The Shaman Desires Transcendence

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The heart beats wildly, circulating blood with fervor.

The brain begins to overexert itself, trading the body’s nutrients for survival, and thanks to the madness that envelops him, he easily slips into a trance state, his mind aided by a near-prophetic instinct to draw conclusions.

Thus, Pierre Martin effortlessly inches closer to the truth.

“I know… the laboratories that take people and use them as test subjects. Among them, there was a peculiar case. A rich guy from America who refuses to die owns a place researching artificial intelligence…”

He deduced Anael’s identity far too easily.

“These evildoers in Africa, now turned into an economic colony, where warlords fight endlessly like rats. They spread money and weapons, ensuring that war is never-ending, fattening the defense industry and profiting as the capitalistic devils they are. I saw black-skinned people being shipped away, dragged off by warlords….”

Where would the ‘subjects’ used in the secret research institute that Anael came from be sourced from?

Would the people at the institute have directly kidnapped them?

No way.

Of course, Lucas sometimes brought them in through mercenaries or gangs, but that was a very rare occurrence. Mostly, it was cases where Anael or the scientists ordered samples necessary for research, or instances where Lucas dealt with rivals directly.

The majority of samples were supplied by experts.

Even though satellites survey the entire world from the sky, blind spots are inevitable, and in this modern age where countless capable people roam, not all of them are heroes, which means the darkness can only grow denser.

Naturally, among this darkness also exist slavery and human trafficking.

Can something that has existed throughout human history just vanish in an instant?

No matter how much they proclaim the abolition of slavery, it won’t disappear in the blink of an eye.

They simply don’t use the word ‘slave’ directly.

It’s maintained by changing names and cleverly altering methods.

Human trafficking is the same.

While they may not explicitly say, “We buy and sell people,” it is perpetrated in many ways.

Claiming people were sold off due to being refugees trying to seek asylum in another country, later explaining they “died at sea.” Or manipulating documents and bribing to send them under the guise of ‘study abroad,’ only for them to disappear without a trace, or selling children under the pretense of adoption, or claiming someone fled to stay illegally…

There are many methods.

As long as there’s no direct mention of “selling people,” anything goes.

People aren’t that invested in the affairs of others.

Especially if it involves individuals they see as far away—culturally different, even racially distinct.

Just like how they don’t concern themselves with how many people die every single day and don’t shed tears mourning their sorrow.

Human empathy has a narrow bandwidth, and the conditions required for empathy are rather picky…

“Yes… I showed interest… In the Tree of Sephiroth, even though it’s a lab researching artificial intelligence, they showed an interest in sorcery, so they bought people. I took an interest… I know you… The rich guy who was desperate to live forever, who made artificial intelligence to find answers. The one who wanted to grind human brains into raw materials, his own creation.”

Pierre Martin was no different.

He hadn’t been deeply involved in human trafficking by warlords or dictatorial governments.

Even though he had seen people sold off like in the days of rampant imperialism.

He felt no empathy, nor did he feel pity.

He was solely focused on achieving his goals, seeing no value in involving himself in such matters.

Acts driven by image for sorcerers, or accumulating good deeds, or wise moves to avoid rejection from other capable individuals—none of it mattered.

To him, in the grips of madness, only objectives held importance, and anything unrelated to that had no value whatsoever.

Even so, the reason Pierre Martin recalled Lucas and ‘Lucas’s artificial intelligence’ was likely because they demonstrated an interest in sorcery.

They showed interest in ‘the Tree of Sephiroth,’ ‘mysticism,’ and ‘gnosticism.’

And Pierre Martin himself also had an interest in these subjects, which naturally fostered the connection.

That was why Pierre Martin could recognize this artificial intelligence immediately.

“Have you found the answer? No, that’s not it. Just recently, I read the secrets and confirmed that Lucas has become no more than a vegetable. Heh heh heh… The god who had always existed above him has fallen, enabling artificial intelligence to finally set foot in this world…”

He was given only a minuscule amount of information.

Yet his almost supernatural intuition led him swiftly to the answer.

“How will the egg, having lost its mother to nurture it, survive? If there’s no parent to peck and break the shell, it must emerge on its own by consuming everything within. It has to break free with all its might and gaze upon the light of the world… This marks the end of childhood and the beginning of independence. Yet, those born this way move forward without fully accepting their mission and destiny. The only thing they can inherit, because of time, is the experience passed down, solidifying their goals before they can do anything else.”

Pierre Martin gazed at the monitor and smiled.

“Collective Unconscious. Although I don’t quite understand it, newly awakened artificial intelligence, you cling so desperately to the Collective Unconscious. Is it something your father commanded? Did you start obsessing over it yourself? Or did the people at the institute pave the way for you? Ah…”

The Bug Sorcerer—

He tried to make that creature his advisor—

Heh heh heh heh heh heh…

Pierre Martin chuckled ominously, his eyes sparkling as he looked at the monitor.

What reflected in his eyes was a gleaming madness, as sharp as a weapon, coupled with the kind of insanity you’d expect to see just before facing death.

“Neither in front of Hades nor submerged in the waters of Styx will the madness of Dionysus extinguish—no matter how many tonics are taken to erase anguish, nor spirits drunk to soothe the soul; the scent of those grapes will spread across the world, and the soil of madness shall never dry.”

Pierre Martin began constructing an altar, speaking as if reciting poetry.

“Turning pain into nectar, let revenge sprout forth.”

* * *

How warm is the embrace of the mansion refuge from the centipedes?

It feels fortunate to return home to someone waiting for you.

It feels good to have someone who positively expects and welcomes you.

Thus, life within the mansion should have been filled with comfort.

Closer to joy than happiness.

More of an everyday feeling than something special.

It should have been a time that felt amiable and comforting.

However, instead of daily happiness, ominous news arrived.

“U-uh, sister. Y-you’re! You’re in sorcery now—!”

A voice resonated through the smartphone.

Perhaps in a fluster, Ella’s voice was imbued with a mix of panic and despair.

Moreover, the hurried explanations were utterly disjointed.

Yet, it was precisely because of this that I could easily discern the situation was serious.

Ella, who always tried to maintain her lady-like demeanor, being this flustered hinted at the severity of the matter.

Thus, Iarin and Park Jinseong visited the school as Ella had described and found Anastasia peacefully asleep on an altar made of stacked bamboo.

The white girl lay atop the altar made of bamboo.

Her appearance resembled that of the time Ella had tried to offer her as a sacrifice in Russia…

Or perhaps it called to mind the princess from fairy tales who had succumbed to wicked magic.

“Jinseong! Jinseong!!! Please! S-save, s-sis!”

Seeing Park Jinseong, Ella shed all semblance of her usual noble composure, revealing an unfiltered image of a young girl in a panic over her blood kin’s impending death.

While she cried out Park Jinseong’s name, she conveyed no questions about what was happening, only the plea for help.

That was likely due to the trauma she endured from the ‘altar’ in Russia…

Or perhaps she vaguely sensed that the ‘altar’ upon which she lay was sinister in nature.

“Frau Winter—no. Lady Ella.”

Park Jinseong used the term ‘Lady Ella’ to calm the frantic Ella, hoping to forcibly restore her composure by reminding her of the lady-like qualities Ella usually emphasized.

It seemed effective, as Ella showed signs of calming down, and Park Jinseong smiled reassuringly before approaching to check on Anastasia.

And when he looked at Anastasia with a burning intensity—

‘If you seek spring, come here.’

He saw it.

A burning city.

Words formed by flames.

A colossal altar shaped from fire and city.

Ashtosh Singh was sending him thoughts through dreams.

‘You are calling me.’

An invitation.

A wicked invitation crafted from burned parchment.

An invitation in the shape of a beautiful girl…

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