Story Reader / Floating Record / ER10 Deceivers' Rapture / Story
Las Prados
October 2
...If you truly want to break free from conventions without hurting your loved ones, then at least you can pursue art. I'm not joking—art isn't merely a way to make a living.
For God's sake, learn an art form. It makes your life more bearable, and who knows—it might even gradually cleanse your soul.
Practice pen calligraphy on the backs of playing cards, mix drinks with mint and spirits; tell stories, even terrible ones; someday your friends will hear your fictional plots and believe them to be true.
Do your very best, and you will discover traces of divine revelation, and receive your ultimate reward.
The reader closes the hardcover book, and a deathly silence falls over the gathering.
A moment later, scattered applause rises, while the impatient audience members have already begun to stand up one after another.
The banner for Theodore Anson Sterling's book-sharing event still hangs overhead as the disappointed elite, who had the leisure to attend such activities, file out through the archway of the makeshift lecture hall.
The rental fee for this hotel's multipurpose hall must be quite steep, no? Quite the ambitious venue for a debut author's event in Las Prados.
Being nothing but an overworked voting machine is so tedious. As elected representatives, we have many ways to give back to society... such as making contributions to artistic and cultural initiatives.
The event sponsor responds.
...Come to think of it, I recall you already made a business trip here in mid-July, shortly after the bill passed. Frequent visits to Las Prados... Are you in a hurry to court new sponsors?
The middle-aged woman's words cut through the air with icy sarcasm.
With Polard's purse strings in your grip and Kurono himself singing your praises—well, I completely understand why a rising star would sneer at a washed-up nobody like me.
At least you know your place.
You see, idle hands need entertainment. I've been consuming so much literature lately that I could probably sweat ink.
Writers are fascinating - once they realize you've actually read their work, they'll confess everything from their childhood cat's cradle games to their first kiss.
He lowers his voice mysteriously.
Word has it that the inspiration for this new book came from a funeral Sterkin attended years ago.
With your frivolous attitude, don't those pretentious literary types look down on you?
How can you have a say if you don't experience it firsthand? Like that person on stage just now... I bet you've already seen his name in the news.
Probably just some inconspicuous line in some tabloid? I've never had the leisure to subscribe to such things.
Oh, I'm certainly not referring to that ridiculous name, Stergin. According to rumors I've heard in certain circles, that's just one of his many pen names.
Congratulations on finding your new hobby, but I'm out of time.
The two have already arrived at the hotel lobby, and the woman is clearly fed up with the endless rambling.
It's fine. See you later, Ms. Palangoski. We'll continue our discussion next time.
...Hmph, suit yourself.
After a perfunctory handshake, she glances at her wristwatch and turns toward the vehicle waiting at the bottom of the gentle slope.
The woman fails to notice that her cufflinks have been swiftly swapped. Contempt for this frivolous colleague has dulled her vigilance.
The down-on-his-luck writer doesn't leave with the dispersing crowd, instead taking his place beside the blonde man.
Thank you for your generous support.
Not at all! Your new work is brilliant as always. When it's officially published, make sure to bring me a signed copy.
He exclaims with genuine admiration.
You flatter me.
Oh, that reminds me. The fountain pen I borrowed during our last conversation, I've kept it close ever since.
Now that we have a moment in private, I should return it to its proper owner.
The councilor pulls a black and gold pen from his suit jacket pocket, its diamond embellishment unusually extravagant for a writing instrument.
He deliberately caresses the prominent protrusion with his thumb before handing it to the writer.
Thank you. If you'll pardon me, I have a meeting with Madam Monzano. I should take my leave.
The vehicle leaves Las Prados' neon sprawl, heading toward the less bustling residential area.
High-rises thin out, giving way to low-rise blocks.
The woman picks up the microphone from the armrest and dials into the communication channel.
As we feared, Kephart is handling funds of questionable origin. Should we activate "Embroidery Scissors"?
After all these years, "Embroidery Scissors" may be rusty. I think we should give that girl he took with him back then a chance instead.
A hoarse, deep male voice casually issues instructions from the other end.
...What do you mean, sir?
We can write off "Embroidery Scissors" easily enough, but that girl's special—she's the last living candidate from the original batch. I'd say she's worth investing in.
So, we let her get close to Monzano?
Since when do you think so simplistically?... Activate "Embroidery Scissors" and Monzano will smell the threat immediately. If she wants to send a message, she'll just have him killed.
And by using Monzano's hand to eliminate "Embroidery Scissors", that girl will have a chance to show what she's capable of.
The man on the phone seems quite pleased with himself, while Palangoski just silently listens to the instructions.
Madam Monzano's Mansion
Fifteen minutes ago
Eleanor stands at the exit of the reception room, waiting for the distinguished guests to arrive.
Today is the day Kephart promised for the visit of new investors to the Bocknon Plan.
A discreet black sedan arrives right on schedule. The girl escorts the emerging passenger indoors.
Welcome to Las Prados. I'm Madam Monzano's niece, Eleanor. How may I address you, sir?
Eleanor never doubts her memory. Three months ago, the visitor standing before her had appeared in the entertainment hall.
He had watched the entire roulette game from a corner.
Just call me Trout.
Mr. Trout... ah, you must be that celebrated author everyone's discussing...
...and a notorious fugitive.
Without wasting time on pleasantries, the visitor begins testing the girl's attitude.
Those who live in the whirlpool of public opinion are always entangled with all sorts of rumors.
Rest assured, sir. "What happens in Las Prados, stays in Las Prados" is this city's unwritten rule.
Never mind. Honesty works best with open-minded people.
My personal hobbies have nothing to do with business, but I'm flattered a young lady knows my work.
A small gift to commemorate our meeting, Eleanor.
He emphasizes the words "token of our meeting". The man takes out a slender case and lifts the lid—revealing an elegant black and gold fountain pen resting quietly on velvet.
You flatter me, sir.
She notices the visitor's gaze lingering on the diamond decoration of her pen, and perceptively examines the small protrusion herself, making sounds of admiration.
Familiar footsteps draw closer, and a woman appears at the doorway of the reception room.
By the time she sees Trout on the sofa, her professional smile is perfectly rehearsed.
There were too many trivial matters at the casino that needed my attention, so I simply couldn't welcome you at the airport personally.
This is my niece Eleanor. Please forgive us for having a child receive you...
Not at all. Such poise clearly reflects excellent upbringing.
The man rises and bows, skillfully exchanging the pleasantries.
Eleanor nods respectfully to her aunt, briefly bids farewell to the visitor, then leaves the reception room.
Entering the hallway, she makes sure no one is around before taking out the pen. Gold filigree patterns converge at one end of the barrel, while a small diamond decoration emits an almost imperceptible green glow.
Eleanor knows exactly what this is—she's more surprised that such primitive listening devices still exist in this day and age.
Why Trout would present such a welcome gift remains completely unknown. But she knows she must seize every opportunity—more information means the advantage of the first move.
She unscrews the diamond and places it against her ear canal, then gently pushes the pen clip.
So, we let her get close to Monzano?
Without the slightest interference, a clear female voice immediately responds.
Based on the audio quality, Eleanor guesses that the device on the other end must be attached near the target's hand.
Since when do you think so simplistically?... Activate "Embroidery Scissors" and Monzano will smell the threat immediately. If she wants to send a message, she'll just have him killed.
Once we're rid of that sanctimonious scum, things will be much easier.
Imagine the scandal - a high-society fatherless girl becoming the Achilles' heel of a city's most powerful magnate. With Monzano backed into a corner, the girl finds her golden opportunity.
The raspy male voice drips with smugness.
Killing two birds with one stone.
Heh... Polard was a magnum opus of "Embroidery Scissors". And you were his former apprentice.
And now you're using others to eliminate your own master. I suppose that's the coming-of-age ritual in your line of work.
Eleanor hears the woman's slight intake of breath.
She seems to be brewing something inside, but after a moment, she still responds with the same cold voice.
I will ensure your instructions are properly conveyed.
The conversation comes to an abrupt end.
December 23
Christmas season has arrived again, but Eleanor knows her aunt is in no mood to celebrate.
As she approaches the suite doorway, she hears the rather agitated argument—lately, these haywire moments during calls with Kephart have become increasingly frequent.
Eleanor lingers at the door, wisely not knocking. She knows her aunt doesn't mind the eavesdropping—Monzano always enjoyed being underestimated.
...The Polard spies have been crawling through our streets every other day. You can't seriously expect me to believe they're just your hired help checking up on things?
I know the old man wasn't interested from the very beginning—this so-called project restart was entirely your personal initiative. However, as long as the money keeps flowing, I won't interfere with your tedious internal disputes...
But I must warn you—no one causes trouble in my territory and gets away with it.
She hangs up the phone decisively, seemingly having made her decision.
Eleanor silently counts to ten, then gently pushes the door handle.
Come in.
Eleanor takes a step forward, positioning herself near the doorway. She knows Madam Monzano won't have much to say.
Did you need something from me, ma'am?
Christmas is coming up. Time to take care of the usual shopping.
Here's the list. Don't mess it up.
As she speaks, she paces forward and hands the girl a roll of distinctly classical parchment paper.
Eleanor scans the contents and notices a term she hasn't seen in a long time. But she isn't surprised.
"Feather Accessories".
All clothing gifts, I see. Which atelier has caught your fancy this season?
The Rosewater Tailor Shop.
She casually drops the name with an air of nonchalance.
This is exactly what Eleanor had anticipated, and she'd even prepared the necessary item in advance—an elegant leather document case.
A necessary misdirection, enough to wash her hands clean of any responsibility.
<color=#ffee82ff>Rosewater Ltd. EST.2132</color>, the eye-catching gold-embossed lettering centered prominently on the case.
Be it knight or pawn, each has its place in the intricate design of the chessboard. Even chess pieces that have awakened with consciousness should still move according to the player's strategy.
Each move is like unwinding silk from a cocoon, until the king unwittingly exposes his position.
She has a mission that must be completed.
Las Prados Cemetery
Fourteen years ago
The man at the temporary podium wears an ostentatious cross necklace. After the band pauses, he clears his throat and begins reciting mechanically from his script.
...For the faithful, God has prepared wonders no eye has witnessed, no ear has perceived, and no mind has grasped.
Fred Sinclair and Phyllis Sinclair now live in the glory of God.
Today, we lay to rest only the physical forms of our loved ones. Their spirits and souls—their remarkable dedication to this city—remain with us still.
And in the love of friends and family, in the hope of their children, the Sinclair couple lives on eternally.
The priest gently closes the Antique Book before him as the flute music resumes. Beginning from his left side, the funeral attendees approach one by one, placing their hands upon the reddish-brown coffin to bid farewell to the departed soul.
Arms dealers from the Copperfield Consortium, chairpersons of the World Government Parliament's Budget Committee, heirs to the Akdilek energy empire—these are faces that appear so frequently in the news that even children would recognize them.
More indistinct figures blend into the queue—unremarkable background players united by their Kurono Group affiliation.
And the author hidden among them, who famously never appears on book jackets or interviews, remains perfectly anonymous.
The girl stands out as utterly out of place in this adult world.
Hey, it's your turn!
The deep yet crude prompting yanks her thoughts back to reality.
Um, alright...
She steps forward, her gaze firmly locked on the grass beneath her feet.
Unlike those before her who hastily placed their palms on the coffin just to get it over with, she hesitates for a long while before finally extending the index finger.
Her nails, sharp as blades, stand in jarring contrast to the girl's delicate frame.
She gently traces a crescent moon on the smooth, double-arched surface, then quickly adds a small cross beneath it.
...
The robed host at the podium witnesses everything clearly, slightly furrowing his brow in confusion.
Yet the man reminding the girl tears through the solemnity with an extremely savage roar.
Old Fred never should have raised a viper like you! He told me so himself before he di—oh, God forgive me! I mean, before he passed away!
You murderous scum! Burn in hell!
And to think he named you the sole beneficiary in his will! That's just like him—soft-hearted to his dying breath!
The dignitaries, having finished paying their respects and gradually returning to their temporary seats, instantly have their attention captured by the sudden incident.
Sir, I don't understand what you mean. Are you saying you were close friends with my parents when they were alive?
She feigns shock, but doesn't seem to retaliate.
Her polite detachment turns his rage to sand against stone.
The man's face twitches—she knows that look: shock, disgust, and a jumble of fear.
We all know family ties run deep, but you, my parents' friends, shared decades with them. I've had only years.
This gentleman is probably overcome with grief.
Her surprise melts into a smile. She's steering the conversation now.
The onlookers finally decide to intervene, hands clamping the man's shoulders.
People comfort him, interpreting his unrelenting anger as inconsolable grief.
I shall leave you all with some space for quiet reflection.
With an apologetic gift for her early departure and a reserved smile still in place, she leaves behind the impression of an impeccably well-bred young lady—truly admirable.
Eleanor walks toward the limousine parked at the cemetery entrance, where a tall, imposing figure already stands waiting.
Well then, I am your legal guardian starting today.
Hello, Aunt.
Her posture is as lowly as a stone monument base buried in soil. From this moment on, she deliberately crafts the illusion of hierarchy between them.
But why not? A clean slate has its advantages.
Massive accounts, nuclear-proof vaults, and discreet intermediaries who know how to deal with "adult matters".
The girl imagines countless tomorrows where she'll carve her crescents and crosses, over and over.
December 24
23:30
The cloying sweetness of eggnog clashes with greasy turkey remnants, turning what should be an elegant affair into something decidedly less so.
The girl clears the aftermath of the drinking games, restoring the parlor to its pristine state.
Monzano, who normally delights in personally hosting private Christmas parties, was completely absent from tonight's social gathering.
Knocking—
As the clock's hands strike midnight vertically, the door knock arrives in perfect synchrony.
I'm coming.
She pulls open the wide wooden door, welcoming the woman inside.
Just as Eleanor had anticipated, her aunt didn't return alone.
Behind Monzano stands a slender figure.
There's been a fire at the Rosewater tailor shop. The situation... isn't good.
This is the shop owner's adopted daughter. Maid, sister... call her what you will. She'll be living with us now.
After this curt explanation to Eleanor, her gaze shifts to the newcomer, delivering a cold command.
Introduce yourselves.
Many years later,
under the crimson glow of emergency lights, Eleanor would still recall that mechanical, lifeless voice.
Like a battery-powered doll,
like code that could be rewritten at will,
like a precise mechanical clock, perpetually following its programmed instructions.
A perfect birthday gift:
Reunion.
Discord. My name is Discord.
