TBR CH96

Rather than a monster, the gaze it cast upon us was closer to the pity of a god. In its stare, I saw the sins of humanity.

—From a fragment of vellum unearthed off the Russian coast, written in charcoal with traces of smudging.

—

Asta despised deception, and there were signs of this.

It had dwelt alone in the depths of the sea for millennia, until humans, equipped with tools, ventured into the deep, entering its domain. To Asta, they were the only species it could communicate with in the vast expanse of time.

They were fragile, easily harmed by the slightest force. Yet, they sailed into the heart of the sea in vessels of wood and iron, carrying cargo that Asta could not comprehend.

The waters of its domain were not always calm. Fierce storms often swept through, painting the sky a somber iron-black, with silver rain lashing the heads of far-traveling sailors. The sea, churned by nature’s wrath, rose into waves tens of meters high, effortlessly splintering decks.

Humans, cast into the icy, bone-chilling waters, would struggle at first, only to sink lifelessly into the depths.

The first time Asta witnessed this, it instinctively wrapped its tentacles around them, lifting them to the surface to breathe. Gasping and choking, the humans emerged from drowning, only to recoil in unparalleled terror upon seeing Asta and its writhing limbs, struggling desperately to escape as if confronted by the most horrifying entity.

Its tentacles, scattered across the deep, were both wondrous and grotesque, capable of annihilating all with ease.

Asta had no choice but to knock them unconscious, then silently deliver them to reefs near the shore under the cover of night, where morning fishermen would find them. Initially, many of those it saved showed signs of madness, some plagued by nightmares for over a decade.

This fueled tales of a monster in the sea, intensifying Asta’s sense of guilt.

Over time, it grew more adept. It began knocking humans unconscious the moment they fell into the water, exposing as little of its form as possible. This way, they could return home safely without ever seeing it.

During that period, Asta roamed the deep, saving countless lives.

As a result, its reputation became ambiguous. Some claimed the sea harbored a colossal beast, its gleaming tentacle tips piercing ships and summoning storms, driving onlookers to madness. Others believed a mighty guardian deity dwelt in the depths, shielding sailors from death’s shadow and ensuring their safe return.

Asta knew nothing of these tales but took joy in salvaging treasures from wrecks.

It found wine and waterlogged bread, tasted tobacco—its acrid sting ensuring it would never try again—and, most significantly, discovered books. From them, it painstakingly learned human writing. At first, it was arduous, until it stumbled upon a primer meant for a sailor’s daughter. Words ceased to be a barrier.

Yet, it still lacked the ability to converse. That changed when, by chance, it rescued a weathered, bearded traveler without knocking him out, cautiously concealing the parts of itself that might drive humans mad. For the first time, Asta could communicate with a human it had saved.

The man had eyes weathered by hardship.

“I am a sinner,” he said, realizing Asta could read. Boldly, he drew a pen and paper from his coat. “This ship was meant to deliver me to the king’s gallows. I will forever be grateful for your help.”

Asta was thrilled to communicate this way, carefully hiding its sprawling tentacles to avoid frightening him. It learned simple vocalizations from him, but the man was eager to leave, promising to return.

He did return—with a fleet dispatched by the king.

Twenty whaling ships, masts raised, bristled with sharp harpoons, radiating menace. The so-called sinner, seeking redemption, had informed the king of the sea’s monster, intending to present its bizarre corpse as a trophy. He assumed Asta’s form was merely larger than a whale.

They could not harm the creature, of course.

When Asta revealed its true self to the fleet, it collapsed in disarray. The aftermath was as usual: the monster had no desire to kill, but for the first time, it tasted human deceit.

Such betrayals recurred several times, until Asta resolved never to speak with drowning humans again.

Later, it noticed people bringing young girls to the deep sea and casting them into the water. Asta retrieved them, returning them to shore, but within a day or two, they were forcibly brought back. This time, their captors were resolute, hanging the girls from masts before casting their bodies into the sea.

Only when massive tentacles rose from the water did the humans panic. Yet, they restrained themselves, chanting something, determined to continue their grim task.

Asta barely made out words: God… sacrifice… shadow… stars…

Unwilling to watch humans die before its eyes, it lashed its tentacles, stirring waves that toppled everyone on the ship.

The two girls, wrists bound, struggled to break free. Asta gently lifted them, unharming, and learned their story. On land, food was scarce, prompting trials to root out the “evil” causing calamity. These girls, deemed witches, were chosen for their birth on disaster days or missing a finger. The sea god, displeased, demanded their sacrifice to appease its wrath.

It took Asta a moment to realize the “sea god” was itself.

Its earlier act of returning the girls to shore had been misinterpreted as dissatisfaction with the offerings, leading to the decision to kill them before drowning.

For the first time, the monster felt bewildered—it had never intended this.

“These are all lies,” the clever girls told it. “This is just a ruse to judge us.”

This was Asta’s second encounter with deception, cementing its belief that lies were reprehensible, unforgivable acts. Yet, the next betrayal came swiftly.

The girls could not survive long at sea and began yearning for human society, for their families—though most had been abandoned, some relatives opposed the sacrifices. They believed they might find a place on land, or at least fare better than in the deep.

Asta was pessimistic, convinced that humans capable of such ruses were untrustworthy. But the girls were determined to leave. They were clever but still feared the monster.

They assured Asta they would be safe, claiming their survival in the deep unharmed proved divine protection.

From their eyes, Asta saw even they doubted their own words. But they had nowhere else to go, and this faint hope sustained them.

Perhaps this, too, was a lie.

In the end, Asta honored their request, delivering them to the coast. Its terrifying tentacles faintly surfaced near the shore, a subtle threat. The people on land were astonished.

The girls, pointing to the tentacles, recounted their tale. Their parents rushed to embrace and kiss them. Respected elders, trembling with fear, knelt to the sea, vowing not to harm the sea god’s chosen. The girls smiled proudly, while the priests retreated into the shadows. Everything seemed to be moving toward a brighter future.

…Was it truly so?

For the first time, Asta attempted to take human form, imperfectly, but enough to set foot on land.

In the shadows, it smelled fire—flames devouring life. On the pyres were the girls, their bodies charred beyond recognition.

Asta overheard the priest: “These girls are tainted. They did not meet the sea god but the foulest monster of the deep. It cannot come ashore, so it sent its emissaries. We must purify them swiftly.”

Humans were lying again, Asta thought.

But this time, it felt only exhaustion, a weariness that drove it back to the sea, to the deepest abyss, where no trace of humanity lingered. Deception was a skill humans were born with. In their tales, Asta could be a malevolent beast or a lofty deity.

It sought to save them, but they only sought to harm.

In the years that followed, it rarely surfaced, rescuing only a few in passing.

It wished to avoid entanglement with humans, but their ships increasingly traversed the deep, exposing its existence and disturbing its peace.

At the time, Asta had neither the desire nor the ability to integrate into human society, so it acquiesced to the institute’s containment, striking an agreement with them.

Unsurprisingly, these agreements, too, were lies.

But Asta was no longer surprised.

It ceased to hold expectations for humans. That is, until seven years ago, when a researcher with emerald-green eyes plummeted from the sky toward the sea, only to be caught by Asta.

From that moment, their lives intertwined in a way no one could sever.

—

Reckoning the time, realizing the embrace had lasted far too long, Isidor cautiously released his arms from around Asta. He quickly wiped his eyes, his emerald gaze gleaming as if washed by water.

“I’m a bit…” Isidor couldn’t help but extend his hand again, this time his fingertips lightly brushing against Asta. He left the sentence unfinished, focusing on his fingers as if solving a puzzle.

Asta couldn’t resist glancing at his hand—a pale, slender hand, clearly belonging to an institute worker who rarely ventured outdoors. Calluses marked only the spots where he gripped a pen. His wrist, equally slim and fair, bore no ornaments or traces of a bracelet.

“Do you ever wear a bracelet?” Asta asked directly, studying his expression. If Isidor knew nothing, the question would be just another trivial inquiry about the human world.

As expected, the researcher showed no sign of unease. He slightly raised his eyes. “No. Why?”

“Nothing,” Asta replied. “Today, I met someone wearing a bracelet with a black star. I wondered if that’s a trend among humans.”

It spoke casually, as if the matter were inconsequential. But Isidor felt a breeze stir within him. He resisted the urge to clench his fingers, aware that such a question stemmed from Asta’s suspicion—direct and targeted. Otherwise, it wouldn’t have so lightly glossed over the encounter.

“Is that so? I haven’t heard of such a thing,” Isidor said softly. “Speaking of which, you can now move through the institute without raising suspicion. That’s impressive. But why not let me come with you?”

As he reflected, Isidor quickly realized Asta’s doubts traced back further. It had left the room alone without telling him, forbidding Black Book from reporting its movements. Black Book mentioned Asta had searched for something, though Isidor didn’t know what. Subconsciously, he felt himself teetering on a cliff’s edge.

“I didn’t want you to worry,” Asta said, lifting its eyes with a smile. Clad in a human guise—black suit, deep gray tie—it exuded an air of solemn elegance. Its dark pupils seemed to pierce through every thought.

Isidor nearly faltered under that smile. He casually withdrew his fingertips, masking the tension in them to conceal his emotions.

It was an impeccable excuse.

It had been corrupted by its own actions, beginning to lie as well. Yet, helplessly, the human realized his heart still raced because of the earnest lies the monster spoke.

Fine, Isidor thought. Since Asta hadn’t yet concluded he was the human in the archive, everything remained in a hazy, ambiguous state of intimacy. If things went smoothly, as long as he doubled his caution, perhaps Asta would temporarily set aside these tangled worries. It wouldn’t be long now—the bowstring, slowly drawn taut, was eager to release its arrow. Everything was about to unfold.

For a moment, he said nothing, and the monster continued, abruptly shifting the topic.

Asta leaned closer, studying him for a while before asking, “Isidor, do I ‘love’ you?”

To a human, this was an absurd question. No one could be unsure of their own love and seek the answer from another. Love was a secretive flame, visible only in the heart, especially in its nascent stages.

Yet, when the monster asked this, it carried no ulterior motive—only pure confusion and curiosity.

“What?” Isidor’s heart faltered. He nearly repeated “What?” but forcibly stopped himself. “I… you… I don’t know… No, why would you ask something like that?”

He thought Asta had long forgotten the word, but now, at such an inopportune moment, the monster brought it up, using words so easily misconstrued. Just moments ago, Isidor had steeled himself, preparing to deflect the probing doubts hidden in Asta’s words, only to be blindsided by talk of “love.”

His defenses were utterly useless. Against the star he cherished, this topic always left him defenseless. He nearly raised his hand to shield his face.

Asta stared at him, finding it fascinating. The last time they’d touched on this, it had been the same.

“I just suddenly thought of it. We didn’t fully clarify last time. You only said you didn’t think of me because of ‘love,’ that love is like the sun. So, do you know if I feel ‘love’ for you?”

The human grew flustered, the tips of his ears faintly burning. He averted his gaze but couldn’t resist stealing a glance or two. A faint blush colored the thin skin around his emerald eyes.

Even so, he forced himself to speak as if unaffected, his tone softer than usual. “I don’t,” he said quickly, unsure which question he was answering.

Regret hit him the moment he spoke. He tried to change the subject. “You still haven’t told me where you went today. Oh, we could head to the bakery—”

“Isidor,” it said, drawing out his name, its voice still carrying a faint trace of dissonance. “I’ve noticed you always avoid talking about ‘love.’ Don’t you want me to know?”

“How could that be?”

Isidor realized too late he had no explanation, his words halting mid-sentence.

“You said it yourself—love is like the sun,” Asta continued, watching him slowly. “I don’t like sunlight, but whenever I think of you or when you’re close, my heart feels warmer than usual, like it’s been scorched by the sun. I don’t dislike this feeling. So, is this ‘love’?”

The monster’s candor was like an unyielding blade, and Isidor knew he could only willingly walk toward its edge and be pierced.

Asta had no inkling of the profound weight its words carried in the human world, merely voicing its confusion. Its dark eyes shifted slightly, reflecting his flustered form.

“No,” Isidor scrambled for an excuse. “It’s not quite like that. It’s… special. It might not be ‘love’—”

“Why not?”

“Because I feel it too,” Isidor blurted, summoning all his courage. The immense risk and the fear of his feelings being exposed propelled him forward. “But we’re friends. Human love isn’t for friends. Unless you no longer want to be friends, you don’t need to worry about ‘love.’”

This explanation finally convinced Asta.

The monster pondered whether it should read more human books to better understand their emotions. How else could it have fixated so suddenly on the word “love,” overlooking the fundamental difference? Of course, Isidor was its friend, and friends were clearly distinct from so-called “lovers.”

Friends should trust each other.

At this thought, Asta leaned back slightly, a wave of dejection washing over it.

If Isidor had deceived it, their friendship would suddenly become a lie from start to finish. But if Isidor hadn’t lied, its current suspicions were no less than carving a deep rift in the concept of friendship.

For the first time, Asta felt that moving forward or backward would irreparably worsen things. Yet, it couldn’t relinquish its doubts, even as it began to conceal them. This was terrible.

If… the monster resolved, if this was just a misunderstanding, it would surely apologize to Isidor.

But a certain thought made it feel as if it were teetering on the edge of a crumbling cliff. At the borders of its domain, there were steep cliffs where humans, falling into the sea, would be shattered by the impact, too broken to save.

For a time, Asta had sought to understand why they always fell. Peering from below, it saw humans standing alone, lingering at the cliff’s edge. Sometimes, they’d steady themselves on nearby rocks to avoid slipping.

Yet, in the end, they often took that final step forward of their own accord.

No one coerced them; it wasn’t an accident. They had chosen their fate, knowing full well what awaited beyond the cliff.

Asta had never understood, but now, it suddenly felt a kinship with their state of mind.

—

Asta left in a hurry. Not only did they skip the bakery, but their conversation felt unfinished. The monster had lingered outside too long, and the tentacles it used as an avatar were losing strength. They could only part hastily.

Isidor’s emerald eyes held a trace of loneliness, but he curved them into a smile as he said goodbye, promising to meet early next time.

Asta agreed, but it knew the promise wasn’t real.

After it left, Isidor sat alone in the chair, motionless, until the wall clock chimed, signaling night’s arrival. The institute was a sealed world; the staff dorms had no windows, and time was tracked solely by clocks and networks. No sky could be seen in any direction.

Only where the stars were—there, an artificial sky shifted with the hours. When Isidor first stepped into that sea, his heart, condemned as meaningless, stirred silently at the sight of a boundless, artificial sky.

He had never truly seen the sky, real or not. Back then, he thought dying there might be a kind of fulfillment.

Leaning against the desk, Isidor tilted his head slightly, as if trying to glimpse something through the stark white wall. He soon abandoned the futile attempt. Sitting down, he opened his computer and accessed a familiar website. As expected, he found the institute’s carefully worded “attack-death” report. Death was commonplace here.

Sometimes, it was the fault of escaped monsters; other times, humans, aware of forbidden secrets, betrayed each other in the shadows.

This time, the deceased was different—a key figure who initiated many of the institute’s major projects. His most ambitious, though forcibly halted, was the “Dawn Project.” The new Dawn Project had also been proposed by him.

Moreover, he was a critical link in the security network. His sudden death wouldn’t cripple the system, but to those with keen eyes, a flaw had quietly begun to erode the institute’s unassailable foundation.

The cause of death was clear: a laceration to the abdomen.

Isidor opened his email and found a message from John Cliff, the head of security for Sector C. The researcher knew the name was a cover. Clicking the email, he read:

“…Teacher, was it you?”

A cryptic line, but Isidor understood. Alone in his room, he stared at the message, a faint smile curling his lips. Seven years ago, John had been a sharp student, and he hadn’t stagnated since. Still, all he could do was suspect—or impulsively send a message to question his now-powerless teacher.

He knew the suspicion was baseless.

Not only had Isidor been deemed permanently stripped of his abilities, but the Kingfisher’s kills were always clean and precise, nothing like the bloody scene. Creating an abdominal laceration had taken effort, as he was accustomed to swift, lethal strikes with a slender blade.

No one would believe John, and John wouldn’t tell anyone.

Isidor didn’t reply, closing the email. His mind wandered.

Thoughts of the archive murder led to the chase earlier that day. They had been so close, separated only by a thin wooden panel, yet that fragile barrier remained unbreached. Like sworn enemies, they fled with all their strength, the sound of heartbeats echoing.

Yet, mere hours later, they embraced as if nothing had happened.

Perhaps noticing his distraction, Black Book appeared on the desk before him, its pages rustling softly. Isidor snapped back, glancing at the ink on the white page:

“What are you going to do?” the World Consciousness asked. “You still don’t plan to confess. Are you going to hide it from it forever?”

Its tone wasn’t accusatory. After a day spent facing two inhuman entities, Isidor noted they never mastered subtlety. Black Book wanted him to view the situation independently of Asta, but the current circumstances compelled it to ask.

It continued writing: “Indeed, if your plan succeeds, you could take it away. It would never know your other side, and since you love it so much, you’d surely live happily together.”

Isidor placed his hand over the words, his gaze lowered, fingers gently tracing the paper. “…No,” he said. “When that time comes, I won’t lie to it.”

“I just… until I can take it away, I can’t take any risks. Once we’re free, I’ll tell it everything. Then, I’ll let it decide. If it can’t accept me, I’ll leave. Look, it can blend into human society now. I know it’ll be fine, and that’s enough.”

He would confess what he had done. Over these seven years, he knew what kind of monster Asta was, but Asta had never seen the side of himself he carefully hid.

He was no different from the humans who had betrayed Asta—perhaps worse. He was a liar, his hands stained with blood, both human and monstrous.

And he would continue. To achieve his goal, he had to keep killing.

His star despised blood, slaughter, and death, yet these were inseparable from him, entwined with the ever-present shadow of deceit. Black Book had told him of the world’s doomed trajectory, but his heart clung to one thought: between the world and his star, he would always choose it.

But if Asta didn’t want to harm the world, he would follow its path.

“Why confess at all when the time comes?” Black Book asked, oblivious to the depths of his thoughts.

“Hey, World Consciousness,” Isidor said, his rare gentleness surfacing even before it, his eyes brightening. He murmured, “You know I like Asta—or rather, I love it deeply. But not now. Even if it feels so close, even if a slight nudge could give me everything I want, it’s not right. To speak of love before confessing is no different from the vilest atrocity. I won’t let its love be built on lies—not until I’m worthy to tell it everything.”

“…Sometimes, I can’t tell if your personality is an act or genuine.”

“With it, it’s always real,” Isidor said with another smile, unwilling to dwell on the topic. Closing the book, he regained his usual composure, turning to the computer to process the latest information.

He calculated what lies to tell which factions and who his next target would be.