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Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Zaped
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We headed down to the hotel lobby. To meet the man, we needed to go to the front desk.
Camilla didn’t bother dressing as a man this time.
Instead, she donned a headscarf, thick-rimmed glasses, and darkened the shadows under her eyes. Her reasoning?
It’s easier to disguise oneself by looking more unwell than trying to hide being sick altogether.
“Are you sure about this? You dressed like a man when you came here last time.”
“They don’t memorize every guest’s name and face. That’d be bad for business. Once they’ve got your money, they don’t care. Anyway, look at all these people.”
The scene was much the same as yesterday, except the crowd had grown larger.
At the lobby’s internet café, people leaned forward, refreshing their screens repeatedly to check the latest rates.
The line at the exchange booth was longer than ever, and some were busy scanning QR codes to verify the authenticity of their Continental Credits.
The lobby and entrance buzzed with activity as people came and went.
The diversity of appearances and ages was notable, but the similarities were striking.
Most were couples—predominantly men and women, though same-sex pairs weren’t uncommon.
Their behaviors were eerily similar, too.
Women leaving the hotel struggled to walk properly—sobbing so much they couldn’t see ahead and unable to move their legs apart due to pain.
The men moved briskly, yet their hollow expressions betrayed them.
Dragging their feet, staring straight ahead, they repeated the same mantra:
“It’s not just us. Everyone’s going through this. At least we can survive this way.”
Meanwhile, those entering hesitated at the sight of the departing guests.
“Do we really have to? Like, seriously… even recording that kind of thing?” one whispered to their partner.
“What else can we do? Sleep on the streets and turn into zombies? Just treat it like you usually do—wear a mask, and nobody will notice,” came the curt reply.
Other interactions played out based on individual interests.
“It’s either here or one of those cult shelters. Is that what you want?” someone demanded, intimidating their reluctant companion.
Others darted straight to the front desk, keeping their heads low—the ones who could afford to pay the hotel fee without resorting to making videos.
One of these brushed past Camilla, narrowly avoiding a collision.
“Sorry,” the stranger mumbled hastily, bowing slightly before scurrying away.
“Thank you,” Camilla said with a faint smile.
“Isn’t there anywhere else? I mean, this can’t be the only hotel around. This place just… doesn’t seem right,” I asked.
“There used to be many. Really. But now most are gone. The ones left are either private villas for the rich and powerful, back-alley dives, or shelters run by the fanatics of the Hunger Goddess. None of those are places anyone should go. They’re worse than here.”
“What happened to the others?”
“The kindhearted and trusting were the first to die. Then the kindhearted but cautious followed. Now, only the unkind, the unsympathetic, and those who neither help nor trust others remain. But doesn’t it seem unnatural for that to happen everywhere, all over the country, in less than three weeks?”
I stopped walking. Camilla nodded knowingly.
“Was it the Syndicate?”
“The Liberation Front thought so. They found evidence, made propaganda about it, but no one listened. The Syndicate is just a group of political thugs for the Elzan government. They sowed distrust and rewrote the rules to make everyone dependent on them. Just like what Römer did to Elza.”
Her words from before came back to me.
That I’d left my bomb far away, meaning no attack happened here.
The thought now carried a completely different weight.
“If a bomb had gone off in Hampton…”
Camilla pressed her temples in response to my murmuring.
“Elza is like a house of cards. Every piece hates the others, but they’re barely holding together. The Liberation Front failed to provide an alternative, and the Syndicate imposed its own order on the world. If the bomb had gone off, even that fragile order would’ve collapsed. Sure, it would’ve been satisfying… but it shouldn’t happen.”
I thought I understood the real reason.
If it were Camilla, she’d likely say this:
“Because people would die. Right?”
Camilla gave a soft smile and squeezed my hand.
Just then, bells rang out.
Ding. Ding.
A commotion followed.
People grumbled, their expressions sour.
“Ugh, them again.”
“Bringing their zombie horde, no doubt.”
“Disgusting.”
“Real believers don’t act like that.”
Curious, I edged closer to see what was causing the fuss.
Camilla hesitated but followed when she saw me move.
Down the middle of the road came a bizarre parade.
More than thirty people marched, their faces obscured by gas masks.
Their bodies were covered in crude contraptions that looked like patchwork armor made from scrap metal, reminiscent of old, poorly animated robots.
Duct tape and plastic wrapped the joints, held together with rope.
Though they carried no guns, they wielded makeshift weapons resembling polearms—long metal pipes affixed with oversized cleaver blades.
“Repent! Repent for your sins! The time of hunger is upon us!”
The monotonous chant came from a recording, blaring from the shopping cart at the center of the procession.
Inside were two wooden statues, grotesque and unsettling in their design.
“What the hell is that?” I asked Camilla, unable to take my eyes off the scene.
“They’re heretics,” she whispered. “They claim that’s the real statue of the Hunger Goddess. But the real goddess doesn’t look like that. Not so… monstrous.”
“What about the male statue behind it?”
“They say he’s one who lusted after the goddess. But it’s all lies—pure heresy. There’s no such figure. The true goddess isn’t like that.”
I watched the parade with growing unease as the chanting grew louder:
“Repent! Do not yield to your base instincts, lest you become zombies! Repent your sins!”
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