Chapter 71 - The Architect I

1

Come to think of it, I have mentioned a group called the Library Society several times already, yet never had a proper chance to explain it to you. What suddenly brought this to mind was a question Oh Dokseo asked me in run 562.

“Mister, Mister. How do you join the Library Society?”

“Hm? Why the Library Society?”

“What do you mean, why...? Because it’s cool.”

Every so often, Oh Dokseo would become fixated on something completely out of the blue. One look at her outfit made it obvious: a cap and jacket fit for a rapper, jeans that looked ready to slide off like melting candle wax—complete with three holes—and bubble gum she noisily chewed despite it being fake. Oh Dokseo suffered from adolescent delusions of grandeur. A severe, terminal case, at that.

She also displayed a symptom common among sufferers who proudly called themselves literary girls: a perverse psychological illness that induced bizarre levels of ecstasy at nouns such as “library,” “society,” and “librarian.” According to a paper published by South Korea’s psychiatric association, the disease was sadly incurable, with the only treatment being for the patient to actually enroll in a university philology department. How terrifying.

“You’re a regressor who’s been through hundreds of runs, Mister, so obviously you know the Library Society’s top brass, right? Right?”

“Hmm...”

A complicated expression crossed my face.

“Well, I do know them, but...”

“Then introduce me! No, first tell me what the Library Society is like. They upload the Anomaly Encyclopedia to SG Net, but apart from that, they’re a secret organization completely shrouded in mystery.”

“... Do you really want me to tell you?”

“Huh? What’s with you all of a sudden? Don’t be stingy. Tell me everything you can.”

“You’ll probably regret it... Well, all right.”

If she wanted it that badly, I ought to oblige.

CRACKLE

-The music we’ll be bringing you today is Mozart...

A vintage solid-wood radio beside our table was playing music. I sipped my café au lait, injecting engine fuel into my bright red tongue, then began speaking to the little prophet sitting before me.

2

The Library Society. Also known as The Great Library. No one knows when it was founded, but it is a very old organization—and a secret society, at that.

Naturally, its existence is meticulously concealed from the public. Even if its name slips out by accident, people tend to dismiss it without a second thought: “Huh? That sounds like an ordinary real-world organization.” In that respect, it is leagues above those pathetic exhibitionists like the Freemasons or Illuminati, who talk endlessly about secrecy while exposing themselves to everyone.

“Ooh... A proper secret organization.”

Oh Dokseo’s eyes sparkled.

Apparently even Oh Dokseo, whose neurons were hardwired to regard everything with a perpetually bored, cynical gaze, had a sense of romance. Thinking that this was going to be trouble, I continued my explanation.

The exact location of the Society’s headquarters is unknown, although rumors place it in North America. Its branches are scattered around the world. The Korean branch’s hideout is concealed somewhere in Cheorwon.

“Cheorwon? Why Cheorwon, of all places?”

“Geunnam Township in Cheorwon, to be precise. Not many people live around there. As befits a secret society, they try to avoid public attention as much as possible.”

“Ooh...”

The Library Society knew about anomalies even before the gate crisis began—perhaps hundreds or thousands of years earlier. They collected information on anomalies, compiled strategies and manuals, and secretly trained “librarians.”

Every librarian is a specialist in anti-anomaly warfare: an expert sworn to devote their life to exterminating or collecting anomalies, even if it means abandoning humanity and morality. Librarians maintain strict obedience to their superiors according to rank.

Their hierarchy is said to proceed in this order: [Knight], [Baron], [Viscount], [Count], [Marquis], [Duke]. There is only one duke. Nothing whatsoever is known about the identity of the Duke of the Library, who stands above all librarians and is known as the “Hall of Black Books.” Apparently, they are not even certain whether the duke is human.

“Wait. So how do you address librarians by their rank? Like [Baron-Rank Librarian]?”

“More or less. Starting at count, they also receive separate epithets. A count specializing in spurious books might be called the Count of the Tower of Spurious Books, for instance. That sort of thing.”

“That’s pretty cool...?”

“Incidentally, the last word in the epithet changes with each rank. For barons, it’s ‘Gate’; for viscounts, ‘House’; for counts, ‘Tower’; and for marquises, ‘Pavilion.’ For example, the marquis overseeing the Forbidden Books Management Department is someone called the Pavilion of a Thousand Seas.”

“That’s incredibly cool...?”

Oh Dokseo’s eyes grew increasingly dreamy.

According to one account... a kind of prophetic book called the Black Blank Book lies dormant in the deepest abyss of the Great Library’s headquarters. It contains prophecies of the calamities that will befall humanity and the anomalies that will destroy the world, written in exceedingly strange languages and scripts.

To avert the day of the end that will one day arrive, to preserve humanity, to carry history onward, the Library Society’s librarians are working in secret somewhere even now.

“And every bit of that is bullshit.”

Blink.

Holding the espresso I had made her in one hand, Oh Dokseo blinked.

“Huh?”

Hmm. Quite a delicious reaction. I smiled kindly.

“My dear child. There is no such thing as the Library Society. Well, if you looked, you’d find plenty of groups with similar names, but there is certainly no organization that has spent thousands of years working in humanity’s shadow to counter the threat of anomalies.”

“Huh? Wh-what? Why? How...?”

“Because...”

I slowly rose to my feet.

“I, the Undertaker, am the master of the Great Library, founder of the Library Society, its one and only duke—the Duke of the Hall of Black Books.”

“...”

What? Why so surprised? I gave the bubble-gum girl with delusions of grandeur, who was opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish, a sly grin fit for a veteran rogue in an inn.

Did she think I had created only one or two fake organizations over more than a thousand years of grinding through life? Playing the mastermind never got old; it was always a thrill. I was an SSS-rank regressor ready to respond to any incident with “Ah, I planned that,” “That was me, too,” or “That was also me.”

But even a regressor could not create something from nothing. A demon named Parmenides had already proved that back in 500 BC. There was a source that had inspired me to establish the Library Society... No, “forcibly spurred me” might be a better way to put it. In other words, there was an original.

That impetus began in run 46, with a certain radio broadcast believed to have come from the mighty USA on the North American continent.

3

After civilization collapsed, human culture, which had been enjoying the heyday of video, regressed to the age of radio. I had been very familiar with handling radios since my early runs. I had even set up a broadcasting station myself to support Dang Seorin’s idol career.

Allow me to brag for a moment... Those legendary radio channels with countless devoted listeners—not only throughout the Korean Peninsula but across the Korea Strait in the Japanese archipelago as well—such as Nymphocalypse and Ravenclaw Busan Branch would have struggled even to get started without help from me, the Undertaker. This was not mere boasting, but objective fact. The hosts themselves frequently made remarks like these:

-Oh, you mean our benefactor? Wow. He really, really helped us establish and keep this channel running! Just five years ago, I didn’t even know how to run a channel!

-Our esteemed benefactor? Hmm. I’ve mentioned him several times on air already, but he is someone I’m truly grateful to. Occasionally, keeping the channel going requires rare materials or tools. Whenever we ask him, he finds them as if by magic.

Every one of those references to a “benefactor” meant me. What I’m saying is that I made a considerable contribution to maintaining East Asia’s cultural standards after the apocalypse. I also devised the “Radio Festival,” the event held one day a year, on Christmas, when famous radio channels joined forces for a twenty-four-hour relay broadcast.

Always remember to thank me, cultured citizens of Far East Asia.

For those reasons, one wall of my hideout always displayed an assortment of radios. It was an impressive lineup: South Korea’s first vacuum-tube radio, the GoldStar A-501; Sony’s CF-580 and CF-3800; Germany’s Grundig Party-Boy 210; China’s TECSUN PL-680; and so on...

Among them was a K731 radio made by Zenith. You don’t need to know anything about the model. All you need to know is that it was an antique manufactured in the 1950s, a vintage piece made from solid maple. You know those wooden wardrobes you find in older people’s homes? Like those, this wooden radio had a beautifully smooth, polished finish.

CRACKLE

-This is... the CP Foundation. The current situation is...

CRACKLE

One winter morning, that very antique quietly slipped out a whisper in English.

“Hm?”

As on any other morning, I was drinking in a cupful of romance in the form of freshly made café au lait. Not yet fully awake, I stared blearily at the radio.

‘Did I... leave the radio on when I went to sleep last night?’

This is where it becomes clear that I am completely unsuitable as the protagonist of a horror movie. I possess Perfect Recall, so I never frustrate viewers to the point of giving them cancer by brushing things off with “Eh, I’m probably imagining it” or “Hmm, I can’t quite remember.”

‘... I didn’t leave it on.’

My eyes snapped wide open. I immediately turned up the volume. The characteristic radio static surged.

CRACKLE

-Site Seven has fallen. I repeat. Site Seven has fallen. We deployed nuclear warheads according to protocol, but they had no effect.

Nuclear warheads? After somehow suppressing the static enough to hear the voice, I concluded that the speaker was probably elderly. An American speaking typical Californian English.

-Oh, the evil dragon... The evil dragon is loose. It’s all over now.

CRACKLE

-Can you see it? Beyond the mushroom cloud, the evil dragon’s enormous...

CRACKLE

-shadow is visible. We’re doomed. The Foundation is finished. So is the world.

I tried turning the tuning dial this way and that. Yet every change of frequency merely produced more static; the old man’s voice continued crackling without interruption. The conclusion was obvious.

“... This thing has become an anomaly.”

I clicked my tongue.

Contamination. Ever since the world began falling apart, all kinds of electronic devices being taken over by anomalies had become commonplace. I named this phenomenon “contamination” or “infection.”

Devices such as security cameras, telephones, cell phones—the older the model, the greater the danger—computers, GPS navigation systems, radar, and televisions were particularly hazardous. They had a very high likelihood of going haywire. In fact, it was these “contamination” phenomena, rather than physical threats like Tenlegs, that delivered the most fatal finishing blow to human civilization.

In the early days, the leaders of various countries who tried to counter anomalies with nuclear bombs merged with the almighty mushroom cloud while wondering, “Huh? Why are the missiles coming toward us instead of their targets?”

Radios, of course, were no exception to contamination. Still, I had subjected my collection to rigorous exorcism work and reassured myself that they would be relatively safe...

-This is Site Seven. I am Director Martin Russell, the overall commander of Site Seven. As soon as I confirmed that Site Seven’s final bulkhead protocol had failed, I relocated to Bunker Twenty-Four. I am currently attempting to communicate with the outside.

“Hmm.”

-From the bunker, I can monitor the interior and exterior of the site through security cameras, but many are out of order. I assess that the remaining cameras will not last long either. If a rescue team is assembled, please dispatch it promptly so that I can coordinate from inside. The survivors within the site currently visible on the cameras, including myself, number three, four, five... six. I am alone in Bunker Twenty-Four, and the other five are all separated from one another.

-Radar observations indicate that rather than dispersing around the world, the entities that escaped containment are converging on North America. What? What on earth is causing this?

Come to think of it, the broadcast was rather strange. Usually, all an anomaly-contaminated radio broadcast amounted to was an imitation of a ghostly shriek—“Heeeee!”—or some nonsensical mental attack.

-Those affiliated with the Foundation will already know this... Site Seven is located on the island of Molokai, Hawaii.

-It is unlikely, but if any civilians happen to hear this transmission, disregard all of it. And flee as far away as possible—away from North America, at any rate. Or simply enjoy a final supper with your families.

Yet this anomaly—this contaminated entity that claimed to belong to some “Foundation”—was making a remarkably thorough imitation of a person. As if a human really were broadcasting from the other end of the radio. As if someone really were imprisoned somewhere, desperately, frantically sending out a signal.

And so, in run 46, I could not help feeling intrigued—and wondering about one thing.

-The entities are indiscriminately destroying the Foundation’s sites.

CRACKLE

-Oh, God! Please, may humanity be shown mercy...

If this was real. If the old man really was in Site Twenty-Four or whatever it was, if an organization called the “Foundation” existed, and if the entities said to have escaped containment were real as well... What on earth was happening in North America right now?