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Flames embracing the city.

Burning buildings stand ablaze in every direction.

Thick black smoke envelops the sky.

A landscape of the city wrapped in the silence of darkness.

It resembled a cake made of fire.

The flames carving the city’s border are the edges of the cake.

The burning buildings are candles.

The cake made of flames and the city uses crumbled debris as decoration, while melting asphalt and pipes serve as its sponge, and water surging and gushing from sewers and water mains mimic dry ice to enhance the cake’s appearance.

If the city could be likened to a cake, then this dark night must be the time before the celebrant blows out the candles.

Once he extinguishes the candles in one breath, surely applause of celebration will follow.

But sadly, what lingers here is silence.

There are no songs to celebrate a birthday, no clapping of hands, nor cheers.

“[I feel joy and sorrow for standing here due to the noble sacrifices of countless heroes.]”

What replaces that moment is the wave of thoughts spreading across the entire city.

The will of one person piercing directly into the brain, not the ears.

“[How beautiful is the figure of one who does not spare their body for others? How sublime is the sight of someone who, foreseeing their own pain and death, willingly throws themselves into the battlefield?]”

An old man’s voice?

Or perhaps it feels like the voice of a beast.

It was a sound one would expect from someone whose vocal cords had been scorched by fire.

A bizarre sound mixed with growls of beasts, scattered throughout.

If I had actually heard it with my ears, I would have understood barely more than half.

It was closer to noise than speech.

But perhaps because it was a thought that directly struck my mind, the old man’s voice was imprinted in my head with clarity.

It felt less like mere hearing and more like a sensation that imprinted itself into my very essence, affecting all five senses.

‘It’s like fire.’

It was as if the flames blazing in the black night were the same way.

Just as the flames are clearly visible from afar.

As approaching the fire makes its heat palpable.

As the crackling sound of the flames makes clear where the fire is located.

As the scent of burning permeates the air, announcing the fire’s presence.

Like the taste of ash floating in the air that we recognize.

The old man’s voice felt like fire.

“[I can project my will here thanks to the help of heroes.]”

“[To the devoted souls who seek not their own salvation, but the salvation of others.]”

“[How could one who witnesses such nobility refuse them?]”

“[Like yearning for the warmth of a campfire on a blizzard night. Reluctant to step away from the warmth of the flames, doing everything to protect them. Expressing endless gratitude to those who kindled and sustain that flame.]”

“[I will be thankful for their dedication, again and again.]”

A massive building belches out thick black smoke.

Yet, amid it all, the fierce flames strive to reveal their existence, even devouring the smoke that seeks to obscure them. After several attempts to engulf themselves in black smoke, the flames choose to rise upward rather than retreat, asserting their presence.

It was like a candle.

A flame atop a pitch-black body.

“[And so, following the intentions of their dedication and effort.]”

“[Many in this city will survive.]”

“[Just as the warmth of a pre-lit campfire protects those asleep in the cold.]”

“[The flames I have kindled will safeguard and bless the powerless victims.]”

“[Thus, until the sun rises and the world is filled with warmth, I shall ensure they do not lose their health.]”

“[I shall fulfill my role and protect them until they can find their rightful path.]”

The resounding will echoed tremendously.

It is felt.

Felt via thoughts crushingly inserting themselves into the mind.

The shaman currently wielding magic is genuinely trying to save many people of this city.

He is attempting to use some form of magic to save the wretched souls of this city, destroyed by magic, spells, and armies.

If one were to ask how I could be so certain…

I cannot be certain.

But it naturally resonates.

Just like getting immersed in a story while watching a piece of art, two people grasping the emotions contained within the words of one another, the fundamental bond that should exist between people, the instinctive feelings honed through time screamed to me that the old man’s words were true.

Perhaps this is what it feels like to mold one’s heart and place it onto another’s.

From the unconscious part to the conscious.

It feels as if everything deep within has been brushed over, right up to the surface.

The Polluter felt as though his mind was swept up in this vast empathy.

Was it the understanding of the noble cause proposed by the old man that shook his mind, or the old man’s will embedding his thoughts through the power of synesthesia?

The Polluter raised his magic.

It felt like turning on a device that had just recently fallen into water.

Even if the water inside the device dried out, one ought to be worried about potential malfunctions, but turning it on while there’s still moisture inside—

“Ugh!”

Naturally, the core circuit, central to the device, would get scorched black or break down, leading to some issues.

At the very least, some functions could malfunction, or worst case, the device could become entirely unusable.

What the Polluter did was exactly that.

Naturally, the outcome could only be similar.

“…Cough.”

Some of his insides were torn apart, becoming a handful of blood that reversed.

Bloody fragments mixed with his internal organs trickled from his nose and mouth, and his eyes were filled with blood vessels, almost about to burst, weeping blood tears.

This was commonly known as sustaining internal injuries.

It wouldn’t be surprising if he were to die here.

But perhaps because the Polluter was of a higher caliber, despite suffering injuries, he managed to somewhat regain control of his magic, roughly rebuilding the basis to use magic.

Of course, it was hardly stable…but even this was quite a remarkable feat.

Using the example of the electronic device, where part of the circuit was broken yet it still operated fine, equates to a similar miracle.

Thus, the Polluter, accepting some minor losses, began to protect his mind with the magic he had raised.

Using magic filled with the power of pollution, he erected barriers in his mind.

To defend against the invading thoughts, he spread a thin layer of tainted magic across his body.

It was a primitive form of defense, but in terms of tainted magic trying to corrupt to a similar trait, it wasn’t a bad approach.

The Polluter thought this way as he severed the shaman’s thoughts entirely.

‘What a nuisance.’

Cough-!

Blood spatters continuously leaked forth.

An unpleasant sensation, like a beast’s claws having stirred through his insides.

Yet, despite it, the Polluter did not regret raising his magic.

It was foreboding.

The shaman’s scheme to empathize with his emotions through thoughts was ominous.

Those who call themselves shamans are truly unpredictable beings.

They cannot be anticipated or guessed.

The best way to deal with them is to rely on trained instincts instead of plans.

And to act without being swayed by their words or actions.

‘Allowing thoughts to linger is ominous, and continuously hearing them leads to being charmed by them.’

Even if he suffers losses, he must cut them off resolutely.

‘If not…’

The Polluter gazed outside.

Thanks to the fiery barrier encircling the city and the burning buildings blazing throughout the city, it mistakenly appeared as bright as midday.

Those who were asleep.

Those who were awake were holding their breath.

The Silent City which had found rest within the gentle night was stirring.

Kaaaahhhh-!!

…And screams began to echo from every corner of the city.

Bang-!

Bang-!

Bang-!

The sounds of gunfire tearing through the night.

The sound of explosives presumed to be hand grenades detonating.

A figure in military uniform dashes toward the burning building, throwing themselves inside, while a person leaps from the shattered window of a high-rise building, diving toward the concrete ground.

Thus, the city started to grow noisy again.

Not laughter and tales of joy, but the terminal cries of countless souls.

And witnessing that, the Polluter muttered to himself.

“…Shamans are all nothing but madmen.”

* * *

Ashtosh Singh says.

The flames must burn for the lost souls.

But how can one procure the firewood needed to sustain that flame?

“For the sake of saving many lives, I will use the lives of those who kill others as firewood. Even if that is not voluntary sacrifice, nor dedication, but rather my coercion.”

Nonetheless, I will not regret using the lives of sinners as firewood for the many.

“This is neither devoid of desire nor transcending it, but a worldly method. Nevertheless, the outcome is aligned in the right direction.”

This is the way to handle fire.

 

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