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Maurice approached the doll that had now become a pile of trash and picked up the backpack.

He slowly opened the backpack…

“Whoa….”

As soon as the backpack opened, he marveled at the feeling of Evil Energy emanating from it.

“What a wonderful divine object….”

Inside the backpack were divine objects—not just any divine objects, but those made from human skulls.

For an ordinary person, possessing even one of these would be enough to bring upon illness or misfortune.

The objects, clearly created with the intention to harm people, varied in design; some were made solely from human skulls, while others resonated with intense thoughts, and some were even inhabited by ghosts.

Maurice smiled at these incredibly dangerous and ominous items.

“I had placed a divination on the scale expecting a byproduct…. Hahaha.”

What he had asked Jinseong for was items useful for constructing a Skull Tower.

It could be an ordinary person’s skull, but if it belonged to an extraordinary individual, that would be even better.

It didn’t matter if it was a lot or a little.

He simply wanted to request help with what he had received from the divination regarding the construction of the Skull Tower, expecting to receive ‘byproducts’—worthless items in Jinseong’s eyes.

However…

Isn’t this just too good?

Divine objects carved from human skulls!

And they resonated with the ominous energy befitting the purpose of the Skull Tower he intended to create.

The thoughts swirling within the divine objects were in stark contrast to the relics borne from a lifetime of discipline practiced by a devoted religious figure. They were twisted, deeply obsessive, and filled with anguish, making them perfect cores to be used for a tower that would harm others and contaminate the land.

The ghosts attached to the divine objects were full of intentions to harm people. They lay in wait for opportunities to drive their owner to ruin, and maliciously prepared to push others into the abyss according to their owner’s will. Using this as a core, it would be more than enough to lure and torment anyone coming near at night.

Moreover, since it was made from human bones, it harmonized well with other divine objects created from human material, and crafting it from skulls infused even greater significance—signifying supremacy and thought. It could be used as a core or simply as a mere brick. It could serve as a totem that instills fear, or be fashioned into a trap that resembles a core.

Such great materials.

Yes, truly great materials.

“You’ve really taken care with this. How delightful….”

So much so that the divination he’d proffered felt poor by comparison.

Maurice made a troubled expression.

Not a disagreeable trouble, but rather one of pleasant discomfort.

“…I should prepare a gift.”

He grinned as he packed the backpack away.

The night air.

The softly shimmering moonlight.

The gaze felt from the deep shadows between the buildings and trees.

And the presence and stares felt throughout his body.

“Don’t you think so?”

Maurice smiled warmly, addressing his own body.

To the bracelet he wore, the numerous necklaces hanging from his neck, the bizarre belt wrapped around his waist, the jewels embedded in his bare skin, and the piercings adorning his flesh.

He seemed to be asking for an opinion.

[ The nostalgic scent. The aroma rising from the blades of grass at a grave. The smell that doesn’t fade even in the moonlight. The smell carried by crawling insects. The feeling of young larvae gorging on my flesh, their presence thickening as they feast upon me. The rotten flesh’s scent, sensed from the pulsing cocoon. I can smell it, I can smell it, I can smell it. The scent emanates from the backpack. It leads to the grave, to the grave, from the grave, the grave’s aroma calls to me. Let’s go to the grave. We must embark on a journey to the grave…]

[ No, no, no. No. No. No. No. No…]

[ I feel a tickling sensation. What is this tickle? It’s the feeling of tiny bugs wriggling inside my blood vessels, swimming through rotten blood, and gnawing at the walls. It’s that sharp yet tiny pincers tearing at the walls of my veins, ripping through muscles, and devouring my insides. Ants, moving their legs, crawl through my organs as if they own the place, tearing away at my flesh. The ants march in a line, feasting on my meat, carrying my flesh to their nest, where the larvae gradually grow by consuming my flesh as their banquet. Yes, those terrible bugs will eat all my flesh. They will multiply, eat all my tender meat, drink all my rotten blood, and eradicate my insides, my eyes, my tongue, leaving nothing but bones. Ah, my veins. The tangled threads will be torn apart and used as materials for a house, leaving only bones and hair behind as I suffer from this tickling sensation. Lacking muscles, I will be unable to move my arms or legs to scratch at the itch, lying quietly buried in the soil, consumed piece by piece. I am, I am, I am ticklish. I’m ticklish….]

The reply that returned was intense but disjointed, hardly a proper response.

“Oh dear. It seems Jinseong Park is in fear.”

Maurice smiled cheerfully at the lamentations of the spirits trapped within the divine objects.

“This is quite interesting. It’s a blend of familiarity and fear…. Hahaha. I look forward to our next meeting with this gift.”

[ No, no, no, no…!]

“What would be good to present as a gift? Do you have any good ideas?”

[ The sound of wings flapping across the night sky above the graves is eerie, a chill felt from the large icy membrane that descends from the crescent moon, and the stench of decay prevails there as well. Though there seem to be no footprints left behind, a strange wave lingers; with each step taken, two steps follow, and even without feet, it hops along with one leg amidst the noise….]

“A gift, a gift. What should I give….”

The conversation between Maurice and the divine objects was peculiar.

Though Maurice threw out questions as if seeking answers from the ghosts contained within the objects, it was clear the spirits were not inclined to respond. It resembled a soliloquy, where he asked questions to something in front of him without waiting for an answer.

The spirits fluctuated between responding to Maurice’s queries and mumbling words typical of the insane, insufficiently intact to delve deeply into coherent communication.

Parallel lines.

Maurice was using the guise of conversation merely to engage in introspection.

The spirits appeared to respond, but they were merely spilling out their own thoughts.

The two, vastly distinct, were divided firmly.

Like the world of the living and the realm of the dead.

—

“I can hear a sound.”

When submerged in darkness, my ears occasionally tingle with sensations.

Amidst a silence so profound I begin to doubt my own existence, my ears, having failed to pick up any sounds, would twitch as if they caught something approaching.

Though silence prevails, and my brain fails to perceive it, my ears would twitch as if they could hear something coming.

As my feet touch the ground, there’s no signature sound. When I sweep the floor, the dirt clinging to my shoes falls off silently. There are no sounds of dragging feet, nor crashing sounds of something solid pressing against the ground. There are no echoes of the earth sinking, and no startled noises from little creatures disturbed by sudden movement or from animals warning of impending danger.

No sounds and no presence.

But just because it’s inaudible doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.

It is something that, although unheard, surely exists.

Even if my hearing cannot perceive it, my sense of touch can.

Even if touch cannot acknowledge it, intuition can.

Even if intuition fails, instincts and souls can grasp it.

It is something unavoidably confronting people; the very thing living beings dread most.

But it is also foreordained, inevitable, a fate to be finally accepted.

It hides in the blinding light of the day, wrapping itself in darkness at night to conceal its form. As piercing light blinds the eyes, the darkness envelops the living, drawing them into eternal slumber.

“I hear the sound of skin crying out. The earth trembles beneath me, and from the depths of the ground, I hear the crackling of fire igniting. The voice of the earth, saturated with flames, calls out to me….”

But it is not a welcome sound.

Thus, all living things strive to evade it.

They leap and run, doing everything to gain distance, warding off its approach.

They slash with knives, fire guns, and swing clubs in all directions.

Yet still, it approaches.

“Oh, I hear the sound of hooves. The rider approaches….”

Not a wound from a slash, not an injury from gunfire, not even a bruise from a strike.

“Oh, red, igniting with fire, and the galloping sound joined by cheers signals the onset of war…. Oh, the horseman of war has set foot upon the ground…. I sense the cries of evildoers, the trace of wicked souls thirsting for blood….”

It marches forth unceasingly.

“Crossing the seas, crossing again and again….”

To fulfill what is deemed necessary.

“War gives birth to evil… So there are reapers among them….”

Its name is Death.

Death, wandering the world.

 

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