There Are No Humans in the Monster Company — Chapter 23: A-XX The Portrait of a Dismantled God (2)

Chapter 23: A-XX The Portrait of a Dismantled God (2)

The‌ Portrait of a Dismantled God looked⁠ at Manager Myeon.⁠‌⁠

Manager⁠‍‍ Myeon looked at⁠ the Portrait of‌ a Dismantled God.⁠

An‌ instant.

Or‌⁠ perhaps an extremely‌‍ long silence.

And‍ then, it broke‌ it.

In‌‍‌ the beginning there⁠ was the abyss.⁠‌‌

The‍‍ air stopped.

The‍⁠ entire space.

No.‌⁠

My⁠ ears.

No.

My‍⁠ mind.

I felt as though⁠ everything had been‌‌ sealed inside a silence on the‌‌ verge of exploding.‌⁠

The‍ light consumed itself‍ to give birth‌‍ to darkness, and⁠ the darkness devoured its mother to‍ become a god.

A voice.

No.⁠

That‌⁠ was not a voice.

It‍ was not something‌ that could be⁠‌ heard with ears.‍

It⁠ came from somewhere.⁠‌

From⁠ within.

From the deepest part⁠ of my brain.‍‌

No.

From‌ some hidden corner‌ of the space‍‍‌ called the soul.⁠

You‌⁠‍ are clay molded⁠⁠ by my fingers,‌ my seventh failure.‍

I could not swallow.⁠‌

My‍‌ tongue curled up.‌⁠

My⁠ eyes dried out.‌

Every⁠ capillary in my⁠‌ body trembled.

It⁠‍ was not a sound.

It‌ was not words.

Pain‍ itself flowed into‌ me transformed into meaning.

I will tear you‌‍ apart to complete⁠ myself.

Your‍ eyes are my‍‍‌ holes.

Your⁠ suffering is my‌‍‌ curve.

Crack.‌

Something⁠‍‍ sounded inside my‌ head.

An‍ unbearable heat surged‍ behind my forehead.

My‍ knees gave way.

The‌⁠ world split apart.‌

Therefore,‌ listen.

The‌ world has not‍ yet been born.⁠‍

And‌‍‍ life is the‌‌ sum of false‍ transactions.

Denial.

Denial.‌

Denial.‌‍

Those‌‌ were not words.‍⁠⁠

It‍‌ was an infection.‍‍‍

Each‍⁠ sentence drove itself‌ into me.

Not‍ through my ears.⁠

But⁠ through the cracks‍‍ in my existence.‍

My‌‍⁠ fountain pen throbbed.⁠⁠

The‌‌ Relics of the‍ Smiling Martyr squeezed‌‍ my wrist so⁠⁠ tightly it felt‍‌ as though they‍ were going to‌ break my bones.‍‍‌

They‌⁠ were trying to‌ forcibly inject calmness‌ into me.

But‌⁠ the god’s sentences‌‌ were infecting even⁠‌ those numbed nerves.‍

I am the rotten‍‍ shepherd.

My⁠ sheep were hungry‌‌ mouths.

And‌‍ I distributed their‌ lives as though‌ they were meat.‍

“Ugh…”

I covered my mouth.‍

But‍⁠ it was already‍ too late.

My‍‌ tongue stopped obeying‌‍ me.

My‌ vision blurred.

My⁠ thoughts began to‌ fragment.

Meaning‌‌ disappeared.

Behold‌‍ the black book‌‍ that opens with‍⁠ my breath.

A black book?

No.⁠‌

That‌⁠ was not a metaphor.

I heard something turning pages.

A hallucination of red‌⁠ flesh flipping over‌‌ like sheets of‌‍ paper.

A beheaded saint transformed⁠ into the tip‌ of a pen‌ describing pain.

Your name is written⁠ in the third⁠‍‍ column, twelfth row,⁠ seventh line.

It‍ is written.

It‍⁠ is.

Where?‍⁠

You have already died.‌‌

Until‍ I forget that‌ fact, I will⁠ return you to‌‌ life again and‍⁠ again.

What‍⁠‍ are you saying…?‍

What…‌‍‌ are you saying…?‌⁠‌

What…?‍

What…?‌⁠

Wh…?⁠

M…‍ m… mmmmmmmmm…

My‌ thoughts began repeating‌‍ themselves.

Words‍‍ were being cut‍ apart.

Images.‍‌

Images.‌⁠

The images were melting.‌⁠‍

My⁠‌⁠ mind crumbled like‌ sand.

I am who.

I am Jeo.

I am.

I am Jeong.

I am Jeong Hae.

I am Jeong Haeil.‍

Jeong‌‌‍ Hae.

Jeong‍⁠ Hae.

Jeong.

My⁠ jaw trembled.

My‍‌ tongue could not‌ stick to the⁠ roof of my⁠‍‌ mouth.

The⁠ sentences piled up‍‌ in my throat⁠‌ like phlegm.

I am your father.

Black‌ light.

No.⁠

A visual form without‍ color.

That⁠ covered my vision.‍

My‍ hearing.

My‌⁠ sense of touch.‍‌

My⁠‌‍ existence.

Can‌ you hear me,‍ my child made⁠ of clay?

I call to you⁠‍‌ with a mouth‌ without a mouth.

Pray‌‍⁠ through the cracks‌ in my joints.

Believe‍‍ through the cavities‌ of my eyes.‍‌⁠

Kneel before the glory‌ of my corruption.‍‍

……‍

……‌

You…⁠‌

…to‍ me…

You…⁠

I—––––––––‌

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■‌‍⁠

Inside‍‍ the light.

The‍‌ outer wall of‌‌ the heart.

A structure without meaning.‍

I am the record‌ of everything I have devoured.

Words.‌‍

Words.‌‍⁠

Words.⁠

Wordswordswordswordswordswords.‌

The‍‍ bones of a language sunk into my ears.

Thoughts become fragments.

Fragments‌ vomit blood.

The⁠ concept of “I⁠ am.”

No.‍⁠

I…

Following a black trajectory.⁠

There‍‍⁠ was light.

And‍‍ that light was⁠⁠ the fanaticism that⁠⁠ sprang from my‍‌⁠ eyes.

I swallowed that light.⁠‍‍

And⁠‍ the darkness opened⁠ its belly.

Whatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhat.

JeongJeongHaeJeongHaeJeongJeongJeongJeongJeong.‌

It‌⁠ is smiling.

It‌‍ is tearing apart.⁠⁠⁠

It‌ is crawling inside.‍

And⁠⁠ you are the‍‍‍ flesh placed upon⁠ me.

Chew.‌

Swallow.‌

Be⁠ saved.

Meaning⁠‍ disappears.

Meaning‌ disappears.

Meaning‌ disappears and becomes‌‍ meaning.

The⁠ subject who understands‌‍ that I am not I disappears.⁠⁠‍

I dismantled a god⁠‌‌ following the shape‍‌ of a man.‌

You‌ are my collapsed‌ memories.

A denied womb.

I was not created.⁠

I simply remained.

That⁠ absence replaces me.‌‍⁠

And‌⁠⁠ that replacement replaces‌ me again—

Crunch!!!⁠

No‌ screams.

No explosions.

Only⁠ the sensation of‍ a blade piercing⁠⁠ through my eardrums.‍

I forgot that I was suffocating.

I forgot that my‍ tongue was twisting.‍

Crack!!!

The‍‌ very concept of‍ pain brought me⁠‍ back to myself.‍‌

I snapped my eyes⁠⁠‍ open and turned⁠‍ my head.

To⁠‌ the left.

Something‍ extending behind my‌ head was piercing⁠ my ear.

A tentacle.

Cold.⁠

Hot.‌⁠⁠

Slippery.‍

Sticky.⁠⁠

A flesh tentacle.

That‌‌ thing lodged in⁠ my ear began‍‌ to withdraw slowly.‍

And⁠‍ then I saw‍ Manager Batori.

She‍ was standing there.‍⁠‌

As‍ if nothing had‍⁠⁠ happened.

With‌‍ a faint smile‌‍⁠ on her pale‍‍ lips.

Only‌‍‍ one hand remained extended directly in‌⁠ front of my face.

Swoosh.⁠

Her⁠ long white index⁠ finger moved toward my eyes.

The⁠‌‍ tip brushed the‍ bridge of my⁠ nose.

And⁠‍ then—

Shh.‍

Do‍ not listen.

Do‍ not become infected‌ by the words.⁠

Remain‍ silent.

I opened my eyes.⁠

My⁠‌ heart was beating.‌‍⁠

Little⁠⁠‌ by little, my‌ brain began to‌‍ function again.

Crack—‌

As⁠ the tentacle left⁠ my ear, I felt as though⁠‌‍ something inside my eardrum had been⁠ torn apart.

Instinctively,‌⁠ I inhaled.

“…Ngh…‌‌ haa… haaah… haaah…”‍‍⁠

His‌⁠ tongue was numb,‌ as if it‍ had been paralyzed,⁠ and cold sweat⁠‌ ran down his‌⁠⁠ forehead.

He‍ felt as though‍ something deep within‍⁠‌ his brain had‍ been stirred up,⁠‍ mixing the very⁠‍ surface of his‌ senses.

Colors‍ cut out abruptly‌⁠‍ and then returned.‌

Sounds crackled like interrupted‌‍ signals.

Human‍⁠‍ voices, the vibrations‍‌ of the floor,⁠‍ breathing, and heartbeats‌‍ overlapped and then⁠‍‍ scattered apart.

As‌‌ if his entire‍‍ body were filled⁠‌ with interference, reality⁠‍ trembled.

‘…It’s‍ calming down.’

The‌‌‌ confusion did not‍‌‍ last long.

As‌ if a medicine‌ were taking effect,⁠ his senses gradually‍ returned.

His‍ vision stabilized.

The ringing in his‍ ears diminished.

“Mr.‌‍ Haeil, are you⁠ alright?”

A red tie.

Perfectly⁠‌ aligned folds.

The⁠‌⁠ fist-head tilted slightly as he asked.‍

It was Assistant Manager⁠‍‌ Son.

“Grrr…‌⁠ Sniff…”

He⁠‌⁠ heard something inhaling‌ like a beast.‍‍

Beside⁠ him, Supervisor Shik‌ gently wrapped one‍‌ of his heavy‌⁠ arms around him.

“Thank‌ you…”

His‌ lips were so‍⁠ dry that they‌‌ had cracked, but he still nodded‍ firmly.

Supported⁠ by his two superiors, he slowly raised his head‌ again.

Beyond‌⁠ the glass of‌‌ the containment chamber.‌‍

‘What’s‍ in there…’

It‍ was something that‍ could not even‌ be compared to⁠‌ the dimensional entities‍ he had seen‍‍ so far.

And‌‍ standing before that⁠⁠⁠ overwhelming existence was‌ Manager Myeon.

Or‌ rather, he was slowly walking around‌‍ it.

Tracing‍ circles around the Portrait of a Dismantled God, he⁠ murmured something with‌‍⁠ his seven faces.⁠

The⁠⁠ cracks in the‌‍⁠ sculpture.

The‍ exposed flesh.

The viscous eyes.

He‌⁠ observed all of‍ it with absolute‌‍‌ calm.

Truly‍‌ as if nothing were happening.

‘…Facing‌‌ something like that‍ and still behaving‌‌ that way…’

His body trembled.

Not‌⁠ only from fear.‌

It was reverence.

And‌‌ understanding.

‘…With⁠‌‌ Manager Myeon, I’d⁠ better always be‌ extremely respectful.’

Etching⁠ that into his‌‌ heart, he took‌‍ another deep breath.‍

He could still feel‌⁠ residual heat somewhere inside his head.‍

But⁠⁠⁠ he was alive.⁠‌

Then‌‌ Manager Myeon looked‍‌ up toward the⁠‍ sculpture’s head.

Kneel.‍

Once‍⁠⁠ again, the proclamation⁠⁠‍ of the Portrait⁠ of a Dismantled⁠⁠‍ God echoed inside⁠ his eardrums.

Yet‍‍ Manager Myeon simply‌ continued observing the sculpture.

Worship.‍⁠‍

The‌ Portrait of a Dismantled God spoke‍‌ again.

It‌ was not an‌‌ order.

It‌‍‍ was not a declaration.

It‌⁠ resonated like an‌ absolute truth that‌ was merely being‌ reaffirmed.

But⁠ Manager Myeon continued⁠ gazing at the‍ sculpture.

He‌‌ did not kneel.

He‍ did not bow‌ his head.

On‌ the contrary, he‌⁠ uncrossed his arms⁠‌ and took another⁠ step closer.

At‌ that instant, something⁠ twisted.

Instinctively,‌ he focused all⁠ his attention on⁠⁠ Manager Myeon.

‘His‌⁠ body…?’

At‍⁠ first, he thought⁠ the wrinkles in‌‌ his suit looked strange.

The‌ cuffs of his‍ sleeves began to⁠ swell.

His shoes bent in⁠ unnatural ways.

The‌‌ collar of his shirt rose in‌‌ an impossible direction.⁠

Crack.‌⁠

Then‌⁠ came the sound‍‍⁠ of a bone‍‌ breaking.

His‌‍ shoulder tilted at an impossible angle.⁠⁠‌

Creak…‍‌

His‌⁠ back arched upward.

As‌‍ if every vertebra⁠⁠ were rearranging itself in reverse.

His⁠ neck bent once.⁠‍

Twice.

Three times.

Strangely.⁠

Smoothly.⁠

And‍ yet in a repulsive way.

The‍⁠ smiles remained on⁠ the lips of‍‌ his countless faces.‍‌

But‌ those curves no⁠ longer belonged to a human being.⁠

They⁠‍ were smiles pasted‍‍‍ onto skin.

Not⁠ expressions born from‍‍‌ emotions or muscles.‍‌

Only‍‍ fixed shapes.

Predetermined⁠ designs.

Tap.‍‌

Something began moving beneath his skin.

Under‍‍ the suit.

Near‌⁠ the abdomen.

It⁠⁠ was not flesh.⁠

It‌⁠ was something harder.⁠

“…Is‍ it moving?”

He‍ muttered.

As⁠⁠‍ if something were‌ trying to come⁠‌⁠ out from inside.‌

Manager‍‌ Myeon’s abdomen began‌ to swell slowly.‌‌

The‌⁠‌ buttons of his‌ suit creaked.

From‍‍ his chest.

From⁠‌ his back.

From‌‍‌ his shoulders.

The⁠ flesh inflated like⁠⁠ airbags.

Or‌‌ more precisely.

Something⁠‌ inside it was‌ inflating.

Something resembling faces.

‘…It’s‌ coming out from‌‌ inside.’

Bulging⁠ outlines pushed against the outside of⁠⁠ the suit.

He‌ could sense them‍ even where he⁠‍⁠ could not see⁠⁠ them directly.

Like⁠ a tactile sensation.‌

Like‍‌‍ a presence.

The‌‌ impression that countless‍‌ expressions were writhing⁠‍ beneath the flesh⁠⁠ in a crowded⁠⁠ mass.

Bile‍ rose into his⁠ throat.

And⁠‌ then—

Boom!!

An⁠‍‍ explosion.

“…Hng!”‍⁠

He⁠ inhaled sharply.

Inside‍ the containment chamber,⁠ Manager Myeon shattered‌⁠ apart.

Without‍⁠ any warning.

Without⁠ any prior sign.‌

An‍‌ explosion so sudden that he did‍‌ not even perceive‍‌‌ the sound.

Blood.⁠⁠‍

Suit.⁠‍

Flesh.‍

And‌ a multitude of faces.

‘…Ha…⁠ ha… did… did‍‍ he…?’

They‌ were flung in‍ every direction.

Thick‍ red blood splattered‍‍ across the walls.⁠

Fragments‍‍ of the suit‌ rolled across the⁠ floor.

The‌‍ faces fell.

Jumped.⁠‍

Wrinkled.⁠⁠

Crawled.

He⁠ was speechless.

Faced‌‌ with something so‌⁠ absurd, the first‍ thing he felt‍‌ was not surprise.‍

It⁠ was the feeling that it could‌‍ not possibly be⁠ real.

“…Manager‍‌ Myeon…?”

He muttered it simply‌ because he could‌⁠ not believe it.‌‍

A violent explosion.

And‌ afterward, those faces⁠‍ covering everything.

Joy.⁠

Confusion.‍‍

Indifference.⁠

Contempt.‍

Affection.⁠

Sadness.‌⁠

And⁠⁠ smiles.

“…This…”⁠⁠‍

He‍⁠ slowly exhaled and‍ turned his head.‌‌‍

But.

But.⁠‌

Why?‍

“…Why‍‌ is no one…?”‍‌

Why‌‍ was no one‍ surprised?

Assistant‍‍ Manager Son slightly‍‍ tilted his fist-head.⁠

Director‍ Mok continued taking‌ notes while adjusting‌ his roots.

Manager⁠⁠ Batori calmly drank⁠ blood through a straw.

Supervisor⁠‍ Shik was practically⁠ lying down in‍⁠ the hallway.

Everyone⁠ acted completely normal.‍

Then‌ it happened.

They‌⁠‍ moved.

The⁠ faces scattered throughout⁠ the containment chamber.⁠

Those‍‍ things attached to‍‌ chunks of flesh‌‍ and stuck to⁠‌ the walls.

‘…They’re‌‌ writhing…?’

One.‌⁠⁠

Two.‌

Three…⁠⁠⁠

The‌‍ expressions began moving‌ toward one another.‍‍

Squirm.‌⁠

Thud.⁠‌

Squish.‍

Splatter.‍‍

The‌ blood.

The flesh.

The⁠ fragments of the⁠ suit.

The‌‌ skin of the⁠‍ faces.

All‌⁠ of it.

Joined‌⁠ together.

Entangled.⁠‍‍

Coiled.‌

Embedded.‌

Unfolded.‍‌

Contracted.‌

Merged.‍

Dozens.‍⁠

No.⁠

Hundreds‌‌‍ of chunks of⁠‌ flesh mixed around those faces as⁠⁠ if trying to‌‍ devour one another.⁠

The⁠‍ flesh.

The⁠ fragments of the suit.

The blood.

The⁠ fluids.

The‌ expressions.

All⁠⁠ of it formed the shape of‍ a human being.‍⁠‍

Once‌ again.

It⁠ was Manager Myeon.⁠

The‍⁠ form reconstructed itself.⁠

The⁠ wrinkles of the‍‍ suit settled into‌‍ place.

The‌‌ shoes became immaculate.‌‍

The‌ hands regained their⁠ smoothness.

And‍⁠ one of those⁠‌⁠ familiar faces, with‌ its eternal gentle smile, opened its‌ eyes before him.

“Ha…”‍

He‌⁠ exhaled.

Bewildered.‍

Horrified.

Unable‍‌ to comprehend it.‌⁠

Manager⁠ Myeon was standing‍⁠ before him once‌‌ again.

“I⁠ like it.”

He⁠ said.

In‍ the same soft‍ and orderly voice‍ he had before⁠ exploding.

“It⁠‍ seems to have⁠ a very clear‌⁠‍ understanding of what⁠‍ it wants.”

The‌‍‍ seven faces.

Those‍‌ small faces he‍ had always seen‍ blooming between the‌ openings of his‌⁠‍ suit.

An‍ existence constructed by⁠‍ combining the materiality‌‍ of faces with‌⁠⁠ the very concept of expressions.

And‌ now he was‍‌ standing before him‌ again with the⁠‌‌ same appearance as‍‍ always.

It‌ was grotesque.

He‍‌ barely managed to‌⁠‍ cling to his‌⁠‍ sanity as their‍‍ gazes met when‍⁠ Manager Myeon turned his head toward‍⁠ the other side⁠⁠ of the glass.‍

“We‍‍ will now proceed with the extraction.”⁠

Manager⁠ Myeon spoke as‍‍ though absolutely nothing‍‍ had happened.

Calmly.‍⁠

Composedly.‌⁠

And…⁠‌ in a terrifying⁠ manner.

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Chapter 23: A-XX The Portrait of a Dismantled God (2)

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