Vroom-!
The pickup truck is speeding down the road.
Its raw design, embodying the macho spirit of America, is loaded with countless heavy items, racing swiftly with an expressionless individual behind the wheel. As it passes a strangely eerie gas station tucked away in the outskirts, it dodges a filthy restroom reeking of urine.
Bearing what looks like tons of cargo, the pickup truck keeps on going.
Is it headed for a trip?
Is it occupied by someone with hobbies related to camping or survival?
Going in a direction where one could never imagine a city could exist, the truck travels onward into a landscape gradually filled with only green and brown hues of nature.
Vrooom-!
Trailing behind that pickup truck are others.
In a scene akin to red blood cells flowing through American veins, colossal freight trucks line up in a procession behind it.
The enormous trucks, loaded with unknown cargo.
If one were to glance into the driver’s seat of those trucks, they would see a driver with the same expressionless face as that of the person in the pickup truck. They would also be focused solely on driving, without turning on the radio or indulging in anything to relieve the boredom.
Such was the commonality among this group speeding down the midnight highway.
And if there’s another commonality among them…
Perhaps due to the dark tint on the windows, peering inside the driver’s seat from outside would reveal nothing easily.
Because of the pitch-black darkness of the remote road, where artificial light is hard to come by, the vehicle’s windows have become reflective like a mirror, showing nothing at all.
Nothing is reflected.
Nothing is reflected at all.
Outside is pitch black.
Inside, relatively bright.
Even though the window has turned slightly reflective to reflect the interior… it does not show anything.
Nothing is reflected.
No one appears where a person stands, and what should be reflected does not show.
Why is that?
Is the density of darkness so perfectly tuned that the glass hasn’t turned into a mirror?
No, it’s not that.
The mirror does indeed reflect the interior.
It reflects the seats, the steering wheel, and the items inside the car.
However, what isn’t reflected is the person.
The one gripping the steering wheel does not appear in the glass.
As if the reflection of the person in the mirror is absent.
The one grasping the steering wheel is a phantom, and the one being reflected is the truth.
Vroooom-!
What are those holding the steering wheels?
Are they people or ghosts?
Are they phantoms close to ghosts, not reflecting in the mirror?
People without shadows?
Vroooom-!
They speed along, filled with questions.
In one direction.
Loaded with countless items.
*
It was said that the smell of sulfur resembles that of rotten eggs.
That’s a scent no one could appreciate even as a compliment; those unfamiliar would involuntarily grimace at it. That dreadful stench, akin to rotten eggs, would dig into the nasal membranes, clinging tightly, making it hard to escape. It could slip through even the smallest gap, so that even holding one’s nose would not spare one from feeling it, with the taste lingering on the tongue provoking nausea.
It’s said that getting used to it might lessen the blow, but still, it could never smell like perfume.
If it were possible, how could the scent of sulfur waft through hell where an evil being and sinners burn in unison?
But there are times when this rotten smell feels strangely welcome.
And it is precisely when one sinks into a hot spring.
“…”
Even if one did soak, there’s just the right pit that won’t melt or boil you to death.
In that spot, the Disaster Shaman, Kenneth, had stripped off his clothes and entered.
His body, once solid due to the effects of magic, had turned as frail as dry firewood, with spots of skin discolored and blistered. Whether he had scratched madly at them, scabs covered his body, and there were plenty of nail marks as well.
Additionally, small amounts of blood seeped out from various parts of his body.
What kind of illness had he contracted? The foul odor emanating from that blood mixed with sulfur, aggravating the stench further. And those black specks floating on the surface of the sulfur? When examined closely, it was undoubtedly insects, unable to withstand the heat of the hot spring, drifting around on its surface.
“…When one visits this place, it is said they should apply sulfur, for they possess the flesh of the living, and many may desire to wear it…”
Certainly, Kenneth’s body submerged was naked.
But just where did those insects come from?
It was truly a bizarre situation.
Or rather, when it comes to oddities, the very act of being in that hot spring could be deemed peculiar.
For it’s neither for washing nor relaxing muscles, and yet he enters despite the obvious pain from the wounds all over his body, so Kenneth’s actions were far from ordinary.
Pain.
The trace of that suffering was clearly visible on the face of the Disaster Shaman.
Though spirit and flesh are the same and different at once.
Even if they are intimately connected, the outward appearance may differ.
Thus the spirit may endure the torment with great fortitude, yet the flesh inevitably reacts to that suffering.
The muscles of his face tremble, while parts of his body twitch involuntarily. Blood oozes from his wounds, and when bugs crawl out of his blistered skin, one can’t help but wince in disgust.
“Those who rise from the sulfur shall not hesitate to pass through the flames that flicker like a serpent’s tongue; they may reach out to you, wishing to wear your flesh, while the sinners, pierced by sharp spears and writhing in pain, would stop at nothing to inflict upon you the very sufferings they endure. Ah, jealousy. Greed. All forms of sin…”
Onslaught of pain strikes.
That wretched agony feels as if something is crawling within his body.
It itches and burns.
A desire swells within him to peel away his skin, rip apart his muscles, and violently thrust his fingers into those places, stirring up ill will. Meanwhile, he occasionally feels a pain as though those nerves are being gnawed at by something sharp and relentless.
Truly, had it not been the case that bugs might be crawling beneath his skin, one could have thought that the price of magic had indeed been exorbitant. One might have assumed shingles had invaded the nerve ganglia, inflicting unspeakable pain, or that some rare disease was eating away at his lifespan, delivering a burden of exalted agony.
But this was something less severe yet horrendously awful.
Ah, who could have known that real insects might exist beneath his skin?
“And thus the guide stated: ‘There lies sulfur; one must cover oneself with it. For to the sinner, not a spot remains untouched by the scent of sulfur, from their bones to a single strand of hair; this loathsome odor serves as a means to differentiate them, even the sinners whose eyeballs burn in flames could distinctly sense the aroma of sulfur, aiding in the distinction between the living and the dead.’ Thus the traveler drenched himself in sulfur, stepping forth deep into hell, and at that moment, he became just as foul-smelling as the sinner…! In that instant, the traveler transformed into a body indistinguishable from a sinner. Or perhaps, such a state was his from the beginning.”
Amidst the hot spring, Kenneth closed his eyes, enduring the agony while continuing his invocation.
With every incantation, his skin cracked, and blood began to flow profusely, with insects peppered throughout like tiny peppercorns, bobbing on the surface of the hot spring. And as blood escaped, it was as if the sulfur water was slowly seeping into those gaps, beginning to emit a thick scent of sulfur from his person.
Like being marinated alive in sulfur.
There’s no doubt that this pain is beyond articulation.
And with his skin already turning bright red from the scorching heat, it only intensified.
But how could he heed the call of life while giving up on his own?
Kenneth still had things to do.
He had to prevent disasters.
He must thwart terrible calamities.
He was driven by that sense of mission.
That mission bestowed upon him by God allowed him to willingly endure the suffering.
Ah.
Calamity.
That colossal and dreadful thing.
The gentle gestures of nature turn into a typhoon that brings tragedy upon countless people, and the smallest sneeze of nature becomes a tornado, eradicating many lives and homes without a trace. The surging tsunami swallows everything on land back into the sea.
But among all these disasters, none is more significant than a volcano.
It spews fire, turns things to ash, pours out lava consuming everything, and belches out terrible clouds that obliterate and petrify all. The acrid smoke blocks the sky, preventing crops from growing and causing many to suffer from hunger. Furthermore, the scale of its wrath continues to expand, wielding the potential to doom the world itself.
Ah, how could one argue that a volcano isn’t the foremost disaster nature brings forth?
That’s why he stands in this place.
That’s why he bears all this pain.
Enduring all this suffering, committing sins, and resorting to violence, he’s striving to stop this calamity….
That’s why he yearned for the book.
“…There should have been a Book of Magic.”
The Book of Magic he caught a glimpse of in the newspaper.
Though he searched across America and sought it through connections, it never found its way into his hands.
“The Book of Moses 6….”
That properly made Book of Moses 6.
