Plague Lord-Chapter 57: The Story of a Certain Cursed Child

Flaming Rose looked mildly disappointed, as if she had been expecting something far more dramatic.

"You awakened in the Association?" she asked.

Nightingale nodded.

"Sorry to disappoint, but it’s a pretty simple story. When I first heard the Murmur, I rushed straight to the Association as fast as I could. Luckily, I made it in time, got taken into one of their underground safety rooms, and they strapped me to an uncomfortable bed before leaving me to deal with it on my own."

Naturally, he left out the detail that he’d first heard the Murmur during class. Even so, a faint bitterness lingered in his tone. 𝘧𝓇𝑒𝑒𝑤ℯ𝑏𝓃𝘰𝑣ℯ𝘭.𝘤ℴ𝘮

The Association had certainly treated him well.

He let out a sigh.

"Well, that’s my story. Now it’s my turn to ask you a question."

"Go ahead," she spoke as though challenging anything he would throw her way head on.

"Alright then. Why do you wear that mask?"

Rose froze, clearly failing to anticipate such a simple question. There was a hint of surprise to her silence before she exhaled softly.

"That’s your question?"

"Indeed. I’m curious what makes you hide your face."

"If I wanted people to see me, would I hide my face?"

Nightingale blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her sharp retort. Still, he pressed on, unwilling to let the matter drop.

"So... does that mean you’re not going to answer?"

She replied without hesitation. "Yes. I’m not answering that question."

He frowned.

’Why is she so intent on hiding her identity? Could she really be a criminal?’

Truthfully, if the Caster had nothing to conceal, she wouldn’t be wearing a mask. The possibility that she was a criminal — or even a notorious serial killer — wasn’t small. One thing about the Black Mire was certain: it didn’t discriminate. Anyone could awaken, and anyone could die.

That was equality in its purest, most brutal form.

Grinding his teeth, he forced the thought aside along with his unease. Pressing her any further would only cast him in a bad light. And if she truly was a serial killer, the last thing he wanted was to offend her.

Flaming Rose seized that moment to shatter the silence.

"You’re thinking something strange, aren’t you?" she said suddenly, her tone dry but edged with amusement.

Nightingale flinched slightly. "What makes you think that?"

"You’ve been staring at me for a while. It’s written all over your face."

He quickly looked away, coughing lightly. "You’re imagining things."

"Am I?" she asked with the faintest trace of a smile in her voice. "Don’t worry. If I wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t even have time to ask why I wear the mask."

Her casual tone made it impossible to tell whether she was joking or not.

Nightingale’s hand twitched, instinctively inching closer to his pistol before he stopped himself.

’Relax. She’s just messing with me... probably.’

With a shrug, he asked,

"So are you going to ask your second question?"

"Ah... that’s right. Thanks for reminding me," Rose murmured, tapping her chin in mock contemplation. "But now I wonder... which question should I ask?"

She looked oddly playful, almost like a child deciding what she wanted for Christmas. After a few seconds of thought, her eyes lit up beneath the mask.

"Alright, I’ve got it. Why do you challenge the Mire?"

"...Huh?" Nightingale tilted his head, visibly thrown off by the question.

Rose’s tone softened slightly as she clarified,

"Everyone has a reason for climbing the Tower, don’t they? I assume it’s the same for you."

Nightingale scratched his cheek, lost in thought. For a moment, he couldn’t think of an answer.

’Come to think of it... this is the first time I’ve actually thought about that.’

[Why did he climb the Tower?]

As that question lingered in his mind, Nightingale answered with a voice that seemingly lacked conviction. "Hm... that’s a tricky one. If you’re asking for a reason, then I guess I’m doing it for the money. After all, who doesn’t like money? My equipment isn’t exactly cheap either — I’m constantly spending on ammunition and maintenance costs."

"Now that I think about it... why do you use guns in the first place?"

"Is that your third question?"

"No. Consider it an extension of my second question. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to."

Nightingale chuckled under his breath. "Don’t worry, I’ll indulge your curiosity. But is it really that strange?"

"Yes," she uttered bluntly without much consideration. "Most people would rather train their bodies, abilities or other ranged weapon. To an Awakened, a bow and arrow is more effective than a gun. Guns are purely mechanical and like anything created by human hands, they are prone to grow faulty under continuous usage, they are loud and draws unnecessary attention, they require no skill beyond aim and trigger discipline. More importantly, there aren’t many Gun Mysteries and I seriously doubt anything like that existed since I haven’t seen anyone using it. Honestly, using them says something about the person behind the weapon."

Nightingale raised an eyebrow, growing intrigued.

"And what does it say about me, then?"

Rose paused, as if weighing her words carefully, though the mask made it impossible to read any expression. Then she said:

"That you’re an utterly strange and unpredictable individual."

He let out a soft, humorless laugh.

"Is that supposed to be a compliment or a critique?"

She replied simply:

"Neither. It’s just a simple observation. From what I can see, you don’t look like someone who has any grand reason to climb the Tower and I even thought that you have no regard for your life. Or at least, that was what I thought at the beginning. As I continued to observe you, it became obvious that you value your life just like anyone else, perhaps even more."

With a brief pause, Rose added:

"But there’s definitely something that drives you to put your body and soul on the line if necessary. Which is why I want you think about it more and be more honest with your answer rather than shallow. Just how far are you willing to go in the Mire. How much are you willing to risk?"

"..."

Nightingale did not speak.

The sudden depth of the inquiry made him question his core of choices in the Black Mire.

...Glancing up, he noticed the darkened sky of the worldscape. Despite being an augmented reality, there was an myriad of stars glimmering faintly above, distorted by the swirling haze that drifted across the artificial heavens. The stars looked almost real. So real, in fact, that for a brief moment, Nightingale forgot they were nothing more than fragments of code projected over the Mire’s decaying skyline.

He stared upward for a long while before answering.

"How far am I willing to go, huh... To be honest, I don’t really know. I don’t have a definite answer. Maybe I’ll find something worthwhile."

"That’s a vague answer."

"Life is vague. Besides, I’m not the type to make big declarations like ’I’ll conquer the Mire’ or ’I’ll reach the top of the Tower.’ I can only... move forward."

"That sounds more like running away than anything."

Nightingale only smiled.

"Maybe you’re right about that. But at least I’m running toward something."

His smile lingered for a moment before fading. The silence stretched between them briefly.

Finally, he said quietly:

"Hey, have you heard about the story called Cursed Son?"

"...Eh? What kind of ominous title is that?"

Rose stiffened uncomfortably. However, there was no hint of recognition in her eyes, which, much to his surprise, made him feel somewhat... relieved.

"Huh. You really don’t know, or are you pretending? How strange. In any case, it doesn’t matter. It was rather popular five years ago and even made it to the news headlines and social media. But since most people don’t know about it, I guess it wasn’t not that important in the end."

Nightingale truly did not know how to react, so he remained expressionless.

"Simply put, there was this family of three. A father, a mother, and a son. On the outside, they looked like a loving family. On the inside, though, this was not the case at all. The father was a useless wretch who did nothing but gamble and drink all day. As if that wasn’t enough, he would hit his wife and force her to sell her body then used the money from that to gamble and drink some more. The mother lived in fear every day. There wasn’t a single day without bruises. Even the child was caught in the middle and sometimes hit."

Flaming Rose did not speak, but she was beginning to figure out the direction of this story.

Unbothered, Nightingale continued with a faint, hollow smile.

"You must have already guessed where this story is heading. The child eventually reached his breaking point and made a decision that would forever change the course of his life."

...It was truly a simple story. A story about a child who killed his father.