie than an actual person.

The zombies typically depicted in modern creations.

Zombies created through magic.

Their commonality was soul loss.

Neither dead nor alive, they were nothing more than hollow flesh devoid of a soul.

In that light, one could say Pierre Martin was akin to such creatures.

If the existence of a human soul is proven by consciousness, then his was so incomplete that it was as if it didn’t exist, and if any noble mission or will constitutes a soul, that light would have slowly faded, becoming mere idle thoughts, thus indistinguishable from that of a zombie.

Like how the zombies in modern tales roam with the instinct to infect others.

Zombies born of magic, moving according to the Shaman’s orders after losing their will and soul.

Pierre Martin, fixated on a singular purpose to the point of emptiness, may very well have come closer to being a shadow or phantom befitting the title of Sorcerer.

Empty.

While his body can swell in the darkness, paradoxically, it cannot exist without light.

And though light may be vivid, that very brightness can cause one to vanish…

“If the phantom disappears when light approaches, what could be the reason…? Rather than light pushing the shadows away, light clarifies vision, allowing us to perceive what was hidden in the darkness vividly, thus we believe shadows have vanished and we can see clearly what was once obscured…

Just as the faintness and intensity of shadows derive from the standard of light, so too does the perception of the world originate from our senses, and without those senses, we cannot judge anything….”

Hence, Pierre Martin yearns.

He yearns and yearns again…

“When a beast approaches to trample an oasis discovered in a parched desert, covering it with sand so that it cannot be drunk, how can one not resent such a creature? If one has the strength to punish that beast, even the will for revenge boiling within them, how can they refrain from taking action…?

If the water disappears, then one must quench their thirst even with the blood of the beast.

Even if it ultimately proves to be of little benefit, there exists no reason not to act upon it.

For we are capable of doing so…”

Pierre Martin muttered, seeming both to overcome pain and to reign in the rising anger and hatred as he moved forward.

He leaned down towards the center of the institute, preparing to lift the floor.

To reveal the altar he had intricately engraved in the depths of the research facility.

Just as Pierre Martin began to bow down…

“…What is that?”

Pierre Martin’s actions halted, replaced by a flicker of doubt on his face.

“Dust…?”

What entered his sight was dust.

Even through painfully interrupted vision and the ever-fading clarity, he could see it clearly.

He had never seen dust while embedded in the research institute.

How could there be dust where people live?

Yet he had carefully guarded against the chance that the Bug Sorcerer might leave traces to ensnare him in a curse.

Hence, there should be no dust.

He had habitually used shadows to sweep the dust away, digest it, and summon water to flush it into the sewage system outside the lab.

Yet here was dust, which should not exist.

“This isn’t human dust. This is bug.”

Focusing his eyes disclosed it.

It was not mere dust, but the powder created from decomposed and crushed insect remains.

Unbroken insect wings and stiff legs were visible.

This was an insect.

The trace of flying bugs.

“There can’t be bugs here.”

What if the Bug Sorcerer was attempting some trick, casting spells on insects to send them snooping around him, to ruin the experiments under the guise of ‘sharing’ as the Bug Sorcerer had suggested? He’d been terrified of that, hence he had taken great care.

He had cast multiple layers of spells to ensure that nothing could approach unless it was controlled by someone.

Thus even if byproducts were littered throughout the research lab, no flies had emerged and maggots had not consumed anything.

“Ah.”

Ah.

Aaaah.

Aaaaaaaaah-!!!!!!!

“Those damn bastards—! Those bastards, bastards!!!!”

This one and that one!

What kind of nonsense is this!!!!

Even if I can’t exhibit courtesy to others!

At the very least, unable to ignore!

Yet here they come, crawling in with keen curiosity, snooping around as if they were invited! What bravado is this, disturbing my business openly—!!!

“Aaaaaaaaaah!”

Pierre Martin screamed,
pouring forth rage and hatred that spilled out yet never transmuted into anything meaningful.

“Cursed! Cursed be these bastard mutts!!!”

Heat rose to his head.
Perhaps due to high blood pressure, blood sprouted from various parts of his body.

The wounds which had scabbed over erupted again, blood gushing forth in fountains around him.

His face felt blistering hot, as if plunged into boiling water, and his eyeballs felt like they were about to pop out from either the pressure or the anger.

Rage welled up.
It felt like he might go mad.

Pierre Martin could not bear the thought of intruders trampling through his precious research lab, leaving filthy traces that ruined everything.

Ah!

A boiling wrath.
An uncontrollable anger as if he had drunk the madness of Dionysus!

Kugugugung!!!

As if to respond to his fury, the lab shook.

No, it wasn’t merely a reaction to his anger.
Something exploded above.

“Ashtosh, Singh!”

No need to say more.
It was undoubtedly the doing of Ashtosh Singh.
Not only making people go mad and take their own lives, but also seemingly wanting to turn the entire city into a sea of flames, manipulating several individuals into blowing up cars.

He could see.
Through the eyes of those who had yet to lose their lives, he could clearly see what Ashtosh Singh was doing, sharing the sensory knowledge that emerged from his prior deeds.

Oil spilling on the ground, setting several buildings ablaze, gathering some people into one place, then burning them alive in a makeshift human sacrifice.
It seemed irregular at first glance, yet from above, there was depth and meaning to it.

“If you wish to find spring, come here.”

If you wish to find spring, come here.
He didn’t understand the meaning.
But it was clear what the intention was.

Hahaha.
Hahahaha.

“Hahahahahaha-!!!”

That was an invitation.
That was an urge.
That was a threat.

A message directed at ‘someone’, holding something as collateral to deliver that harassment.
And that ‘someone’ was…

“Clearly directed at the Bug Sorcerer.”

His instinct whispered to him.
Ashtosh Singh was speaking those words to the ‘Bug Sorcerer’ he had encountered before.
Creating letters with flames.
Helpfully crafting the sentences in English!!!

“Ah…”

Hahahaha.
What should I even call this?

Should I mock them for playing around knowing I’m right here?
Should I fume over their nerve to pay more mind to another sorcerer in front of me?
Should I rejoice over this conspiracy aimed at the Bug Sorcerer who dared impede my research and contaminate the results?
Ah—

I don’t know.
I don’t know…

Pierre Martin lifted his dazed gaze and looked around the lab.

There was no particular intention behind this act.
It was simply a way to clear his thoughts.

“Samael, please select the next data.”

But soon, one monitor caught his eye.

Displayed was the Tree of Sephiroth.
Colors suffused with the essence of mystery.
And letters flashing as if waiting for someone’s answer.
Along with the keyboard piled high with dead insects…

< Permission granted for the review of the Campus Level. : Two more data reviews are permitted. : A brief explanation is appended. 1. Special Purpose Satellite 武靑娥 Database : Data for the protection and surveillance of contractors affiliated with the People's Republic of China. 2. 始皇帝計 : Research conducted since 1980, based on 'The Wandering Tale of Immortality' written by the Qing Dynasty in 1894. 3. 電腦計畫 : Research on utilizing a biological server created from the extraction of a death row inmate's brain. 4. Research on the Baseline of Magic : Research born from the discovery that only humans can utilize magic. 5. Consideration of the Condition of 'Humans' based on Collective Unconscious : Consideration of the conditions under which collective unconscious recognizes 'humans'. << Reviewed Data. >>

…

…

… >

Pierre Martin pondered as he watched it for a moment, then

“Ha, hee, hee hee…”

As if having realized something.

He laughed.

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