TBR CH93

“O black deity confined in a cage, I whisper my prayers to you. The tsavorite brings your message—when shall we hear your voice?”  

—An enigmatic prayer, said to be recited by those with black stars tattooed on their wrists.  

__

Only now did Asta realize that separation could be so unbearable.  

On the fifth day since Isidor was reassigned from his role as administrator, the monster lifted its eyes gloomily, watching the blond, blue-eyed Hill walk in.  

The Chosen One had been putting in considerable effort lately, doing everything he could to win over the monster. He wanted to know if Project Alpha had any particular preferences, but after questioning the relevant researchers, he was told that the monster’s likes and dislikes remained one of countless unknowns.  

Still, Hill managed to uncover one clue—the previous researcher often brought sweets to work.  

At first, this gave him hope. But when he tried it himself, the deep-sea monster showed no particular interest. Hill had no choice but to abandon what now seemed like a ridiculous idea. Maybe that guy just had a sweet tooth himself.  

Asta hid beneath the water, the sweet, baked aroma swirling in the sea breeze, sharp enough for its keen senses to detect clearly.  

But this scent no longer held the same allure as before.  

The eyes on its tentacles shifted, observing the brown paper bag in the young man’s hand. Even the fingers holding it were different—Hill’s were delicate, as if they’d bruise at the slightest pressure, while Isidor’s were slender and pale. His hair was a chestnut brown, his eyes an emerald green unseen in these artificial waters.  

Hill’s blue eyes were diluted by the seawater, blending into the blue-green horizon where sea met sky. That sky-like azure seemed trivial in this man-made spectacle.  

Asta knew that until the black book’s plan was fully set, it couldn’t afford to act suspicious.  

So when the Chosen One presented his gift, it still extended a tentacle to languidly pluck one item away. The appendage vanished in an instant, leaving Hill with the impression that Asta was restraining itself out of guilt for frightening him last time—limiting how often its limbs appeared in his presence.  

An SSS-class danger-level monster!  

It acted indifferent to the bread, yet still accepted one out of courtesy for the boy’s gesture—or so Hill believed, his smile widening.  

He despised ugly, revolting things. But when these monsters competed for his affection, he didn’t hesitate to bestow his magnanimity upon them.  

Asta coiled the bread in its tentacle and carried it into the depths before releasing it. The soft, fragile pastry instantly disintegrated in the water, dissolving into mush—a feast for sea creatures.  

This all happened unseen in the abyss, known only to the monster. Yet the act lifted Asta’s mood slightly.  

Sorry, cream bread, but…  

It didn’t want to eat anything Hill brought. It missed Isidor. They had been exchanging messages daily through the black book, filling countless pages.  

Once, Asta suddenly thought to preserve these conversations. When it asked the black book, the latter fell into an odd silence before reluctantly spilling out a stack of papers, nearly dropping them into the sea.  

“Why the rush?”  

Asta gathered them, planning to revisit them from time to time.  

The World Consciousness flipped its pages restlessly before scribbling in crooked letters:  

“Because these are COPIES?!”  

At first, it had thought being a communication tool would be a decent role. Now, it realized how wrong it had been.  

The human and the monster seemed to have endless things to discuss. Isidor could start with “How’s the weather today?” and somehow end up on “The candy cane from the bakery was missing a button.” Eventually, they’d circle back to serious matters—all while dripping with saccharine longing for each other.  

Isidor saved every scrap of these exchanges, meaningful or not. The black book, being a manifestation of the World Consciousness, could regenerate lost pages as easily as regrowing hair—but it foresaw its impending baldness at Isidor’s hands.  

…And now Asta wants in on plucking its “hair” too!  

The World Consciousness stewed in agitation but didn’t dare break its agreement with Isidor. After all, it was the one seeking help.  

Meanwhile, the monster studied the scribbled words pensively before quirking its lips. The water swayed gently with the motion of its tentacles, lapping at the shore with measured rhythm. It was pleased.  

__

Hill was pleased too.  

These past few days, he’d mostly been greeted by serene seascapes, with only the occasional tentacle flickering into view—always in response to his words. The tranquil scenery seemed proof of the monster’s contentment.  

“I’d love to see you,” he murmured sweetly. “If only you were human, we could meet openly. If you were human, you’d be breathtaking.”  

He’d said similar things to other monsters. Initially, he’d assumed the System was lying about their ability to take human form—until the institute finally allowed him access to higher-level, more intelligent entities.  

At his request, some of those grotesque, repulsive creatures did manifest humanoid shapes.  

Not all were complete, some blinking in confusion like infants, their ashen eyelids flaking as they struggled to articulate his name. Yet Hill found himself mesmerized by their eerie, unnatural beauty.  

Compelled, he stepped closer to the SS-class entity “Skin-Eater,” once notorious for its hideousness—a formless mass perpetually shrouded in moths with kaleidoscopic wings, their high-saturation patterns nauseating to behold.  

Now, it resembled an awestruck fledgling, instinctively drawn to the radiant boy.  

Hill smiled.  

“Good boy,” he whispered, tilting up the monster’s flawlessly sculpted face. But his grip tightened imperceptibly, nails carving a thin red line down its cheek.  

The wound twitched unnaturally, as if something seethed beneath the skin, yearning to break free. Yet even then, the SS-class monster in human form leaned into Hill’s touch.  

Its mind was ensnared, convinced this luminous being was perfection incarnate—while it itself deserved to be wretched, less than dirt.  

To Hill, this suppression of instinct was only natural. The marred face, now stripped of its otherworldly allure, finally satisfied him. He let the creature kiss his hand.  

“You’re beautiful like this,” he cooed, voice like divine melody. “Not as much as me, but you’ve done well. I adore you this way. Always appear before me like this, won’t you?”  

The monster crouched on the ground, still unfamiliar with human locomotion. Hill made no move to help it up.  

Its throat rasped as it struggled with speech: “H-Hill… good.”  

Not all monsters could assume human form at his request, nor were they all as malleable as Skin-Eater. Earlier, Hill had encountered lower-level entities with partial human traits. Frankly, the prettier they were, the more he liked them.  

And according to the System, Project Alpha surpassed all other contained entities—already possessing a human guise.  

The impossibly beautiful boy flexed his fingers slightly. He longed to see the monster’s human form, certain it would outshine all others.  

Of course, to him, monsters would always be monsters—no match for humans, no matter how convincingly they mimicked beauty. He’d always remember their true, hideous selves.  

Yet he couldn’t deny his anticipation—nor the strange, dark thrill beneath it.  

“Is it really this hard to conquer?” he mused inwardly to the System. “It shouldn’t be. There are no obstacles now—Alpha clearly adores me and won’t harm me. Why is it still…”  

His thoughts cut off abruptly.  

Before the System could react to his complaint, the anomaly struck.  

The dark waters, shimmering under artificial sunlight, suddenly ripped apart under some immense force. The sea bulged, compressed, then erupted in towering white spray.  

“What’s happening?!”  

Hill stared in shock, instinct screaming at him to flee. The last time the waters had stirred like this, countless tentacles had left him mentally scarred. He retreated slowly, back damp with cold sweat.  

Just as the System moved to reassure him, his eyes widened.  

The sea had split in two, forming a path from the abyss to the shore. And at its end, a figure emerged from the depths.  

His hair was black. So were his eyes—pitch-dark, swallowing all light. As he drew nearer, his features clarified.  

A face not human.  

A face of perfection.  

That was the entity classified as SSS-level, concealed within the institute as Project Alpha.  

__  

“If I delay any longer, that System of his will grow suspicious,” Asta had told the black book earlier. “Today or tomorrow. Sooner is safer.”  

This was part of the plan. The monster couldn’t rely on fleeting tentacle sightings and vague friendliness to placate the Chosen One forever. But revealing its human form? That would be a powerful reassurance.  

With such a breakthrough, Hill would be helpless against the lure of imminent success.  

But…

Asta blinked as if seeing right through its thoughts, then pointed to its own face.  

“I’m not foolish enough to go without a disguise. Isidor says I’ve been acting more human lately—but clearly, that’s not what this ‘Chosen One’ wants.”  

Its lips curled slightly. “He wants a monster’s face. Like this one.”  

When the black book had first met Asta, its inhuman aura had been overwhelming—an eight out of ten. But after gaining a name, it had learned to mask that strangeness, dialing it down to a three or four.  

Now, however, it looked more eerie and beautiful than ever. Its face was cold, utterly alien, yet somehow perfect—the embodiment of every human’s darkest fantasies.  

Asta pressed a finger to its lips in a silent shush, then casually tucked the stiffened black book into its coat pocket.  

The pocket was small, but tendrils slithered inside, cocooning the book tightly.  

Hill stared, dumbstruck, as Asta approached.  

The monster stopped before him, offering a polite smile. Then it reached out, brushing his shoulder—just a light touch over fabric, yet the damp, oppressive weight of the deep sea seemed to seep into his skin.  

The Chosen One held his breath. His sapphire eyes shimmered—not just with awe, but with something deeper, bone-chilling.  

In that instant, Hill understood Asta’s message.  

Here.  

Right where his shoulder was—the institute’s latest anti-jamming surveillance camera, embedded beneath his clothes. Every previous device had failed in the monster’s presence, but this new model carried high hopes. Now? Just a useless lump of metal.  

Not that it mattered. Researcher-mounted cameras were standard protocol.  

Hill wasn’t worried about that. But he remained frozen, tongue locked until the System prompted him. Then, like a thawed river, praise and adoration spilled forth.  

His acting was impeccable.  

Yet even Asta found itself puzzled. If the Chosen One craved beauty, why did every fluid gesture and expression reek of falseness?  

He seemed even more insincere than before.  

This wasn’t the deceit of concealed affection. No—Hill spun elaborate compliments about the monster’s appearance, and that was the lie.  

He didn’t truly rejoice in its human form.  

Asta had no intention of probing further—not now. No matter how Hill prattled on, it pressed a finger to its lips in an X, sealing them shut.  

Soon, Hill realized: Asta wouldn’t speak to him.  

The monster timed it perfectly. At the first flicker of disappointment on Hill’s face, it stepped back. Before the boy could react, a tidal surge erupted behind him. The dark waters swallowed the inhuman figure, leaving only scattered sand.  

Hill lunged forward, but even an angelic youth couldn’t sway the monster’s tides.  

“Host,” the System chided, “you shouldn’t have been so impatient. Alpha revealing its human form is monumental progress. It’s not like the others—even with the halo’s influence, you must tread carefully.”  

Hill mumbled an agreement. Distracted, he recovered quickly.  

Even after Asta’s retreat, he played the earnest, understanding human perfectly, delivering another soliloquy to the sea.  

But he never responded to the System’s critique—uncharacteristic. After leaving the containment chamber, he headed straight for the restroom. Empty, as always.  

The mirror reflected his face. Even he, under the halo’s sway, had lost himself countless times in its flawless beauty.  

Only now did he finally speak:  

“This face is the most perfect in the world. That was your promise—the Allure Halo guarantees it.”  

Confusion rippled through the System.  

Of course. Its privileged host should know that better than anyone.  

“Then why…”  

Hill’s reflection paled—though even pallor became him, lending a delicate fragility.  

He scrutinized himself, searching for imperfection. None. Not a single flaw.  

“Why,” he whispered, as if to himself, “did I think Alpha’s face was… more perfect than mine?”  

__ 

Asta submerged, satisfied. The black book squirmed in its grasp, sensing something amiss.  

The monster blinked innocently, releasing it—but not before the World Consciousness could protest.  

“You—!”  

The book had seen everything. “You left something on Hill!”  

Asta nodded gracefully, lips curving. It tapped the book playfully, but the World Consciousness felt suffocated.  

“No,” it tried to assert—and failed.  

“You’ll help me.” Asta’s voice dropped, that uncanny, hypnotic lilt returning—like wind whistling through narrow cracks. “You already did, didn’t you?”  

The World Consciousness recoiled. When Asta had pocketed it and approached the System, it had panicked—not yet—and scrambled to conceal itself.  

Admittedly, the monster had helped. Its tentacles, dense with this world’s fortune, had shielded them from the System’s gaze.  

All so Asta could plant something on Hill.  

—A nearly invisible, translucent tendril.  

“Sorry.”  

Asta paused, reining in its psychic interference. It sounded genuinely contrite.  

“I just saw the opportunity. If I can venture out, even briefly, I might achieve more. And…”  

Its voice softened. “I could see him.”  

What did a single tendril mean to a monster?  

A chance to walk the human world in borrowed flesh.  

Asta pressed a finger to its lips again.  

“I’ll disguise myself. I know what I’m doing—but don’t tell Isidor yet, alright? I don’t want him to worry.”  

Its eyes gleamed. “I’ll find him.”  

The black book wavered, disarmed by the apology—then jolted at don’t tell Isidor.  

Impossible!  

It burned with urgency but remained trapped under Asta’s gaze, unable to warn Isidor of the monster’s sudden plan.  

The tendril slipped free as Hill exited the restricted zone.  

In an unobserved corner, a man emerged—masked like a lab researcher, a black book in hand.  

Asta’s face was mostly hidden, its movements blending seamlessly. Around its neck hung the fake ID Isidor had crafted. Amid the bustling crowd, it looked perfectly ordinary.  

It approached the coffee machine. The previous user departed; Asta took their place, pressing the button. Brown liquid streamed into a paper cup adorned with red reindeer.  

Just as Isidor had described—simple, effortless.  

No one would suspect a latte-sipping employee of being a monstrous imposter. The disguise held.  

Asta sipped through its mask—coffee, milk, sugar—and moved with the crowd, observing, mimicking.  

A researcher flipping through notes while walking? Commonplace. So Asta retrieved the black book with its left hand, flipping it open.  

The black book… didn’t know what to say. The monster learned frighteningly fast. Its last foray into humanity had honed its mimicry to near perfection.  

Every action was flawless.  

“Which way to Isidor?” Asta murmured, too low for others to hear.  

“…Left.”  

The reply appeared after a pause. A lie.  

Left led to Zone C; Isidor frequented Zone F. The World Consciousness fibbed through metaphorical teeth, praying the deception would hold.  

Desperate to warn Isidor, it longed to fly to him—but couldn’t. Asta needed it as a map, its functions now thoroughly exploited. None of this aligned with the book’s original purpose.  

No matter what, no matter how…  

After finally establishing private contact with Isidor, this had to happen.  

The black book knew—what Isidor was doing now…  

Was something he never wanted the monster to see.