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“We are living in phantoms. Formless entities and those with form. All of them exist yet can vanish at any moment. If that is the case, why shouldn’t the lifespan of a person be the same? If our lives are akin to the shadows cast at the time the sun rises, what then causes us to dissolve into the night that inevitably comes?

If it cannot be eternal, what value does it truly hold? Even if it’s called eternal, how can it possess any worth? The concept of eternity is also derived from our senses. Just as a month feels different to an ant than it does to us, so too does value shift. The eternity we dare define with our limited lifespans is utterly worthless.

Ah… what, then, is the difference between an ant clutching a piece of bread as a treasure and a human grasping wealth and honor? Even if the paper is different and the time we live is different, does it really equate to a difference in density…? Can we genuinely claim that the concentration of desire, the density of life, is different?

Those with long lifespans would surely view our lives as mere fleeting moments… They would see our lives as incredibly short, just like humans look at hamsters, while those even longer-lived would look upon us lamenting the brevity of our existence, thinking their own lives are not abundant enough…

If one perceives time differently based on their senses.

Then, is there any reason not to regard the birth and extinction of the universe itself as a fleeting moment?

Pierre speaks in a voice tinged with what seems to be tears, or perhaps a howl trapped within.

“What is it that defines us as who we are? What allows the lowly creatures living a day as if it were a lifetime to be regarded as the same existence as those witnessing the birth and extinction of the universe in one day? What, dare I say, enables us to express their lives in terms of density and concentration, proving that their worth is not vastly different? What exists beyond our senses, something that cannot even be defined by words and is incomprehensible by our perceptions?

Ah… it’s difficult, so difficult… so very difficult.”

Pierre lets out a sigh, casting his gaze downward.

But then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he lifts his eyes again, filled with madness.

“Indeed… I am suffering within this hardship. But this suffering changes according to the senses. Our senses are pain and anguish. If the brain did not filter and become accustomed, the flow of blood through our veins, the beating of our hearts, even the act of eating and drinking would all be nothing but horrific torment. Therefore, is this formless suffering, too, not akin to a phantom? Does it truly hold any meaning? If suffering and pain are not different, can we even compare it to the absolute opposites?

Glistening eyes.

A voice transformed close to that of a beast’s cry.

His dialect has mixed with something softer once, but it now holds clear emotion.

“Phantom! Existence! Let none of those torments trouble me!

I cannot have this! How can it be justifiable that something seeks to interfere with the sliver of truth I have barely grasped after intense inquiry? You, phantom—!!!”

Dare not disturb me—–!!!!!!!!

Pierre screams, bringing his hands to his face.

Then, he violently tears at his own facial skin, finally confronting Park Jinseong with his bare visage.

Glistening madness-filled eyes.

A nose merely an echo of what it once was.

Ears drastically altered, the remnants of his flesh pinched and torn repeatedly.

And that grotesque appearance is made even more bizarre by the stark white of his teeth and the red of his lips.

The shaman, unable to contain his own madness and anguish, had revealed himself in a self-mutilating frenzy.

“Monsieur. You are absurdity. You are a phantom.

You are an illusion because you defy causality, yet you stand before me where you should not be, thus you are a phantom.

Yet, undeniably existing, having led pests to this realm, are you truly nothing more than a lowly creature? A will-o’-the-wisp? When we awaken in the middle of the night without feeling a presence, we call the bizarre forms we see phantoms or ghosts. Therefore, are you a ghost? Defying causality yet existing, are you a ghost?

Then what of the pests you brought along? You, moving while disguised as the ordinary, filled with pests, what are you?”

“Indeed, that is so.”

In response to his question, Park Jinseong also reveals himself.

Crack.

His ordinary face starts to crumble.

It begins to crack as if made of wax, and from within those cracks, something begins to slither out. Long worms appear, shapes with legs escape, completely devoid of heads.

His hair morphs into writhing parasites, and they fall to the ground, beginning to transform into different shapes.

Caterpillars into chrysalises.

Chrysalises into winged creatures.

The small become large.

The parasites wriggle, seeking refuge in other insects, waiting for the day they can enter a human body, beginning a brief rest.

Indeed, it may be seen as a phantom taking the shape of a human.

A headless monster adorned with countless insects.

A madman concealed in the skin of a face.

Pierre gazes upon Park Jinseong with the hollow eyes of countless face skins.

The shadow, with the light, is connected to something in the darkness.

Then, why should the empty space where hollow eyes once resided not become eyes? If a shadow imitates something and is subordinated, there’s no reason for it to remain in that status.

If the eyes create a shadow, then the shadow can indeed create eyes.

If phantoms and reality are meaningless and indistinguishable, then their roots and fruits shall also dissolve.

Eyes.

The eyeball writhes.

An eye created from shadow wriggles, and the mouth of the facial skin slowly opens, revealing the pitch-black darkness within.

Then it asks.

“Phantom of causality. Void of causality. Existing while distorting causality.”

“You are the void that resides in a filled place. You are unseen and yet exist as something that distorts.”

“You are akin to a phantom yet exist simultaneously. In cosmic terms, you should distort something like a black hole, yet instead of devouring, you create aberrations everywhere, warping all that is.”

“Can you truly be said to exist?”

“Monsieur. Answer me. What are you? Twisted, contorted, non-existent yet existing. What are you?”

Countless skins move and speak.

Creating a tongue from the black darkness, producing sounds even without a throat, exhaling words as if breathing despite its inability to inhale.

“I do not know what you are.”

“You are a shadow and yet not a shadow. You are a human yet not a human. You are a lowly creature yet not a lowly creature. If that is the case, and if you exist in such a way, then what meaning do all the senses I have gathered and felt thus far truly hold? Do they genuinely possess meaning? Are they truly the sensations I have perceived?

Is it not like an illusion created by electrical stimulation, something I feel yet is detached from reality? If so, can it be said that it is not even a phantom, or merely a phantom, or perhaps something that genuinely exists?”

“Spirit and body. Body and mind. Mind and spirit. Existence and illusion. Shadow and object. What creates me, defines me, and divides me. Ah…

“Monsieur, Monsieur, Monsieur. You are a phantom.”

“Do not disturb me.”

“This is.”

“This is mine————-!!!”

With this loud outburst, anomalies begin to unfold.

With a crack, as if puffing air into it, the facial skins swell.

As if they are garnering the heads freshly lopped off, or perhaps something resembling a tree with human heads, the things clinging to Pierre’s torso begin to form a proper figure.

Wrinkles smooth out, and they stretch as if about to burst.

Then, with a loud opening of its mouth, it spits out darkness.

Pitch-black shadows.

The darkness spewing from its mouth begins to blanket the space, starting to stain the underground with an inky blackness that is hard to penetrate even using special abilities.

Then, the darkness redirects toward Pierre, layering his skin anew, transforming his shape.

His once dark brownish-black skin becomes indistinguishable from the surrounding darkness, transforming into sheer blackness, as his figure begins to collapse.

It becomes impossible to discern him with mere sight as his form crumbles, and from the depths of the darkness, his outline slowly begins to rise.

Heightening stature.

Lengthening arms.

Sprouting thorns.

The features that once characterized him start to mush together, and the heads he once carried also blend into the darkness, disappearing and reappearing.

The position shifts.

As if a tree bearing fruit rapidly grew, or as if something tethered to a balloon began to ascend toward the sky, it rises higher and higher. The heads climb ever higher, and higher.

Ultimately, they touch the ceiling.

Then, the many heads looking down see a headless man with eyes made of shadows.

Pierre has become a tree.

Made of shadows, a tree with human heads.

A bizarre tree.

 

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