Story Reader / Festival Event Story / Mercy in All Things / Story
I was actually going to take you to the pontiff's private residence next... but how in the world did you know it was at the top of this tower? Don't tell me the press has already caught wind of that.
The glass elevator climbs steadily, dappled in the light of a spring sun. With every shadow of a crossbeam, another floor falls away.
The city sprawls below, shrinking into an intricate map beneath your feet.
You open your mouth, but words fail as the memory returns: the chaos of the funeral, the sheer absurdity of that conversation with the dead pontiff. It all floods back, silencing you.
Oh no. Don't say it. Don't tell me the late pontiff told you again.
Tch, that's the third time today you've pulled that "Inspectorate" card. You know that, right? Anyone else would have filed a formal complaint after the cemetery. I'm a saint for putting up with you.
The elevator stops at the top floor.
Anyway, we're here. Stick close.
The elevator doors open. You and Shorthalt proceed down a long, silent corridor, cross a prominent security line, and push your way through the heavy door at the end.
The afternoon light filtering through the windows is weak, diluted to a pale, dusty glow. It's just enough to illuminate the entire, still room.
This one's with me, from the Inspectorate.
After following Shorthalt in nodding to the other officers on duty, you begin to survey the room.
The modest furnishings stand frozen in time, everyday items sitting neatly in place beneath a uniform layer of dust. The room has been under seal since its owner's death, untouched by any cleaning hand.
The rug is a chaos of messy footprints and dark, faded bloodstains. All portable evidence is long gone, leaving only the ghost of a life lived—the permanent impressions worn into the floorboards, and the stark, newly chalked outline where the body had fallen.
I still don't get why you had to come all the way out here. We've got photos, scans, evidence bags... Couldn't you have just reviewed the file back at the station?
Besides, with all due respect, what are you hoping to find that we missed? I heard you're some legal services prosecutor... so you studied law in school?
Crouching low, you sift through the chaotic impressions on the rug and isolate several distinct sets of footprints.
The first set—the most violent—stomped directly through the heart of the blood spatter. The force of the step sprayed droplets in a wild arc and left a deep, gore-filled impression behind.
Yeah, that's from our killer. Lesti, the Kerentosian assassin. I assume you've read the basic file on her?
Lesti started at a military academy in Kerentos, but she washed out early. Came to Thebesia to study international relations. After that, she never really settled down, bounced between public information firms, law offices, you name it.
Right before this, she was just another paper-pusher in the logistics department of a military contractor.
The officer makes no comment on your professionalism, simply nodding in silent approval of your investigation and analysis.
As you mention the second set of footprints, your gaze drifts back to the crimson stain on the rug.
These prints tell a different story: the owner backing away through the blood, likely barefoot, leaving a trail of smeared, sticky sole-prints in her retreat.
Well. Seems our former pontiff was quite... uh...
While the officer fumbles, searching for a diplomatic phrase, you cut in with a rather blunt and "intimate" assessment.
Oh? A sharp observation indeed.
Don't turn around. Don't rush to put a face to this voice... Just continue. Your logic is a captivating thing to witness.
That glimpse in the cemetery this morning planted a seed of [illusion] in your mind. Now, as you stand here outlining your deductions, you can hear the Pontiff's voice, keen with interest, whispering beside your ear.
It worms its way into your ears, creating an irresistible tickle deep in your consciousness.
Shhh... For now, consider me just an [illusion].
Then you feel it: the phantom sensation of the Pontiff's hands caressing the back of your neck. Her gentle voice soothes the goosebumps it raised, a hypnotic murmur that anchors your gaze forward.
Now, where did we wander from? Ah, yes. The Pontiff was wearing cotton socks.
Because the snow has only just retreated, but the warmth is yet to truly settle in these stones. The hearths here... they never quite learned how to stave off the deep cold. One must take their own precautions.
You would have to ask the diligent little hands who see to these halls. It was never a discomfort I paid much mind to, so I never thought to ask.
Your finger traces the path of the two sets of bloody footprints, a long, grim trail leading straight to the bedroom terrace.
Still as curious as ever, I see.
Her voice, laced with amusement, whispers at the edges of your consciousness as her gentle hands cover your eyes.
You have already gathered so many of the pieces. Arranging them into the moment itself should be within your grasp, shouldn't it?
In an instant, the world is sucked into a vacuum. The voices of Shorthalt and the other officers dissolve into silence, until there is nothing but the Pontiff's presence, embracing you from behind.
Let us walk it back, to the very beginning. The moment the door sighed open... and our assassin, Lesti, stepped into the light.
With eyes closed, your legs move to her guidance, stepping backward until your heels meet the threshold of her quarters.
It was the evening of March 20th, the spring equinox. The Pontiff's afternoon work was complete. Then came a half-hour of silent prayer. Afterward, a return to the desk, to the solace of a book. This lasted until the clock's hands found 6:15.
And in that moment, a sound pulled her from her thoughts. The door opened before its time, but the bishops were not due for another fifteen minutes. So the Pontiff raised her voice and asked who was there.
At the doorway, your eyes open. This time, the killer, Lesti, has already pushed the door open, standing right before you.
Existing only in this [illusion], she cannot perceive you, an observer from [reality]. Her eyes are wide, pupils dilated; you can almost feel the heat radiating from her skin. Her right hand is clenched white-knuckled around a hidden object, while her left palm has left a damp, ghostly imprint on the heavy wood.
But most striking are her fingers. From their tips extend several slender, questing "tendrils," more than you've seen on anyone else today.
As if on cue, the Pontiff's voice calls out from within the room.
Miss Secretary, the meeting isn't for another quarter hour. You may return then.
Huff... Fourteen minutes. That's enough.
Lesti slips into the Thebesian Pontiff's quarters, her soft boots leaving a trail of impressions on the rug.
For the trampled fields of Kerentos! For the birds shot from our skies! Let the oppressed pray for me...!
Ah, no wonder I've sensed so much... It was never my secretary.
Lesti rounds the living room corner, and freezes. There, standing as if she had been waiting all along, is the very Pontiff she had come to hunt.
You... knew?
I knew only that you would come. The rest was shadow. But if you wish to speak, I will listen.
Don't play the saint! You've colluded with those damned ministers! You let them steal our land and kidnap our children. You've dumped war, disease, and filth on our doorstep, destroying our meadows and ponds...
Their actions are not mine. They do not move by my will.
Lies! They'd never dare without your silent approval! Every one of you wants to strip our land bare, and when the flesh is gone, you'll crack our bones for the marrow!
...You did not come for answers.
The Pontiff gazes dispassionately at Lesti's fingers.
How dare you... How dare you wear that face of innocence... How dare you let it all happen! All under the Holy's gaze, with the Holy's blessing!
With trembling rage, Lesti reveals the blade hidden in her right hand. She levels it at the Pontiff, draws a sharp, shuddering breath, and steels her resolve.
I have nothing left to lose. If I must kill a god to be free, then so be it.
...The truth is lost to you now. You see only the flame of hate.
The hint of pity in the Pontiff's voice is a spark in a barrel of gunpowder. It detonates Lesti's control, unleashing a blinding fury.
You're right. I didn't come for answers. Watch closely, Your Holiness. Today, I bring the answer. This is my answer!
Lesti commits to the kill. She drives forward with a powerful step, springs into the air, and hurls her entire weight at the Pontiff.
Within the [illusion], time distorts. You squeeze your eyes shut, deliberately turning away from the murderous arc of the blade, refusing to witness the first spray of blood.
But then, those gentle hands from behind press against your temples, compelling your gaze toward the horrific spectacle.
Look. This is the moment.
At 18:19:20, she plunged the knife into my chest.
The knife sinks into flesh with a wet, soft thud. A crimson plume erupts. The hand clenched around the hilt trembles violently as livid red tendrils—like threads of life itself—are swiftly siphoned into the Pontiff's chest.
A torrent of blood soaks the faces of the assassin and her victim, matting hair and streaking down their bodies in thick rivulets before cascading onto the rug below—forming the exact, gruesome depression where you had just been tracing footprints.
As if untouched by pain, the Pontiff stumbles backward in silence. Lesti, still locked to the knife, is pulled step for stumbling step.
Who sent you here? So much "guidance" has been poured into you. You must open your eyes and see the strings you mistake for your own will.
Don't you dare! No one pulls my strings! This is my choice! My answer for every horror you created!
If my death is the solution you believe will save this world, then I will not stop you. I accept it.
Just... shut up!
But you will see the world that follows. And you will find it is not the salvation your current self dreams of.
Stop talking! How can you still... still be...
Pure terror contorts Lesti's face as she realizes she's facing a monster that refuses to die. The blood-drenched figure before her pulls her steadily backward in a grotesque, shuffling waltz across the rug.
At the macabre dance's end, the Pontiff—"The Merciful One"—releases a deep, final sigh.
...Poor child. You are caught in a current you cannot escape, yet the shore it leads to... you are not prepared to behold.
...!
The world spins. Retreating back to the terrace's door, the Pontiff falls, dragging the assassin down with her.
Your gaze follows their collapse until they come to rest at the edge of the terrace.
The mental [illusion] created by Pontiff Ishmael vanishes in an instant, replaced by a white chalk outline of a human corpse.
And so, the deduction concludes. At precisely 18:25:01... "I" died, right on this spot. Do you see it clearly now?
The assassin, Lesti, had no desire to flee, nor the time. My secretary, the one who manages my documents, came looking for me. She discovered the scene. Security was alerted, and they took Lesti into custody.
Seeing that your gaze is now locked on the chalk outline, the [illusion] lets her hands fall from your cheeks. She regards her own death with a tone of detached amusement, like a distant observer.
What questions remain?
Your attention shifts to the terrace door. The chalk outline stretches toward it, as if the fallen Pontiff's body had shoved the door open in its final throes.
And the bloodstains, possessing a grim purpose of their own, trail out of sight behind the terrace door.
...Then open it. See for yourself. Trust your instincts.
The voice sounds pleased.
In this world, the "divine power" can guide all things. All except you. You must never forget that.
With those words, the [illusion] withdraws her hands from your face and dissolves into nothingness behind you.
Without the [illusion]'s guidance, the [reality] of the room swims back into focus, yet feels strangely blurred, like a photograph losing its definition.
There is, however, not a sound to be heard.
You turn. The officers stationed around the room, including Shorthalt, have collapsed in silence on the floor. Their fingertips appear "clean," all traces of the squirming "tendrils" gone.
A quick check confirms they are only asleep, their breaths deep and steady.
They cannot answer, offering only a silent, unconscious permission to proceed.
You are, disturbingly, almost accustomed to such inexplicable events. After dragging each officer to the couch and arranging them as comfortably as possible, you draw a steadying breath and make your choice.
The scene outside is unexpected. Instead of bright sunshine, you're met with a soft metallic radiance that floods the space.
Countless gears interlock in a silent, perfect dance. Their gentle, cosmic whirring charts the very mechanisms of "time," "space," and "causality" in motion.
Before this immense clockwork, a white figure stands with her back to you, calmly observing and fine-tuning the speed of the turning gears.
The sight is profoundly solemn and perfectly ordered, yet it feels fundamentally absurd.
A name known to all of Thebesia, to the entire world, rises to your tongue. You open your mouth, ready to whisper it in reverence for this singular "absurdity."
Shh.
The former Pontiff, the one who should be resting in a grave on the outskirts, turns. She raises a single finger to your lips, gently preempting your call before it can be born.
Did you notice anything interesting on your journey here? I'd love to hear what caught your eye.
Not even a single wildflower? You are as direct as ever.
The truths you seek are like a tangled forest. To show you all of it at once would only leave you lost.
So... let's start with what you're most curious about right now.
Ishmael turns and lies down at the terrace entrance, her body settling precisely within the bloodstains and white chalk outline on the floor.
Then she blinks up at you.
As you just witnessed, I was stabbed in the chest by Lesti, the assassin from Kerentos, and collapsed right here.
As the guards took her away, a medical team swarmed in, so dedicated to saving my life.
Originally, I intended to comply with their diligent efforts. To be dutifully rushed away, patched up, taken to a hospital for stitches, and declared a miracle. A neat, tidy end to the whole "assassination" incident.
...But then I noticed the medics. I knew some of them. Quite well, in fact.
Oh, let's see... more than a few "esteemed" councilors. Even the Minister of State himself.
She blinks again, as if truly reliving the scene from that day before her eyes.
Their faces were like a gallery of masks, the expression of each one more transparent than the last.
Some were terrified, wailing, "Without Ishmael, who will deliver the divine will?" Others could barely hide their thrill. In one man's eyes, I could already see the Thebesian army marching onto Kerentosian soil a month later...
And one... one actually checked my pulse and cheered. "She's fading! No more commandments, no more guidance!"
And I realized. My presence wasn't a shield; it was a spark. I had become the kindling for every opportunistic ambition in the room.
So I thought... perhaps it would be more fitting if I simply... went along.
In a way. But it also allowed me to do what was necessary. To converge the "guidance."
You see more than most. Yes.
Given that you've forgotten everything... that story is a long one. And it requires time we may not have.
In short, I gave those who wished me dead a convincing corpse. It freed them to indulge their ambitions without restraint. And it allowed the real me to wait here, for the one person untouched by "guidance" to find me.
I know it is. You are the only one.
That is the clearest truth I can offer you now. Is it not the answer you came for?
She reaches upward, and you respond in silence, extending your hand to help the Pontiff, a being who has transcended life and death, rise from the bloodied rug.
You've gone quiet. I can see the conflict swirling behind your eyes.
It's like watching a silent debate... "How irresponsible. Your fake death brought real suffering to Kerentos." "It was inevitable. Someone was always determined to wage war." And, "Is there anything I can even do now?"
Witnessing your inner contradictions and painful struggle, she shows a touch of generosity.
Ask me anything. I will hold nothing back.
No. Quite the opposite, it is the kindling that started it.
You would leave so soon? After a simple "thank you"? There are still so many truths about this world—about you—that you do not know.
...Are their names Lucia, Lee, and Liv?
Your affirmative answer evokes a rare, subtle expression—
I must apologize. For this, I am truly sorry.
She apologizes without any apparent reason.
I do not believe you will be able to return to those three children. You've been marked. This world has taken notice of you.
About to leave, you freeze mid-step at her words and turn back to look at her.
Precisely as it sounds. You are an anomaly, a variable it cannot account for. And so, it will try to correct you. Wherever you go, you will feel a pressure, a weight that seeks to grind you down.
A misplaced step on a stairwell. A runaway carriage on a busy street. A snapped cable on an elevator... The world will become a dangerous place of unfortunate coincidences.
And it has already begun within you. You feel it, don't you? Your own body is turning against you.
Ishmael raises her hand and places it on your chest. Beneath the warm skin, your heart beats with an erratic rhythm against her palm.
You're ill.
Is that what they told you? You should seek a second opinion.
Ishmael arches an eyebrow, as if to say, "See? Just like that."
Unless we find a way to shield you, you may not even make it out of this tower.
She watches you, carefully gauging your emotions, and offers a slight, knowing smile.
Trust me. Let me help you. Or, if you cannot bring yourself to trust... then simply stay close.
Seeing is believing. If you doubt me, allow me to escort you. We will take the elevator down together. Just consider it my courtesy.
Do not be afraid. This is not a bad thing. We will have time. To talk. To understand one another.
The glass elevator door closes at the top floor, embracing its two passengers before beginning its descent.
The long afternoon of investigation and conversation has bled into evening. As the car glides downward, the deep orange glow of the sunset streams through the glass, flashing between the building's horizontal beams like a steady pulse with each passing floor.
The city sprawls below, shrinking into an intricate map beneath your feet. The view is strikingly familiar, a near-perfect mirror of the dream you had earlier in the carriage.
Ishmael produces a paulownia wood die from seemingly nowhere, idly rolling it between her fingertips.
Tell me about yourself. We have just over three minutes before we reach the ground plaza.
Everything. Your very existence is a question I cannot answer.
If you need a place to start... tell me about the three children you care for.
Or perhaps how you came to this world, your upbringing, or what shaped you into a prosecutor.
Or simply... the things you cherish, the people you hold dear.
Your own thoughts drift to your family, and your gaze softens, looking past the glass to the setting sun. Your words gradually fade into a contemplative silence.
What is it? What's on your mind... Gray Raven?
Ishmael embraces this tender moment, a soft nickname escaping her lips.
But the words don't reach you; your thoughts have already sailed beyond the spires of mighty Thebesia, across the seas to distant Kerentos, and are finally held captive by the dying sun on the horizon. You raise a hand, pointing toward its warm, fading glow.
The sunset...?
Ishmael, seemingly moved by your remark, turns to witness what she had never paused to appreciate: "this world's sun."
Her features soften in the amber light.
...Ah. A rare, rosy hue. Do you favor pink sunsets?
Your gaze is drawn back to her, lingering on her eyes for a heartbeat before it flickers, involuntarily, to her hair, now gilded by the sunset.
Oh, you're thinking, "It's the same shade as Ishmael's hair." How poetic.
No. It was only a guess. Your mind is the one place I cannot see. Never forget, you are the one gear that turns outside the machine.
Don't worry. It was only a guess. Your mind is the one place I cannot see. Never forget, you are the one gear that turns outside the machine.
And I appreciate your admiration. I cherish the way you see beauty.
One minute. Just enough time to explain what comes next.
You see, this elevator shaft is transparent, but not uniformly fortified. Only the glass on specific floors is bulletproof.
I'm implying that if a sniper were to take a shot at us right now, our survival would be a matter of pure chance. A roll of the dice.
She takes half a step forward, leaning close to your ear.
Picture this: in a nearby residential building, a highly skilled professional assassin has already set up a sniper rifle, waiting as this elevator carries us downward... with their crosshair aimed directly at someone's head.
But what if the situation were worse? What if the "world" itself is the marksman? It wouldn't need a sniper. It could simply bend the light of the setting sun, guide a particle with the gentlest nudge... Whiz—
So, guess. Which pane will it strike? The reinforced one... or the one that will shatter?
And who do you think it's truly aiming for? Me, someone already declared dead... or you?
Let us consult the ledger of fate... which has never been balanced. The distribution of vulnerable panes is...
Suddenly, Ishmael leans in, pressing her forehead against yours in an intimate gesture. Her fingers loosen, and the die cradled in her palm tumbles into the space between you.
Your eyes, reflexively following its fall, catch a perfect, frozen glimpse of the number facing up in the final second.
"1."
...How unfortunate.
Your probability of survival is precisely zero.
Whiz—
In the distance, the setting sun trembles slightly.
You have to admit, the onomatopoeia she uttered earlier mirrors reality all too perfectly. In the same instant, something tears through the air. A tiny hole punctures the glass elevator shaft, and a spiderweb of cracks explodes outward.
In the stretched silence before death, you see it, the "bullet shot by the world itself."
It's a crimson filament, thin as silk, writhing through the air, identical to the red threads sprouting from other people's fingertips.
But a cascade of pink-white hair arrives first. Ishmael throws herself into the path, shielding you.
But you're right before me. How could I let a death so devoid of meaning touch you?
Her voice resonates directly in your mind. The crimson thread pierces through her right carotid artery and bursts from the left side of her neck, pulling a violent gush of blood with it.
Half a second later, it splatters across you, warm and thick.
At the base of the downtown tower, a scrum of reporters and photographers clogs the entrance, shoving for the perfect shot.
Where did that leak come from? Hey! Which outlet broke the story? Who's claiming the Pontiff faked her death? Hey—
Ugh, if you're not in the loop, stop blocking the road! Just move it!
The frenzied reporter, all sharp elbows, shoves the bewildered woman aside, letting her stumble rather than miss his chance. His camera is already raised, snapping a frantic picture of the glass elevator doors.
Only after securing the shot does he bother to toss some perfunctory words of explanation.
They're saying the Pontiff's been holed up in there the whole time! That big police announcement about her burial this morning? A complete sham! The Pontiff herself is gonna walk out that door any second!
...That doesn't make any sense. Seriously, where did you hear that?
Who cares where it came from?! Look, the elevator! It's coming down!
The elevator glides to a smooth, silent halt at the base of the tower.
The reporters crash forward in a frantic rush, a frenzy of lenses desperate to capture the first image of "the Pontiff who's truly still alive." A storm of camera flashes explodes against the glass, flooding the interior with a blinding, strobing glare.
The doors part slowly.
Ish...
The interior is a slaughterhouse. Blood spatters half the cabin, thick rivulets slowly tracing paths down the glass. Lying in the center of the expanding crimson pool is the very "Pontiff" they had all been waiting for.
And standing beside the body is a figure frozen in place, baptized in the Pontiff's blood.
A single drop falls from the person's blood-soaked hair. It strikes the polished face of a paulownia wood die, landing directly on the number "1."
...Ishmael!!!
