Old days, dice and investigator's manual

Some people, after getting to know the deeper workings of the order, chose fear and escape. They saw the undercurrents beneath the surface, felt that it was all too vast and unchangeable, and so they retreated into their own little world.

Others chose a different path, learning to exploit those undercurrents for their own benefit, sinking deeper and deeper until they themselves became part of those undercurrents. They gained power, but also paid the price, succumbing to the established order until they were completely swallowed up.

Some people try to stay clear-headed, even trying to change the entire ocean. Such people are rare because it is too difficult to maintain this state of mind. They are not deterred by fear, nor corrupted by self-interest, and always know where they stand and what they want.

Perhaps my thoughts are wandering too much, but I think this is very similar to the different reactions that mortals make when they encounter indescribable beings in those Cthulhu novels, right?

I now believe that the evil in human nature itself is not so terrible, but something much larger can unleash its true destructive power. That thing carries it, amplifies it, and makes it legitimate and irresistible. That thing is order.

Often, it is not the evil in human nature that causes people to commit evil deeds, but rather the order itself that compels them to do so.

Like the Grand Duke, I believe he wanted a better city, faster roads, fairer laws, more orderly governance, and happier people. His words were indeed filled with enthusiasm when he spoke to me.

Now, after years in power at Vista, he has been crushed by layers of reality. Being at the heart of the order, the more he sees, the more easily he is swept up by the logic of that order itself.

He needs to balance interests, respond to demands, and maintain loyalty. Every decision he makes affects the gains and losses of many people, and he must choose among these gains and losses.

I don't think he's the kind of person who would deliberately distort my ideas. At first, he might still be thinking about those visions and more distant goals, but gradually, he adjusted his direction according to the tides of order, veering off course again and again. When he looked back, he probably didn't even remember where he started to deviate from.

I once thought I could be a third kind of person, that I understood those indescribable things, and that I had remained clear-headed.

But I was wrong. I understood those compromises, and so I became corrupted.

I saw an imperfect reality, and then I told myself that those deviations, those distortions, were perhaps necessary, perhaps inevitable, and that I had accepted some things I shouldn't have accepted in the first place.

For thirty years, Versta has shaped me, and I've tried to shape it. I don't know whether it has changed me more or I have changed it more.

Perhaps the question itself is not very meaningful. I can no longer distinguish which thoughts I had when I arrived, and which were slowly crammed into my mind by this city and this sea.

So I gradually withdrew from the discussion with them. I had a lot to say, but I didn't know if what I said was what I meant.

It's hard to describe this feeling. All the concepts are still there, and the words are in the right order, but what's being expressed... makes me feel a sense of fear when I think back on it.

Fortunately, all of this is coming to an end.

Your assessment of me back then—that I was indecisive and needed a kick—was correct. Ever since realizing those problems, I haven't known what to do, only able to bury myself in history, until the Church gave me a kick, a chance to leave, a chance to escape, or perhaps… a chance to do something.

The biggest difference between this world and our homeland, on the surface, is the difference in the development of productive forces, but among these differences, there is a fundamental difference.

The deities here are perceptible, responsive, and truly exist in the world.

Since I started writing "The History of the Old Days," I have spent a long time trying to understand where the gods came from and, if they appeared suddenly, why they descended.

I have witnessed the traces left by battles between beings known as demigods. These things cannot be explained by my existing knowledge. What puzzles me most is how these gods came to be. They are like a group of characters who take the stage after the great sunset, yet claim that they have always been there.

I don't know what this situation means, but my gut feeling tells me that if we can figure this out, we might be able to find a way out.

Another thing that interests me is that gods are not static.

As you know, Vicania, the goddess worshipped by the Golden Bough Church, has had her image change over the past few decades.

The original theme of the Golden Bough Church was for believers to pray to her for a bountiful harvest, health, and rest, with rituals revolving around these daily needs. But over the past thirty years, the ideas I brought—about efficiency, progress, order—have been absorbed into Vicania's teachings.

The doctrine of the Golden Bough Church has been adjusted several times in the past decade, and each adjustment has leaned in the same direction, emphasizing order, the progress of civilization, and the building of this world rather than waiting for the afterlife.

I never imagined they would affect the deities themselves, and I don’t even know whether to feel relieved or terrified.

If deities can indeed be altered, it means they have boundaries and room for negotiation.

But it also means that what I brought is reshaping an existence far beyond the human level, and I have no idea where this reshaping will lead, or whether this change is His own will or a passive adaptation.

I still believe that humanity should seek its own path, but I also realize that the relationship between humanity and the gods in this world is more entangled than I imagined. Perhaps I can only accept the existence of this entanglement while trying to understand it.

After leaving Vista, I plan to continue eastward to the outskirts of the capital to see the largest remaining traces of the "Great Sunset".

Perhaps something is left there, waiting for someone to uncover it, but they may find nothing, or they may find that they are powerless to do anything once they get there.

But I've been in Vista for too long, constantly thinking, and now I feel that thinking has reached its limit. What I should do is go and see, even if I'm not sure what I'll discover.

By the way, I can't take my house in Vista with me, so I'm sending you the key with this letter. If you come to Vista, you can stay there. It's at 122 Red Maple Street, a typical two-story house.

This letter is quite long. I didn't originally intend to write this much; it was just a farewell. But I feel like I still have so much to say, and now that I've written this much, I feel like I've already finished. Maybe it's because I'm not very good at saying goodbye, so I'm using writing to procrastinate, as if I can stay here forever.

If I'm going to reply, I'll at least write to you after I've settled in. In that case, I can write that sentence now.

No need to reply.

Edward Lessing