Story Reader / Festival Event Story / Mercy in All Things / Story
"In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations, and epochs, it is the rule."
You have fallen into a kind of madness, so profound that it's impossible to tell whether this is reality or dream.
In the haze of your memory, you recall making several failed calls from the attic of Ishmael's... Ms. Raheleh's house. You drank a cup of warm milk, fidgeted with a set of wooden carved dice from a drawer, and finally lay down on the bed.
Ishmael was there beside you, leaning close to whisper something intimately in your ear, though the words themselves are lost to you now. You were swiftly pulled into the black hole of dreams.
When your eyes open again, you find yourself once more within the forest of gears, the place you had first met the true Ishmael.
Though "standing" isn't the right word; you are suspended, "floating" in the still air.
Your physical body has no mass, and your soul doesn't weigh twenty-one grams.
It's all "zero." You are a perfect emptiness. All that remains is the capacity to feel.
Ishmael glides toward you, looking every bit the Pontiff, yet now with something else—
Six white wings arching from her back.
You don't even seem surprised by my changes anymore. I can't decide if that's progress or a cause for concern.
Do you find them beautiful? Or would you rather say you "like" them?
Heh... Come then. Let's see how much more of the truth we can reveal.
Taking your hand, Ishmael places it on the nearest gear and presses until it begins to turn.
Do you remember the question I just posed to you? What would you do if the power of "guidance" were yours to wield?
That opportunity is now before you. I want to see the path you choose.
Light pulses from the turning gear, distorting gravity and sending your head spinning.
An invisible force snatches you up and hurls you out. In an instant, you stumble, landing hard on the couch in the Pontiff's quarters.
Behind you, the terrace door that hides countless gears slams shut.
You have ten minutes until the ceremony begins. If you don't fix yourself up, you'll be late.
Her tone is disarmingly casual, as if she were merely asking how you take your coffee. She sits at an adjacent table, facing you, her hands folded and her chin resting thoughtfully upon them.
The "new Pontiff's" inauguration...? How interesting. I wasn't aware anyone was trying to usurp my title.
I'm afraid you're mistaken. The Pontiff's name is still Ishmael.
I don't know what long dream you've been lost in, but allow me to remind you: today is your inauguration ceremony, Chairman... or should I say, "Chief Prosecutor"?
You now have nine minutes.
Ishmael seems accustomed to your bewilderment. Offering no further explanation, she closes the distance between you and begins to adjust your attire, her movements deft and practiced.
Your memory continues to be a puzzle... one that all the hospital scans insist doesn't exist. But don't worry. I'm prepared to explain this as many times as you need.
Four years ago, Thebesia grew too weak for foreign wars. It withdrew from Kerentos and turned its chaos inward. You and Madam President achieved exactly what you wanted.
What was once denounced as the "Holy Church", the "reactionary force," is now the vanguard of the revolution. Madam President—Lesti—calls it the triumph of history.
...Surprised? She's grown. Bold, but never reckless. She united the military-industrial complex where she once worked, rallied the people of Thebesia, and shattered the old regime... for good.
I consider this my victory as well. The Holy Church's influence is now woven through the government, a seamless union of faith and state. As Pontiff, I command Lesti's full support. My authority is absolute.
With a final adjustment, Ishmael smooths down your collar.
And yet, I seem to have lost all interest in preaching. Even Lesti says I've become more of a personal attendant to you than a spiritual leader. A life more mundane than if I'd simply retired.
Memories that never existed surge forth from the void, flooding all at once into your vacant mind.
And you were appointed by President Lesti as Chairman of the Supreme Judicial Council, and Chief Prosecutor of the Supreme Court.
Yeah... how is it possible? Suddenly, I'm not sure it's a good thing anymore. Do you feel it, too?
Ishmael shakes her head, dismissing all the questions that deserve serious consideration.
Never mind that now. Come. The elevator is waiting for us.
Inside the elevator, Ishmael gazes out at the capital of Thebesia, never once looking at you.
The dice? I left them behind long ago. I had no more use for them.
She doesn't turn around, her gaze fixed elsewhere as she answers your question with a hint of indifference.
You, the Chairman, don't press further, instead turning to join her in gazing beyond the glass elevator.
It's mid-afternoon, but the sky holds no pink-white glow of sunset. Even the sun hangs low today, gray and subdued, veiled behind a layer of clouds.
With little else to hold your attention, your eyes focus on something more distinct: the spiderweb crack of a "bullet hole" in the glass wall.
Whether triggered by some forgotten memory or not, the sight of it sends a subtle scratch across your heart, an inexplicable sensation.
An itching feeling spreads from your heart to your lungs, stirring a sudden, dry urge to cough.
Lesti and I both suggested replacing this cracked glass. But you were quite insistent on keeping it.
I can't read your mind, but perhaps you find value in the reminder. After all, this window witnessed those harrowing days of enemy assassinations.
Surprisingly, Ishmael's lips curl into a slightly teasing smile.
"I don't really remember." You say that so often now. Your memories are becoming frayed. Most of the time... it's as if you're not even yourself anymore.
The glass elevator descends to the lower floors. Outside, you see the ground blanketed. It's a sea of people packed together, their dark hair punctuated by scattered flecks of other colors.
The citizens of New Thebesia stand with hands clasped in prayer, gazing silently and devoutly at the towering spire of power. They watch as the holy emissary descends from above, bringing blessing to the faithful below.
Ding. Blessing has arrived.
As the elevator doors slide open, you instinctively raise an arm to shield your eyes, as if expecting a barrage of camera flashes.
But your memory proves faulty. Outside are only devout worshippers, the loyal citizens of Thebesia. They interpret your gesture as a deliberate signal, immediately bowing their heads in unison, no longer permitting themselves to gaze directly upon authority.
Look, everyone is waiting for you.
Even the President of Thebesia, who has been waiting by the elevator, looks upon you with reverence.
Look, everyone is waiting for you. The microphone is on. Just step up to the podium and say whatever you wish to tell them.
Ishmael accompanies you as you take a few steps forward, coming to a stop before the microphone.
A piercing screech erupts from the row of speakers. You stare at the sea of dark heads below, take a deep breath, yet cannot bring yourself to utter the rousing words they expect.
In truth, you do speak, but only to ask a distinctly personal question.
You point to the countless crimson threads extending from the crowd—weaving a terrifyingly dense web—all converging at Ishmael's chest.
And from Ishmael's ordinarily pristine fingertips extends a single crimson thread, so fine it would be invisible without careful scrutiny, its other end connected to you.
Ishmael lowers her gaze, her demeanor obedient.
It means exactly what you see. My "tendrils" are connected to you.
She tilts her body slightly, and the dense mass of people, pulled by her "tendrils," bows toward you in unison, a black-crimson sea rising into a single, silent wave.
The single "tendril" extending from her fingertip quivers slightly, trembling under your scrutiny.
You break into violent coughing.
Thebesia has become a nation under the absolute rule of its Pontiff. But in truth, all authority flows to you.
You set the direction, and I follow. I become a conduit, channeling power for your use. Through this, you guide the masses. Even the "world" itself looks upon you with immense satisfaction.
The dormant sickness in your heart erupts without warning. Between ragged coughs, your gaze sweeps over the city, over the whole nation.
Nearby, the statue of the previous president stands mutilated, its head and arms shattered. All that remains is a headless, limbless torso, a grotesque mockery put on display by the new regime.
So this is the ugly truth: the fall of a regime is never dignified. Even Thebesia, the great capital, has its streets running with blood.
A metallic warmth rises in your throat. It spills from the corner of your mouth, staining your palm.
It's blood.
Don't look so surprised. Revolution and the ascent to power have always been baptized in things that burn a bright, bright red.
The crowd listens in silence, numb, as their leader coughs. They treat every drop of blood that falls from your fingertips as a sacred blessing.
We have both changed. You are guiding me, controlling me, yet we can never be truly close. We can never become one.
Free...?
She finally smiles again.
With you here, what freedom do I even have?
The "tendril" at her fingertips begins to move, even though you never command it to do so. It spirals upward, coiling around her neck.
And then it tightens, relentlessly.
But the tendril has made its decision. It would use the "guidance" to strangle her, and it succeeds.
Pfft. Pontiff Ishmael has become just like the headless statue in the city center, standing frozen in place, another monument to the pursuit of freedom.
She is disappointed by your choice. Even the sun lowers its gaze.
The gears begin to spin once more.
The sea of worshipping citizens vanishes in an instant. The scene before you warps and distorts, suddenly replaced by the stench of a battlefield trench.
What are you yelling for?! Do you have a death wish?!
Lesti's comical olive-green helmet tumbles from her head as she vaults from the trench. Her hand clamps over your mouth, silencing you.
Shhh! Get down! Stay quiet, not a sound...
Pinning you down firmly, she forces a smile more painful than any tears, a finger pressed to her lips.
We can't blow our cover now... not after lying here for thirty-four hours. If they spot us, all our efforts are in vain. The main force is counting on us to create an opening...
As she speaks, her head sinks lower and lower.
Kerentos is... gone... The survivors formed a united resistance, but all the other cities have fallen. This is our last chance. A desperate one... Your three kids are in the rear. We can't fail them too. Shhh...
Then you see it; or rather, you feel it. A primal instinct, carved into your very being, overrides all thought. You shove Lesti's arm away, your voice raw as you roar a warning.
BOOM—
The world dissolves into a hail of fire. The air itself seems to shred as a barrage rains down, the buzz of bullets so near you can feel their wind.
MOVE! MOVE NORTH! NOW! We're made!
Hunched low, clutching your last remaining rifle, you shout after Lesti as you follow her.
...What?!
Lesti comes to a halt, and the entire surviving squad stops with her.
...Where's Ish...? Are you blind?! Or did the blast rattle your brains out...?
Lesti turns to face you, her expression completely hollow.
Can't you see? Right above us.
Ever so slowly, you raise your head, tracing Lesti's gaze upward.
There, at the foot of the capital's immense walls in Thebesia, a rope hangs like a taunt.
It is tied taut around the neck of a corpse, suspended from a pole jutting out from the battlements. With each distant explosion, the body sways in a macabre dance.
Its shadow passes coldly over your face.
GET DOWN!!!
Another bomb screams toward the earth. This time, it is Lesti who cries the warning.
She shoves you to the ground, and the dam finally breaks. The sobs she had locked away for so long wrench free, a torrent of grief unleashed at last.
SEE?! THEY'RE ALL DEAD! DEAD! NOTHING can stop Thebesia's madness! Kerentos was just the first one on the chopping block!
They wage war on a whim, shut down schools, ban any gathering... the whole city reduced to ration posts!! They sent men to the front and women to the factories to make bullets and explosives!
After they got a taste for victory in Kerentos, the hunger just grew! Now they plunder overseas, and if anyone fights back, they just invent deadlier weapons! Raheleh... you should know that name. You were close to the former Pontiff, you must know Raheleh!
Her "mechas"... her inventions... Thebesia twisted them into killing machines! Do you think she ever wanted this?! She's dead! She took her own life!
And the Pontiff... executed. They took her staff, her crown, her home... and hung her body here like a trophy! Wonderful! Now nothing holds Thebesia back!
Say something! You've killed your share these past months. Don't you dare shut down on me now!
Lesti shakes your shoulders, her desperation met only by the indifferent stares of dirt-streaked soldiers behind her. To them, it's just another breakdown, the kind that happens all the time now.
But your gaze is locked past her, on Ishmael's body swaying in the air.
A gray raven lands on the corpse. It cocks its head, then pecks viciously, tearing away a strip of flesh and swallowing it.
As you watch the raven, your mouth suddenly begins to water. A primal, inexplicable hunger uncoils from the pit of your stomach, so sudden and sharp it steals your breath.
Hey!! Don't tell me you've finally cracked!
Have you lost your mind?! We can't afford to... Oh, Merciful One... can you still watch over us now?
Lesti's panic suddenly crystallizes into a cold, resigned calm; she has no other choice. The raven, too, has sensed the approaching danger. It caws frantically toward the horizon, beating its wings against an air thick with madness, desperate to escape a land now ruled by lunatics.
Reflected in the bird's black eyes is a "shooting star" with a pinkish-white tail, streaking across the sky above the desolate ruins. It descends, a fall from heaven to earth.
...It's over.
The sound of the falling shell is deceptively gentle, a soft thud like a die hitting a felt table.
The Pontiff seizes absolute power; Ishmael commits suicide.
A new regime is established; Ishmael is imprisoned.
Thebesia expands its borders; Ishmael is executed.
After an attempt to elope with you, Ishmael is captured...
...
Before your eyes, the red tendrils on people's fingers sway and flicker, casting hypnotic patterns. A perverse alchemy takes hold: the more fanatical they become, the deeper your own hunger grows.
...After wandering through the clockwork of fate for what feels like an eternity, you—starving, lost—finally hear a voice. A familiar one.
Hey, wake up. You've been out for almost a full day. This is a dinner table, not a bed.
...Now, Etha, don't fuss over our sleepyhead too much. The most important thing is that we each complete our own evolution.
The candlelight and lamplight swim before your eyes, blurring into a painful double vision. The room is a symphony of clinking glasses and laughter, but it feels distant, muffled.
Louder are the sounds that come from inside your own head: the relentless grinding of gears and the cold rattle of dice, descending from some impossible height.
Your gaze fixes on the plate before you. A tender, juicy steak, dripping with rich sauce, sits upon the white porcelain. Finally, some meat.
You wouldn't stop begging to be fed on the way here. Now there's a feast right in front of you, and you haven't touched a thing.
In your vision, you watch your own hands grip the knife and fork firmly. They begin to cut.
The fresh wave of pain, the phantom agony of the bombing, still screams from your nerves. The pressure of the knife against the meat feels like cutting into your own severed limb.
Ah...! There it is! The sacred relic of the Holy!
The restaurant doors swing open to admit the cardinals, processing slowly as they bear a red coffin.
Etha, Raheleh, and all the other guests clasp their hands in unison, their faces turning with reverent awe toward the sacred burden.
The coffin is brought to the center of the long dining table, and its lid is lifted. Inside, the imperishable corpse lies in a peaceful slumber, listening to the prayers of the diners... the faithful.
"All look to you in hope, and you provide their food at the proper time."
"You open your hand in generosity, satisfying the hunger of every living thing."
With each verse, the new Pontiff, standing vigil before the coffin, retrieves a relic of his predecessor from within.
This is the Pontiff's brooch. This is the Pontiff's personal die... Such powerful relics can cure any affliction.
A small paulownia wood die is lifted out. It is placed first in the hands of the guest at the head of the table. Then, a silent ritual of transmission begins: from one pair of hands to the next, it passes swiftly down the table, making its way toward you.
Take it, [player name]. This is the sacred relic reserved for you.
What are you waiting for? Just take it! It'll fix you right up, I swear! This one's different; it's still fresh, still carrying the coolness of her body! It has to work!
You, with your diseased heart, take the blood-stained die. A gentle power flows instantly from your palm to your chest, like a tender woman with needle and thread, meticulously mending that scarred and hollow organ.
The new Pontiff retrieves the staff from inside the coffin.
And this is the Pontiff's staff. With this in our possession, our path will be clear, and our forces undefeatable.
The staff, too, is passed reverently from hand to hand, traveling the length of the table until it is placed in the grasp of a soldier seated at the far end.
This is the Pontiff's crown. With it, from this day forward...
Finally, the Pontiff lifts the metal crown. His voice trembles, thick with a mixture of trepidation and excitement.
The gaze of the entire crowd locks onto the crown, their faces flushed with fervent anticipation.
They share their sacred relics before the coffin; they consume wine and bread beneath the cross. The ritual encompasses everyone, all except one.
Trembling, you grip your knife and fork. A desperate energy, born from your newly healed heart, propels you to your feet. You stagger frantically toward the coffin displayed at the center of the table.
A collective cry of shock rips through the guests. They watch as a lamb, absurdly, crawls onto the dinner table, lunging toward its kin who has been prepared as the main course.
And the scapegoat keeps her eyes closed, waiting for her kin to contemplate. Waiting for her kin to make a choice.
So many have tried to take this power from me... They treat objects I've touched like holy relics, coveting what they can't possess. Even after my "death," they'd fight over my crown, my staff...
Or perhaps... you would find a way to master it completely...?
On the table, the scapegoat seems to open her eyes, encouraging her kin with a gentle smile that says: I will forgive all your sins.
The cries of the banquet guests swirl around you like a palpable mist, thickening rapidly to envelop you.
You truly understand now? Wonderful.
Tell me, what is the final answer?
—It is to ■.
—It is to eat.
Such a simple answer. Everything in this "world" is just as straightforward.
You ■ me, I become you, then get ■ again.
You were born with five senses to experience the "world," yet you abandoned your eyes, ears, nose, and tongue so long ago. You can no longer sense the bonds between things, nor smell the essence of pheromone and truth.
But even as the senses of your face have faded, one remains within your power to awaken.
So tell me... what is left for you to do?
That's right. Open your mouth. Go on.
Shock petrifies the guests; not a single one dares to intervene.
You abandon the utensils of civilization and surrender to your most primal desire, preparing to taste truth in the most savage way.
And she, in turn, opens her mouth. She smiles. She has accepted you completely.
At last, you become one.
In the wake of that unity, your consciousness expands into a boundless perspective.
For fleeting moments, you glimpse another world.
It is hard to say which of the two is more chaotic. In both, a crimson light flickers ceaselessly, and each is filled with the wails erupting from calamity, and people desperately trying to stop it...
In the end, they are the same: chaos and order, inextricably intertwined.
Finally, you "seem" to open weary eyelids. The white ceiling and the IV drip plainly explain your situation.
Beside the white bedding, three figures are neatly arranged. Three differently colored...
Lee... it must be Lee. He never did relinquish the stern expression he's worn since childhood, and he looks even more serious now. He is slumped at your bedside, brows furrowed as if tormented by a dream he cannot escape.
Lucia and Liv... They once cut their hair short themselves because you had time to help them... Now, their hair is long, but neatly tied back.
Are the three of them happy now?
You try to reach out and touch the faces of these children, now grown, only to find your body completely immobile.
So this is the paradox: when the mind becomes boundless, the body is no longer a vessel. It becomes a prison.
The hospital room door opens. A woman with pink hair steps inside.
...Thank goodness, everyone is here...
She gazes at your closed eyes and, after three seconds of perfect stillness, delivers her conclusion with absolute certainty.
It seems you're the only one who's "awake" right now.
I had to keep my power concealed. So, I dispersed a part of my "guidance"... but I never expected it to go out of control. It nearly tore that "sandbox world" apart. I had to go in and see the damage for myself.
I took on the role of "Pontiff." It was the easiest way to converge the strands of "guidance" I'd left with every resident.
But I never anticipated how stubborn that power would be... pulling all of Gray Raven into the chaos. I knew you would find your way in, but the other three... that was an unforeseen consequence.
...I'm sorry. I truly am.
...Our minds are already connected. You know that.
With that said, Ishmael still gently places her hand over your closed eyes with forgiving tenderness.
...
Once I draw all the threads of "guidance" back into myself, I will become the entity of "guidance" entirely. So, when that moment comes... the cleanest solution would be to end me. Though I know you'll reject that path.
Yes. Because I saw your discontent, your curiosity... I let you control the gears, to see if you could find another way. But... my solution remains the most efficient.
If you hadn't chosen to merge with me in that final simulation, you would be trapped there forever. There was no other exit.
A wave of belated fear makes Ishmael's brow twitch, her expression tightening into a near-frown. Only now does the sheer audacity of her earlier decision—to so completely "let go" of control—hit her.
Thirty minutes ago, someone informed her that all Gray Raven members had fallen unconscious. She immediately tracked their location and rushed over.
Fortunately, she sensed the alert gaze hidden behind your feigned unconsciousness the instant she arrived. It was the only thing that stopped her from resorting to forced extraction.
But even so, she can no longer allow you to remain trapped inside that world.
It's time to leave. I'll help you. You go first. Once you're out, I'll seize full control of that "world" and bring the other Gray Raven members back safely.
She reaches her hand toward the head of the bed.
Now, focus your gaze on my palm.
...I'm restraining myself from reading your thoughts, but I can almost feel the bite of your inner turmoil.
You're right. "Perhaps no one has ever been truly sincere when talking about 'sincerity'."
But now that we are one, my desires are an open book to you. You know this: your safety matters deeply to me.
"As for sincerity: whoever believes that a sincerity is to be had, ready-made and fully grown, is still very 'insincere.'" Even if I wanted to hide it from you... you've seen too much already.
Now that we are one, my desires are an open book to you. You know this: your safety matters deeply to me.
She releases a sigh that's almost a lament.
...This connection between us might be less beneficial than I thought.
Ishmael sighs with a smile, yet her heart feels unusually light and joyful. At last, someone can catch her gaze, stand at her level, and share her perspective.
Unable to resist, she sweeps her hair aside and leans down, leaving a gesture of gratitude at your bedside.
My dear Gray Raven... I don't wish to dismiss your concern, but in this, I must insist...
Suddenly, a hand reaches up to gently brush her cascading hair, and eyes that were tightly shut have opened without her noticing.
...When did you...?
You open your palm on the hospital bed, revealing the die that should have been with Ishmael the "Pontiff", now resting quietly in your hand.
A fleeting smile ghosts across your face, too swift for even Ishmael to truly see, yet she feels the echo of your relief—a lightness that mirrors her own.
Then, the disorienting sensation of grinding gears returns, slamming with such force that it even throws her backward.
Heh... Hah.
