Chapter Forty-Three: Apology!

The city of Extreme North, a planetary-scale metropolitan area, covers 11.36 million square kilometers and has a registered permanent population of two billion; the true total, after accounting for the transient population, is even higher. If this witch could not be eliminated, if her unchecked spread of the arcane and mental corruption were allowed to run rampant, those two billion lives would inevitably plunge into the abyss. Among them was his beloved younger sister, Little Bamboo.

At the thought of his sister, Chen Zi’ang finally hardened his resolve, severing the last thread of sympathy and pity in his heart.

“Yes! Yes, that's right!” Mie Nishikawa shrieked madly. “Spare me your nauseating kindness! Hurry up and kill me, deliver me from this agony! Otherwise, your family, your lover, your friends—everyone you know—I will slaughter them like animals!”

She swung her right hand down forcefully, and the ravenous ghouls, unable to restrain themselves any longer, surged forward in unison. They came on all fours, like a savage pack of wolves descending upon prey, each one far stronger than a lion or tiger, their arms capable of tearing living flesh as easily as paper.

Chen Zi’ang had only just returned from the brink of death, still unsteady on his feet, let alone able to draw his sword to fight. Tsukimiya Suzuna could do nothing but support him, compelled to activate the power of her Shadow Warrior.

Her shadow, as slender and graceful as herself, wielded blades of pure darkness, preternaturally sharp. With a motion as light as slicing paper, the shadow cleaved the ghouls’ powerful bodies as if they were mere tissue, splitting them cleanly in two.

Yet there were simply too many ghouls. Even if they lined up to be dispatched, the Shadow Warrior would need a good ten minutes to cut them all down.

Just as it seemed the two would be swallowed by the monstrosities, beyond all hope of rescue, a muffled explosion suddenly rang out, sharp as a firecracker bursting.

Countless winged, nightmarish figures flashed into view around them—the very Nightmare Clan of the ancient city of Enlank!

———

Back in the ossuary, when Chen Zi’ang deduced Mie Nishikawa’s true identity, he had immediately and keenly realized that he needed to borrow the power of her godly nemesis—the Lord of the Deep Sea—to contend with her.

Of course, communicating with a god was no simple matter. Even if contact could be made, it would be difficult to persuade such a being to intervene. The Nightmare Clan of Enlank, however, were relatively more approachable.

Thus, he had quietly used the medal from the Shadow Cloak, meditating intently to transmit a plea for help.

Since the Shadow Cloak had already confirmed his destruction of the Bone Totem and was able to deliver the Lord of the Deep Sea’s promised reward, the medal was clearly some sort of communicator—even if he couldn't reach Enlank directly, he could at least send a message to the Lord of the Deep Sea.

Your nemesis, the witch, is here; the reward is eighteen hundred fireseeds, correct? At present, I lack the strength to face her alone—please, send reinforcements at once!

The reason he had engaged Mie Nishikawa in conversation, besides the faint hope of persuading her, was mainly to buy time for help to arrive.

At last, the Nightmare Clan had made it, just as time was running out, and Chen Zi’ang let out a sigh of relief.

In splendid ceremonial attire, the high priestess Nico alighted lightly beside Chen Zi’ang, her tone solemn as she declared, “By the will of the Lord of the Deep Sea, we have answered your summons from the depths of dream, come to purge the heresy of blood.”

She paused abruptly, a spark of recognition in her voice.

“Is that not—”

“Hello, I’m Naya,” Tsukimiya Suzuna said quickly.

It was common knowledge in the esoteric world that one’s true name carried unique significance, so Tsukimiya Suzuna had likewise chosen an alias. Chen Zi’ang was not at all surprised.

“Miss Naya,” Nico said gravely, “please take good care of Mr. Ask. The Lord of the Deep Sea is watching over him.”

In human understanding, being watched by a god was an intensely disturbing prospect. Godly minds were utterly alien to mortals; who could say what bizarre “gifts” a god might bestow—physical mutations, mental breakdowns, or worse.

But to a god’s devotee like Nico, a demonic priestess, this was regarded as the highest honor, and she addressed Chen Zi’ang with the utmost deference.

Before either could reply, Nico suddenly unfurled the bone wings at her back, ignoring gravity entirely as she shot skyward, streaking like lightning toward a distant point.

On the battlefield, ghouls and nightmares had already fallen upon each other in a vicious melee, and Mie Nishikawa was nowhere to be seen.

Seeing the tide turn, the witch had already fled.

Chen Zi’ang, breathing another sigh of relief, felt his strength ebb from him like a receding tide, his consciousness growing dim once more.

Tsukimiya Suzuna quickly caught him, probing his condition with her preternatural intuition and discovering that his rational mind was on the verge of collapse—he had simply witnessed too many supernatural horrors in one night, his spiritual sensitivity had soared too swiftly.

But it was not only his consciousness that teetered on the brink.

The Ghoul King and the Lord of the Deep Sea, two great gods, were now both focused on Takamagahara. Swarms of ghouls and nightmares clashed in open war, and the spiritual pressure bore down upon the Divination Array of the Extreme North City Public Security Bureau far beyond anything it had ever endured; it had already begun to sound frantic alarms.

Normally, Rikuho Sui, who resided in the central intelligence archive, would have caught such an emergency at once. But, as luck would have it, the head of the intelligence division was on leave, having journeyed over a thousand kilometers away to Hiyori Town, leaving the duty roster in other hands.

Thus, the highest-level warning in a century was triggered on the very day of Rikuho Sui’s absence, throwing the entire intelligence division into chaos. They hastily reported the matter to headquarters.

Section Chief Junosuke Takahashi, recognizing the gravity of the situation, immediately reported to Director Nagatake Baba.

But, as ill fortune would have it, with both Chen Zi’ang and Tsukimiya Suzuna suspended, the division had only four people left, and two of them were already out late on emergency duties.

As for the other two, who had finished their shifts, even an emergency call might not summon enough hands.

“So how many people do you need?” Nagatake Baba, unfamiliar with the specifics, decided to ask directly.

“Last time we had a top-level alert, five officers were deployed,” Junosuke Takahashi replied.

Nagatake Baba understood the implication: with only four left and two already out, unless Chen Zi’ang and Tsukimiya Suzuna were reinstated, there would be a shortage of personnel.

He was about to refuse on reflex when Junosuke Takahashi added, “When it was over, two of them were dead.”

Nagatake Baba was struck speechless.

In Section Six, the gravest fear was casualties in the line of duty. It wasn’t that the agency couldn’t afford compensation, but rather that the personnel gap was nearly impossible to fill. Having posts but no one to fill them was a rare and peculiar situation in the bureaucracy.

Thanks to Junosuke Takahashi’s tireless complaints over the years, Nagatake Baba was well aware of how overworked Section Six had become.

“Fine,” he finally relented, “have him write a report of self-criticism, and we’ll drop the suspension.”

“I hear he’s been helping out at a detective agency,” Junosuke Takahashi said helplessly.

“How can an active employee moonlight elsewhere?” Nagatake Baba exploded in anger.

Junosuke Takahashi nearly coughed blood. The reason he’d mentioned this was to hint that the agency shouldn’t think it held all the cards—Chen Zi’ang had plenty of prospects outside the public sector, even without the iron rice bowl of civil service.

It was they who needed him, not the other way around. If they wanted him back, they’d have to speak nicely.

But the director’s first reaction was to focus on “moonlighting in violation of regulations,” confirming once again his well-earned reputation for cluelessness.

Still, Nagatake Baba had risen by way of maneuvering and connections. He might not grasp the technicalities of operations or the gravity of emergencies, but he was keenly skilled at reading people.

Though Junosuke Takahashi fell silent, Nagatake Baba quickly inferred from his demeanor just how dire the situation was.

Forget about making Chen Zi’ang write a self-criticism—if they notified him of his reinstatement now, he might not even agree to return, busy as he was raking in money at the detective agency. If he did return, he could just hand in his resignation, complete the formalities, and the whole crisis would be none of his concern. Everyone else could simply wait for doom.

Nagatake Baba harbored no illusions about human nature. He kept his face dark and asked instead, “Are you saying I should apologize to him?”

“Director,” Junosuke Takahashi pleaded, “this is the highest-level emergency. We’re prepared to pay any price to quell the anomaly, even if it means casualties.”

We’re all going to risk our lives at the front—couldn’t you just apologize and have him back to help? Is that so hard?

Nagatake Baba was silent for a long moment, realizing that this time he had to choose between “performance” and “face.” When there was no anomaly, he could disregard performance and suspend his best agents without a thought. But now, with a crisis on hand, if things spiraled out of control and the security committee came looking for accountability, an apology would be the least of his problems.

“Fine! Give me his number!” Nagatake Baba finally decided to swallow his pride, grinding his teeth as he spoke.