Chapter Eleven: Surviving the Catastrophe

I was not dead. I was still alive. In fact, I was still in Professor Ulysses’ secret chamber.

There was no Sword and Shield Society, no black fish, no maiming, no blindness. I was perfectly fine; all that seemed no more than a dream, in which the fate of its characters was of no consequence.

I was gasping for breath like a horse after a long, hard gallop, my limbs weighed down as if filled with lead. I rose, convincing myself that everything I had experienced was but an illusion conjured by the brainwaves in the secret chamber—dangerous, yes, but I had survived.

I saw the black cavern on the wall, the youth with his skull shattered, the broken remains of Faga-brand headphones and small components, the black droplets of water scattered on the floor.

Those were no hallucinations—or perhaps, part reality, part illusion. Had I really encountered the Sword and Shield Society? By what name had they called me?

It did not matter, none of it mattered. I was Fishbone, a survivor always skillful at wriggling free from disaster. Faga’s modest wish—I had fulfilled it for her. After another stretch of arduous travel, I would ascend the skyscraper like a wealthy magnate, to live a life of luxury and splendor.

Retracing my steps, I picked up a few more guns abandoned by the Charon mercenaries. They were all clearly unusable, prone to jamming at any moment, but someone in the skyscraper would surely be able to fix them. It was money all the same—even a mosquito was still meat.

I returned to the previous floor and went to the left-hand room in search of Lamia. The first was a machine room crowded with instruments, but she was not there. Pushing deeper inside, I opened a door to find an indoor bathing chamber, its tiled floor gleaming with a clear pool. Lamia was soaking in it—she certainly knew how to enjoy herself.

She did not shy away or hide upon seeing me, so I simply looked at her directly. Of all my virtues, I was most proud of my frankness and candor.

Beneath her arms and legs, her body was sheathed in a thin layer of blue metal. Its beautiful contours remained, but it was as if she wore a suit of tight armor. No wonder she did not fear being stared at—she could never shed that shell, nor would she ever reveal her true body.

She would always be a warrior, clad from head to toe.

She said, “What took you so long? Why is your face so pale?”

Naturally, I would never betray my agreement with Faga. “Something happened downstairs. I took some medicine,” I replied.

On reflection, that answer was ambiguous. But pure as I was, I had no idea of any double meanings.

She asked, “Do you want to wash? The water is hot.”

Water is the source of life, but it filled me with an inexplicable dread and awe.

She dried herself, stepped onto the bank, and turned away to dress. While her attention was elsewhere, I stooped and stole a drink from the pool.

I was dying of thirst.

She took a glass of red wine from beside the pool, sipped it, and said, “One must learn to relax every so often. You’re always so tense, which makes you ill-suited for Black Coffin.”

I knew I should change. Once I reached the skyscraper, I would naturally join the ranks of the nobility. I had best start practicing their etiquette now, lest I become the object of ridicule.

I understood refinement—those who are leisurely move slowly, and those who move slowly are invariably at ease. I approached Lamia with unhurried steps, movements graceful as if plucking flowers or leaves, treading the waves. My expression was profound, every frown or smile a display of wisdom and intelligence, of nobility and elegance.

Lamia laughed. “Stop fooling around.”

I was disappointed. I hadn’t expected her to so lack appreciation. She handed me the wine she’d sipped. “I order you to drink this. I don’t want to hear the words ‘I never touch alcohol’ ever again.”

I felt I had escaped the fish for now. A little drink to lift the spirits would do no harm. I accepted the wineglass, its rim bearing the faint red imprint of her lips.

She asked, “What are you staring at?”

I sighed. “Commander, there’s your lipstick on it.”

Lamia said, “You’re so particular? Then why did you drink water I’d bathed in?”

I hadn’t expected her to be so tactless. Even if she saw me, she shouldn’t have called it out. Mortified, I drained the wine and even licked the rim for good measure.

That, at least, settled the score.

But she merely laughed, saying, “You really are amusing.”

I answered calmly, “Thank you for your praise, Commander.”

She said, “My subordinates are usually in awe of me, and I always show them my ruthless side. But you’re not afraid of me—in fact, quite the opposite. In front of me you act like… a fool.”

A fool? She had no understanding of the true wisdom in this. People relax their guard before a fool, lower their expectations. But before someone sharp and brilliant, they focus all their attention and expect too much. My apparent stupidity was a ruse—the tiger disguised as a pig. She would inevitably underestimate and overlook me.

I asked, “And you’re an ice-cold beauty.”

She replied, “Of course. I am beautiful. My heart is as calm as still water when I kill. You’re right—I’m an ice-cold beauty.”

People are utterly different—her, the untamed maverick; myself, the humble, reclusive sage.

She went on, “This world is full of evil. Demons are one kind, bandits another, and disasters wrought by the fools of the previous age are a form of evil as well. To fight evil and defend the weak, I must become strong. Only with strength can I carry out my justice. You, as my subordinate, must uphold my ideals—even a fool like you cannot betray them. Hey! I’m talking to you, where are you going?”

By the time she caught up, I had found her pack and was stuffing her remaining sandwiches into my mouth. I was so hungry I could barely control myself, like a beast gone mad. She shouted, “Stop!” and grabbed my wrist.

I gave a cold laugh and feinted, a subtle move both real and illusory, light as the wind, fierce as a tiger—she couldn’t block me, and the sandwich was all but mine. But she didn’t play by the rules; instead, she threw me over her shoulder, nearly killing me.

These women—when they use force, they never hold back. But that’s just another reflection of this world’s cruelty. People kill for a mouthful of food, die for a mouthful of food. In that instant, my life flashed before my eyes.

Lamia said, “You can eat if you must, but this is theft.”

The Faga-brand headphones in her ear crackled: “Lamia, is Mr. Fishbone with you?”

Lamia glanced at me. “Yes.”

Faga a