I sat in my chair at the police station, watching the two men in black-and-white checkered uniforms across from me, their mouths opening and closing by turns as if they were saying something.
The one on the left wore an expression of cold indifference, as though he had already witnessed far too much misfortune. The one on the right still carried a certain youthful naiveté, a trace of sympathy showing in his eyes.
I didn't feel any pain, nor did I regret plunging that knife in. In that moment, I had even felt as though I were being liberated—the warm blood that splashed across me was like a salvation granted by the gods.
My only regret was why I had so feverishly chased after money in my youth, sacrificing my dignity, my body, and my freedom for its sake.
In the few days I had spent at the police station, I had found enough peace of mind to think deeply about this question—more thoroughly than I had managed in all the years before: Insufficient willpower and immaturity of mind were the root causes of that mistake, but that did not mean they were the whole story.
From childhood onward, the education I received had always told me that hard work and striving were meant to yield larger houses, floor-to-ceiling windows with ample sunlight, more than three servants, a private lawn of one's own, silver or gold-gilded tableware, evening banquets spread with delicacies, and dance halls echoing with elegant music, and so on and so forth.
The newspapers and magazines I read told me over and over that only by acquiring sufficient respectability could one be called middle class—could one be a pillar of this kingdom, refined, outstanding, not vulgar, principled, and a person who possessed both compassion and knowledge.
At the same time, they also taught me what respectability was: a beautiful dress, clothing coordinated for different occasions, expensive skincare products and cosmetics, an elegant and fashionable ladies' handbag, a concert, an afternoon tea, a gathering brimming with style.
And all of it, translated into something concrete, came down to gold pounds, gold pounds, and more gold pounds.
I had to admit that pursuing a better life was everyone's instinct, but when every facet of a girl's world was telling her this, when the prevailing current of the entire society was one of respectability, refinement, and elegance, it was nearly impossible for her thoughts not to be shaped by it.
I didn't know what this phenomenon was called. All I knew was that if nothing changed, tragedies like mine would inevitably keep appearing—more and more of them.
And when that happened, there would certainly be people who thundered in fury: "Look at these gold-digging women—they've sold their souls!"
Almost unconsciously, I turned my head toward the window and saw the beautiful, prosperous world beyond, saw the bright red blood flowing through that world.
"Miss
I gave him a smile and didn't bother telling him that I had been pondering some rather philosophical questions.
How absurd—a gold-digging woman who had sold her soul, sitting here contemplating such idle matters while being questioned by a police officer.
The young officer nodded and said to me: "Miss Tracy, you will need to prepare for your court hearing. We will arrange a lawyer for you.
"I'm sorry, but we were unable to retain that witness. We have only the testimony, which is rather unfavorable for you."
"That's quite all right," I said to him calmly.
I would do my best to defend myself, and I would face the crimes I had committed with equanimity, repenting honestly. All I could hope was that a new life might still await me.
I paused for a moment, then curved the corners of my lips and said to the two officers: "While I'm waiting for the hearing, could you help me borrow a few books from the library?
Hmm, *Social Trends and Educational Phenomena*…"
At that moment, I saw the two officers looking somewhat bewildered, and also a bit, well, impressed.
…………
I sat at the far end of the mottled long table, listening to Miss Judgment recount matters regarding
When she finished, I looked around and said in a low, hoarse voice: "This is a ritual."
As expected, I noticed Miss Judgment's gaze stiffen somewhat, and I sensed Mr. Hanged Man and Miss Justice both turning to look, tinged with speculation.
At that moment, I seemed able to guess what they were thinking: They would certainly suspect that this was a Sequence 1 ritual by Gehrman Sparrow, The World. And they already knew through the
Regarding this matter, I had already prepared an explanation — namely, to have them think about the primordial Sun God and His eight Angel Kings.
Unfortunately, no one raised a question. They may have already made the connection to the Angel Kings, or they may have believed that the ritual involving Utopia was primarily to aid Mr. Fool's further revival.
…………
I looked at the beautiful woman sitting quietly in a daze, weighed my words, and then asked: "Miss Tracy, where do your parents live?"
"They've already passed away…" The beautiful woman whose soul no longer belonged to this place answered in a somewhat ethereal voice.
I lowered my head, made a note, and asked: "Do you have any other relatives?"
The woman turned to look out the window and answered casually: