Hangover (3)
The Prophet of the Apocalypse.
(prophète de l'apocalypse)
An old man bearing the burdens of the world.
The headmaster looks at the boy in front of him with a cooling teacup.
Across the table, a blonde with a brazen smile sat.
Suddenly barging in during work hours, he had settled in the most bothersome spot in sight.
A solitary meeting that happened unexpectedly.
“Ahem.”
He had come to chat, but now he was just fiddling with the teacup without saying a word.
Every time their eyes met, he smiled meaningfully.
“······.”
He was waiting for the old man to speak first.
The old man sighed softly. He was used to that sly way of speaking.
In fact.
This was only the second proper conversation with the boy, but the headmaster was already reacting as if he was familiar with it.
No. Perhaps he really was accustomed to it.
For him, the present was merely a fragment cut from the future.
The old man decided to indulge the young man's conversation for a moment.
“I heard about the recent incident.”
A light voice breaking the silence.
A few sentences retracing the past topic and what followed.
The headmaster spoke, recalling memories from a few days ago.
“Selena... that child has noticeably improved,”
“Did you have a separate conversation with her?”
“I stopped by the hospital room briefly. Where in the world is there a teacher who would be indifferent when their only disciple is bedridden?”
“Then that's good news. I heard your relationship had been awkward for a while.”
“Yes. We had a deep conversation after a long time.”
A brief reminiscence.
The old man remembered his disciple lying in the hospital bed.
The atmosphere had changed drastically in just a few days.
The eyes that had always seemed devoid of emotion had softened, and tears welled up in those red pupils.
The unexpected downpour flowed down her pale cheeks all day long.
While tightly holding the old man's wrinkled hand.
-I'm sorry, Master...
The sound of that cry lingered in his ears.
Gaston murmured, recalling the warmth still lingering on his fingertips.
“It had been a long time.”
Nearly a decade had passed.
Selena expressing her emotions so intensely was a distant memory, almost forgotten.
When he came to his senses, there were a few more lines of wrinkles on the old man's forehead.
The old thoughts left a bitter taste in his mouth.
-You... have talent.
-From today, call me Master.
For a moment.
He remembered the moment he took in the girl.
The old man washed his mouth with lukewarm tea.
“I suddenly found myself reminiscing. About the time when Rianne was still alive.”
“······.”
“It was a time when nothing had gone wrong yet.”
Rianne.
The mention of that name brought a somber mood.
The two of them rarely continued the conversation.
If asked why they suddenly fell silent, it was because the boy was about to ask a question, and the old man already knew what that question would be.
The boy sipped his tea nonchalantly.
“There has always been a part I couldn't understand.”
Clink.
He set the cup down.
“Why did you take her in?”
“······.”
The reason.
The boy was asking about the reason.
Their gazes calmly crossed.
‘Selena.’
The boy knew a part of the future.
At the same time, he knew that the old man in front of him was a prophet.
That was why he couldn't help but wonder.
Why did he take in a child who would become the seed of disaster?
Why did he only watch as her younger sister was manipulated by the cult?
Why couldn't he protect the two of them?
The short question contained countless ‘whys.’
The old man silently fiddled with the cup at his fingertips.
‘The reason.’
Well.
There were two answers to the question.
One.
The old man could not go against the will of the world.
As the boy in front of him also knew.
His ability came with the condition that he must not interfere with the story.
This did not simply mean doing nothing.
It was closer to fully performing the script and role given by the world.
If he foresaw a future called A, the old man had no choice to go to B or C, nor to not go at all.
He simply moved according to the script called A that the world had designated.
‘A puppet.’
The old man called himself that.
Because he was a being who lived according to the given script.
Taking in Selena was in the same context.
Whether she would half-destroy the academy as a traitor or repent and live as the boy's ally.
In any future, the woman was a central figure in the story.
For Gaston, there was no choice but to bring Selena.
And the second was
"······."
Although there was no way to convey it to others.
Gaston followed the best course of action he could take.
Clink-.
The old man tilted his teacup in silence.
Had he been lost in thought for quite some time?
The liquid that touched his lips had already cooled.
The boy across from him furrowed his brow but soon withdrew his gaze as if giving up.
He relaxed the chilly atmosphere and leaned back against the chair.
He spoke briefly.
"Well... I wasn't expecting an answer."
He simply needed someone to talk to.
It was more like a kind of complaint.
"It's hard to share these kinds of stories. I thought of a suitable person and came by."
A story about the future.
It was difficult to confide in or explain to others.
In that sense, the old man was a fitting target for his monologue.
He was someone who knew the future of the world like the boy and wouldn't be flustered by most nonsense.
If what he needed was a silent audience, the old man was willing to oblige.
It wasn't a particularly difficult role.
"If you have any thoughts, let's have tea together occasionally."
"That's unexpected. I thought you'd dislike such trivial conversations."
"If you think about it, we're like a disciple's disciple or a teacher's teacher."
Also.
In some futures, they were friends.
The old man swallowed the words that followed.
"······Therefore, I have no intention of treating you coldly."
"That's good to hear."
"However, I'm worried that I'm not very articulate. I hope you understand if I can't answer certain questions."
"Oh... that might indeed be a minus factor."
A low chuckle.
The boy shrugged as if that was enough.
He then placed the teacup he was holding on the table.
Was there another appointment coming up?
The boy soon stood up and dusted off his seat.
"I'll be going now."
"Do as you please."
"See you next time."
"If there is a next time."
"Of course."
With a brief smile, the boy turned his back.
The old man watched his receding figure for a moment.
Soon, the door to the headmaster's office closed, and the snake completely disappeared.
"······."
Once again left alone in the space.
Gaston absentmindedly fiddled with his gloved left hand.
Beyond the feel of the leather, there was nothing.
Last time. While leaving a prophecy for the boy, he had forced a few more words and paid the price.
The hand, which had turned to a handful of ashes, was impossible to restore with magic or divinity.
It was a kind of warning.
'Damn it.'
The world had declared.
Not to overstep his bounds.
The role given to the old man was not that of a prophet, but a bystander.
Without a severe price, destiny could not be changed.
'Not yet.'
Foresight.
The old man's ability transcended providence.
It was different from what astrologers typically performed.
To the extent that it was problematic.
For example, it was like this.
The old man knew everything.
From the fact that the boy would visit today to the conversations that would take place in between.
Even after entering the headmaster's office. How many breaths he took, how long he held the teacup, and how many sips he took.
'834 times. 12 minutes and 56 seconds. 21 sips.'
It wasn't just simple observation and memory.
He had 'known' it all along.
That was.
Even before the boy entered the headmaster's office.
Or before this morning dawned.
No, even before this cultist attack occurred.
Perhaps even before he enrolled in the academy.
In fact, ever since the old man was a fifteen-year-old boy. From the moment he was called by the stars.
The prophet foresaw, memorized, and penetrated all days.
Countless information flooded his mind as if it would burst.
Constantly.
The old man lived in overlapping realities.
It felt like being trapped in a dream for a long time.
The present and future tangled in a jumble.
Now it was difficult to distinguish whether the scene before his eyes was truly reality or if he was seeing the future through prophecy.
As the story gradually reached its orbit, the prophet's mind was collapsing.
Gaston realized that he didn't have much time left.
'Is it one more year?'
Sixty years had passed since he received the call of the end.
From when he was a young fifteen-year-old boy to becoming an old man in his eighties.
Gaston had consistently endured all those burdens.
Solely for the future.
'The conclusion is coming.'
An unbreakable thesis.
The disaster would soon break the peace and appear.
The main and supporting characters would have to choose their end.
And.
The old man too.
‘Indeed.’
He had to choose the end.
Whether to remain a bystander of the world, or die as a recorder, or play another role···.
The prophet agonizes over the perfect use he will make to the world.
With the sunset setting outside the window.
The prophet closed his mouth like that.
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