The World Does Not Exist for ■■

Translator: FenrirTL
Editor: ford53
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< Chapter 12: A Destiny for the Prologue Boss (3) >

“Wow.”

‘The Writer’ marveled at the auditorium where the entrance ceremony was to be held.

With the capacity to seat tens of thousands, it was a vast space generously equipped with state-of-the-art construction techniques and premium materials, complete with seating areas prepared on both sides.

It was so impressive it could have been mistaken for a World Cup stadium rather than an auditorium.

‘In reality, it’s set to be used as a stadium during the sports festivals.’

His admiration was brief. While it was intriguing to see the space he had described in writing come to life, it was also a place he had seen countless times before.

The Writer walked through the auditorium, his thoughts turning to something else.

The Prologue.

Externally it was called that, but within the context of the world, it would come to be known as the Bloody Entrance Ceremony.

Depending on the work, the number varied, but it was a tragedy where at least hundreds, if not thousands, would die.

‘Hundreds to thousands…’

The number was staggering, yet it didn’t truly resonate with him. The fate of minor characters without a single line of dialogue was of no real significance to him.

The Writer stopped walking for a moment and sat in the audience seats, retracing the setup in his mind.

It all started with a prophecy given to a necromancer by a seer.

‘You will be killed by someone hundreds of years younger than you, and that person will enroll in Lord Howe Academy in five years.’

The necromancer, instead of running away in fear, came up with a befittingly necromantic solution.

‘Why not just kill the prophesied foe before they can kill me?’

The answer was simple, but yet again, he faced a hurdle.

How could he find his adversary among the fierce and mighty new students of Lord Howe Academy, which received support from all over the world, and how would he kill them?

He pondered for a long time, growing in power, building his hatred.

And the conclusion he reached was as simple as it was horrific.

‘Kill them all.’

If he killed all the new students attending the entrance ceremony, the problem would be solved.

Unfortunately, the necromancer had the will and the means to carry out this insane plan.

‘Well, it does end up being a self-fulfilling prophecy…’

In hindsight, he attacks Lord Howe Academy’s entrance ceremony and is killed by the protagonist.

Thanks to this, the protagonist becomes famous worldwide and it serves as a catalyst for getting involved in various events.

The problem is…

‘Who exactly is the protagonist?’

The Writer chewed on his thumbnail as he looked down at the auditorium.

This world resembled the one from his novel, but it was not entirely the same.

Most aspects were similar, but several details were completely different, nonexistent, or beyond his comprehension.

‘It’s certain that other works have been mixed in…’

In truth, he wasn’t the sole creator of this world.

He was a writer who was commissioned to write a novel within a franchised universe – meaning someone else had created the universe, and he had contributed to it as an external writer.

Of course, as a creator, he didn’t just write what was given to him. He created an independent protagonist and thrilling settings that fans adored.

However, the same was true for the movie director, the comic artist, and the video game producer.

‘The protagonist should have been consistent.’

The Writer recalled the head of the production committee for this universe, a wealthy man who allowed creators a great deal of freedom as long as they adhered to the universe’s rules.

Because of him, the protagonists were different in each version, varying in gender and even ethnicity.

The movie version had a handsome male actor, the comic book featured a beautiful girl painstakingly drawn by the artist, the game version was…

‘What’s the use if none of them exist in this world?’

The Writer cut his useless thoughts short. After being dropped into this world, he had tried tracking down all sorts of protagonists, but he couldn’t find anyone he knew.

He even entertained the thought that he might be the protagonist, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

If he were the protagonist, he wouldn’t have been incarnated into a body from a well-off family but with pathetic skills.

‘What if the protagonist doesn’t appear? What then?’

At that point, another worry crossed his mind. What if, after the Prologue begins, there is no protagonist?

Surely it won’t end with ‘The necromancer killed everyone. The end!’ … Right?

It sounded absurd, but being incarnated into a world from a novel was already an absurd reality.

‘…Should I just not attend the entrance ceremony?’

The moment he attends, there will be no escape.

The Prologue Boss, the necromancer, would surround the auditorium with undead he’d prepared for five years, and the tremendous number of undead would physically block all exits.

With so many civilians attending the ceremony, it would be impossible to hope for significant magical or heavy weaponry support.

All they could rely on was each individual student and the few capable people attending the ceremony.

Of course, that would be enough to save at least one’s own skin.

‘But the real problem is Phase 2…’

The necromancer was the issue. In the novel, he was a weak Prologue Boss, but in the game and the movie versions… just the thought made him break out in a cold sweat.

A revolting and terrifying feast of flesh.

‘Maybe I should skip the entrance ceremony after all?’

He gauged the auditorium where the new students would gather, then shook his head dejectedly.

‘No, that’s not right. No matter what, if I bail from the beginning, there’s no chance to partake in the story.’

For the sake of his future, it was best to get on board with the story. It would be even better if he could lend a hand to the protagonist and build connections.

By following the story and snatching up hidden elements or opportunities meant for the protagonist… he could lead a life vastly different from his real one, one that was glamorous and prosperous.

‘If I’m going to attend anyway, maybe I should make a good impression on the heroines and take care of any side characters I dislike?’

With this dark and cruel fantasy as his final thought, The Writer turned and left the auditorium.

The silence of the auditorium extended a long shadow behind him.

***

Dung Beetle paced his breathing.

With the first breath, he fired the shotgun, sweeping away the zombies blocking his path.

On the second, he gathered mana in his feet.

With the third, he sprang up, leaping over the heads of zombies.

By the fourth breath, he was soaring above them.

However, the wall of zombies was too thick to overcome with a single leap.

Despite having jumped over nearly dozens of zombies, he was about to fall back into their midst.

No, almost fell.

Thump!

Dung Beetle stepped on the head of a zombie instead of the ground and leaped up again.

The zombies reached up to grab him, but their rotten hands were insufficient.

Zombies from behind began to pile up belatedly.

Rotting flesh overlapped in an abhorrent barrier.

Suddenly, light burst from the shotgun in Dung Beetle’s hand.

Bang!

Magic-silvered buckshot tore through the wall of flesh.

Dung Beetle was showered with chunks of flesh and putrid blood.

The stench assaulted his nose, and his clothes were soiled, but he did not stop.

Seeing the necromancer drawing closer by the moment, desperate mana being fed into his wand, he heard,

“King of the Undying! He who has even killed death himself!”

As Dung Beetle stepped on the last zombie’s head and sprang up, the necromancer completed his spell.

Crackle, fizz!

The wand emitted light.

A vile green light, defying the natural order, flew towards Dung Beetle.

It was a strike aimed at the moment he was defenseless in the air.

A triumphant smile spread across the necromancer’s pale face.

But that smile vanished in less than a second.

At the moment the magic and Dung Beetle collided, a radiant multicolored light burst from the rod at his waist.

[Oh the curse of decay! That this foul curse should still linger in the world!]

In that instant, a noble… voice echoed in Dung Beetle’s head.

[Thou art chaste! I shall protect thee!]

Upon hearing the word ‘chaste,’ Dung Beetle nearly let go of the unicorn horn rod he was holding, but he restrained the impulse.

In midair, he twisted his torso and extended his leg towards the necromancer.

It was a heavy flying kick, unlike anything Park Seti had shown him.

“A unicorn’s horn?! What grudge do you have against me—ack!”

He struck the fleeing necromancer squarely in the back.

It was a superhuman kick imbued with emotion.

Like a person hit by a car, the necromancer flew a short distance before crashing to the ground.

As soon as Dung Beetle landed, he sprung towards the fallen necromancer, not giving him a chance to rise.

“Keuk, damn y—cough!”

Dung Beetle grabbed the necromancer by the neck as he crawled on the ground and lifted him up.

Golden eyes pierced through the pale face of the necromancer.

Without any offer of negotiation, Dung Beetle tightened his grip on the neck.

There was a crunching sound from the necromancer’s throat, and his body went limp.

Dung Beetle tossed aside the necromancer he was holding.

The body of the deceiver of the dead fell lifelessly to the ground.

[Chaste one! We have triumphed… ]

Dung Beetle released the rod in his left hand and turned his head, looking out toward the path leading beyond the pier.

Beyond the necromancer’s truck of corpses, something was crawling on the ground.

“Hey.”

Dung Beetle staggered towards it.

As the sound of his footsteps neared, the thing that had been crawling on the ground suddenly sprang up and started to run.

Unfortunately for it, it was not fast enough.

With a single roll of his foot, Dung Beetle caught it by the nape of the neck.

The figure struggled violently, trying to escape, then realizing it was futile, began to plead with Dung Beetle.

“Please, spare me! I—I know nothing!”

Dung Beetle locked eyes with him.

The middle-aged secretary, clutching a bag containing potions of awakening, was trembling with fear.

“I haven’t even asked you anything yet.”

“Then, then ask me anything! I’ll tell you whatever I know, anything!”

His words were jumbled, but Dung Beetle was not concerned with their coherence; he asked his question.

“Where does this trade, the order come from?”

“…”

“Yeouido? The Blue House? Just how far does the necromancer’s reach extend?”

The face of the secretary contorted.

He clenched his eyes shut and answered in a shaky voice.

“If I tell you, will you… will you spare me?”

“No.”

It was an immediate response.

Dung Beetle tightened his grip on the neck and added,

“But your family will live.”

The secretary’s face went ashen.

His gaze lost direction, flitting about before settling on the body of the dead necromancer.

Seeing the corpse with a snapped neck, he sighed heavily as if coming to a decision.

“The driving force behind this trade… it’s the patriots.”

“Patriots?”

“For our country and people, those who have sacrificed everything.”

Country and people?

Words he hadn’t expected came in succession, causing Dung Beetle to furrow his brow.

“Explain clearly. Who are these patriots? Is it a meeting or a group? Or…”

“Whether you killed the necromancer for your own reasons, you must be Korean, right?”

The secretary cut off Dung Beetle’s questions and posed his own.

“So?”

“Then, could you please just walk away from this? Not for my life but… for our country, our people.”

The secretary’s unfocused eyes dropped to the bag he was clutching.

Dung Beetle’s gaze naturally followed to the bag.

He knew well what was inside.

Potions of Awakening.

A dream potion, known to awaken one’s magic with a low probability.

Because of that potion, the Cleaners Guild had diverted corpses and sold them to the necromancer.

Because of that potion, the government had killed his colleagues and brought disgrace upon them.

And these people, having committed such acts… are they calling themselves patriots and talking about the nation and the people?

It was absurd.

So absurd that he had no choice but to ask again.

“Is selling the corpses of your own people, this garbage act, for the nation and the people?”

“How could you possibly…urgh!”

The grip on the neck tightened.

The urge to snap the neck then and there surged within him.

“Enough of the nonsense. If you want to die in peace, tell me who the patriots are.”

As the secretary writhed in pain from the crushing grip, he replied.

“The patriots… they are from an interim government beyond the dimensional gate…”

[Your naaame!]

A cry interrupted the secretary’s words.

Dung Beetle realized it came from the necromancer and turned his head.

The necromancer’s body lay where it was, but above the truck he had brought, something was defying gravity and rising into the sky.

A blood-red rectangular box.

The coffin, so intuitively recognizable as such, positioned itself in mid-air.

[How dare you! How dare a maggot like you touch my neck!]

Thunk! The coffin opened, and something revealed itself from within.

A skeleton without lower limbs, just an upper body left.

From the skeleton’s eyes glowed the same vile green light that had been in the necromancer’s wand.

“There was a true body after all.”

It seemed too easy.

Dung Beetle let go of the secretary and reloaded the shotgun.