Reincarnated Cthulhu
Chapter 32: For Mortarboard and Wreath

I blurted out my conclusion. “■■■ ■■ ■■■ doesn’t exist.”

Arthur, who was adjusting his morning coat and tidying his appearance, turned to me with a frown. He asked as if I’d just made the most mundane observation imaginable. “Doesn’t exist, you say?”

“That’s right, it’s a fictional entity created by the Royal Society. If I had to put it another way, the entire Oldcourt could be called ■■■ ■■ ■■■. Damn it, Acting Dean Callas was right from the beginning. Oldcourt was a breeding ground for ■■■ ■■ ■■■. No, it was one enormous ■■■ ■■ ■■■ itself.”

“Wait, wait. Could you try breathing while you talk? What’s all this about ■■■ mumbo-jumbo whatever?”

“Not mumbo-jumbo, but ■■ ■■■. ■■■ ■■ ■■■.”

I took a breath as he suggested.

“Are you going out somewhere?”

“Ah, quick to notice. Why, should I have asked for your permission? If it’s not too presumptuous, may I step out of my own house? I promise I’ll be back before 6 p.m.”

“Why so prickly over one simple question?”

I just now noticed that Arthur didn’t look particularly pleased. He didn’t hesitate to explain why.

“I’ve been invited to a board meeting at the Yellow Facade Company.”

The Yellow Facade Company, or as they were commonly known, the nine dirtiest buildings in London.

The phenomenon of white facades turning yellow from atmospheric ammonia occurred only in the most unsanitary places in London. In other words, central London.

And every Londoner desired to work in front of those heaps of horse dung, with land prices so exorbitant that converting all the accumulated manure to silver wouldn’t begin to cover their value. People referred to the ten insurance companies occupying ten four-story high-rises with a mixture of contempt and reverence as the Yellow Facade Company (YFC).

At one time, Richmond Co. was counted among them, but after a lawsuit, it was dramatically dissolved, leaving only nine companies to maintain the legacy. Though they had never truly operated as a unified entity, it was known that after embracing the syndicate culture, they collaborated across various fields.

I exclaimed in surprise. “I thought you only knew how to squander your inherited assets. I had no idea you were making the commendable effort to grow them!”

Arthur raised a finger. He often made this gesture when he wanted to emphasize a point or when he was in a bad mood.

“I guarantee you, there’s not a single benefit to be gained from them. Those wolfish thieves seem to be under the delusion that my rightful inheritance belongs to them, but they’re sorely mistaken! No matter how they try to entice me, they won’t take a single penny from me!”

He snorted forcefully.

“Then why are you still going?”

“It’s become rather complicated. It seems those fellows have joined hands with my legal heirs. If I don’t show myself alive regularly, they’ll file a death certificate at their whim. When an inspector comes knocking in the middle of the night, wakes me up, and asks if I’m dead, how could anyone maintain their sanity? Soon, I’m going to call a lawyer beyond their influence and rewrite my will.”

He answered with an unusually weary voice, seemingly under no small amount of stress from the situation. Indeed, I could fully understand why he was in such a foul mood.

Arthur folded his finger again.

His expression urged me to share an interesting story that would immediately improve his spirits. A nephew of mine once wore that exact same look. He was about ten years old then. The mental age matched quite closely.

“So, what was your story again? That ■■■ blah-blah-whatever doesn’t exist?”

I nodded, organizing the information I had gathered throughout the previous night.

“■■■ ■■ ■■■ has been listed as a co-author on every Royal Society paper since 1727. That means for 169 years, he’s been at the cutting edge of every field, revising academic papers across all disciplines. Even if he had some means of extraordinary longevity, do you really think that’s possible for a single human?”

“Longevity and universal scholarship—at a glance, two impossible feats.”

Arthur nodded slowly.

“I concluded instead that the name ■■■ ■■ ■■■ refers to the entire faculty of Oldcourt. If professors throughout generations borrowed that name for joint revisions, both problems would be solved at once. This would also explain why there are no papers published under the Dean’s name. While he might revise papers, publications would be made under individual professors’ names.”

He groaned in a low voice. The fact that my explanation sounded plausible seemed distinctly unpleasant to him.

“Yes, that makes sense. But what about the Royal Society? Aren’t they trying to make contact with the Dean?”

“That answer is simple. Oldcourt University has been a subordinate institution of the Royal Society from the beginning. It’s hardly strange for a London university to be under the Society’s influence. Since 1727, when Oldcourt Abbey changed its sign to Oldcourt University, it has consistently been an academic institution under the Society. But they couldn’t possibly include ■■■ ■■ ■■■’s name on the Royal Society roster. He neither exists nor dies.”

Eventually, Arthur challenged me as if he were the Dean’s spokesperson.

“That alone isn’t proof of absence. You’ve already witnessed countless inexplicable things, so couldn’t there be one or two immortal geniuses out there?”

“Wisdom, my friend. Wisdom proves it.”

I shook my head as I answered.

“While investigating Oldcourt yesterday, I met a student. She possessed wisdom that I did not—that sixth sense Oldcourt has been researching. Those with wisdom can see what cannot be seen and even glimpse the future. According to your logic, ■■■ ■■ ■■■ would be the wisest human, so why would he leave me alone? If I were him, I wouldn’t have admitted someone who was investigating my background. Rather, wisdom itself proves the Dean’s absence.”

Arthur, having nothing more to say, merely wore a sullen expression in silence. I could tell why his mood had soured so drastically without having to ask.

He was bored.

He must have expected a more thrilling story about the superhuman known as ■■■ ■■ ■■■. In contrast, my conclusion was too ordinary and realistic. He would have been more entertained if I had explained there was a monster that devoured people.

It was truly an arrogant mindset. Even though he had feared Dean ■■ ■■■ until quite recently.

Unsurprisingly, Arthur had always been this way. I had thought he would be more serious about the Frank Academy matters, but he remained impulsive and pleasure-seeking.

“Fine, let’s say everything you’ve said is correct. But why?”

Arthur’s index finger shot upward. For the second time today.

“What reason would all those professors have for abandoning their own honor and creating a fictional character called ■■■ ■■ ■■■ for nearly two centuries? Wouldn’t it be far more rational to suggest that a devoted patriot is pledging loyalty to the Royal Society for Irish independence?”

“A patriot with immortality and genius-level talent in every academic field, I suppose.”

Yet his point was valid. I still hadn’t figured out that part.

“But you’re right. Oldcourt is still brimming with mysteries I can’t comprehend. Why the three colleges had to be so isolated, what those invisible entities all over campus are, what the bottles of cerebrospinal fluid and hidden rooms signify, who invented the wisdom clock and university insignia, and what it means when they say ■■■ ■■ ■■■ is coming…”

As my words trailed off, suddenly realizing there was far more I didn’t know than what I did, my voice gradually faded. Arthur’s eyebrows shot upward.

“Secret room, you say?”

“What? Please, Alt. I’m being serious.”

“Oh, come now! I do know how to separate business from pleasure, Lord Philemon Herbert. Isn’t it common sense that secrets are hidden behind concealed rooms? Am I simply too brilliant for you?”

Arthur retorted with a touch of irritation.

Upon reflection… he had a point. For the past month, I had fixated on the spaces beyond the building’s walls, and the secret room was the only lead my relentless investigation had yielded. Now that I knew some unknown number of students were being sacrificed there, I couldn’t afford to waste precious time hunting for additional clues.

“You’re right. I must go there.”

“You mentioned invisible monsters.”

I nodded. Since then, I had devised various countermeasures, though none seemed particularly satisfactory. Could such creatures even be killed?

“Will it be dangerous?”

“By my estimation, that place harbors secrets that could easily claim a life or two. The enemy remains shrouded in mystery, while ironically, the monsters they’re breeding are perfectly transparent. This will be a challenge unlike any I’ve faced in my life.”

Arthur gave a slight nod, then said with an airy tone:

“Retreat is always an option. Surely it’s not worth staking your life on?”

He whispered like the serpent that beguiled Adam and Eve in the garden. I couldn’t fathom why he seemed so eager to mimic such sacrilege. Perhaps it was the influence of his mixed bloodline, or simply his disagreeable character.

Nevertheless, he already knew my answer, and I gave it voice.

“No, it’s entirely worth the risk. I swore before Her Majesty the Queen to protect the innocent, and that oath remains binding. For the innocent students and for London.”

“Yes, and for our academy too,” Arthur added with a smile.

I grimaced in distaste.

“That wasn’t part of my calculation.”

“I have grand expectations for this expedition. If Oldcourt is truly connected to the Royal Society, and there exist otherworldly entities that we must thwart, then surely there will be research materials the Royal Society has compiled over the past two centuries. I’m already eager to see what trophies you’ll bring back.”

I carefully tempered Arthur’s carefree optimism.

“I don’t wish to tempt fate before the mission, but shouldn’t we consider the possibility of failure? Speaking as a veteran of war, I can attest that insignificant defeats far outnumber heroic victories.”

“Ah, don’t concern yourself with that. You won’t die.”

“You sound like a fortune-teller. How can you be so certain?”

At my question, Arthur narrowed his eyes. Ah, I suddenly realized he had been building up to this very line.

“Didn’t you just say that the wise can see the future?”

And then Arthur laughed heartily. He truly was a natural wit.

Two days later.

At my residence, I prepared for departure, slipping a rifle into a golf bag.

It wasn’t that I lacked a proper rifle case, but nothing drew less attention than a golf bag. After all, a gentleman could carry such an item anywhere without raising eyebrows.

And it was ideal for containing more than just firearms—several small pieces of equipment Arthur had prepared for me. Finally, I added that which I dared not show to anyone into the bag.

Perhaps the time would come when I’d need to use this. After all, Oldcourt was hostile territory, and today was when ■■■ ■■ ■■■ would arrive. One could hardly offer a casual welcome to a specter that had haunted this world for nearly two centuries.

────Creak….

“Marie, is that you?”

Sensing a draft from the door, I turned around, and indeed, there she stood.

The past month had wrought subtle changes between us. Nothing as dramatic as a stage play, mind you. We still circled each other warily, like birds—drawing closer only to drift apart again. Still, we fared better than the moon and earth, which only ever grow more distant from one another.

Her eyes fixed on the golf bag as she asked:

“Master, is that a gun?”

“I hardly venture out for rounds of golf.”

“Are you undertaking something dangerous?”

I was about to fabricate an excuse, as was my habit. Had the thought of my potential demise not crossed my mind, perhaps I would have. In the past, my disappearance would have merely meant her departure, but circumstances had changed.

“To be frank, yes. I might have my brain stolen by invisible monstrosities, or perhaps go utterly mad and find myself shouting some scholar’s name. If I don’t return, wait quietly inside the house. Arthur will come for you.”

“Might I accompany you?”

A question I never anticipated. It startled me greatly, for I had never witnessed such initiative from her in her previous life. I instinctively tried to read her expression, but her face—chiseled like marble—betrayed no emotion.

She who once revealed her inner thoughts more readily than anyone now kept them thoroughly concealed. This, no doubt, contributed to the unease I felt in her presence.

“After some consideration, I’m afraid that won’t do.”

“Why not?”

“I can hardly parade about with a nanny at the age of forty, can I? I am a professor, after all.”

Marie laughed softly then—a peculiar yet pleasant sound, like a bow drawn across an untuned violin.

“When you return, you must tell me everything that transpired.”

“Ah, if only my students showed half your interest in my stories.”

“I knew you would say that.”

I departed with her seeing me off. She pressed an umbrella into my hands, insisting it might rain, though how she divined this remained a mystery. Even to my eyes, after forty years in London, the city’s gray skies remained indistinguishable.

Settling into a carriage, I attempted to steal a moment’s rest during the brief journey.

But what had she meant? “I knew you would say that.”

As if suggesting I were somehow predictable. The more I dwelled on it, the more it vexed me, and sleep ultimately eluded me throughout the carriage ride.

That day’s class unfolded in a hushed, contemplative atmosphere.

Unwittingly, I found myself channeling the voice of a cathedral priest from my childhood—a monotonous drone that filled the lecture hall, while beyond the windows, the diffuse winter sunlight scattered, casting pale geometric patterns across my vision.

What happened next could only be described as an aberration.

A student rose abruptly from his seat.

■■■ ■■ ■■■. At the recollection of that name, I frantically scanned the room, yet nothing visibly changed within the lecture hall. The student’s countenance, however, had transformed entirely. As his facial features contorted, they revealed not ecstasy but rather unadulterated terror and dismay.

“Conifers outside the window!”

The words erupted as a genuine shriek. My gaze, along with every student’s, swiveled toward the windows. Not a single tree was visible through the inner panes facing the campus grounds.

“Two hundred and five thousand, two hundred and ninety-five pages, I see it now! Wisdom descends from the cosmos! I shall go, I shall ascend to the greatest universe!”

The student’s pupils dilated grotesquely, like abyssal pits. Even the fissures between pupil and iris became horrifyingly distinct.

“Ah… Aah….”

His mouth gaped unnaturally wide. A sickening sound of tearing tissue emanated from his jaw before his lower mandible simply dropped, hanging loose. Blood vessels in his eyes ruptured, flooding the whites with crimson.

The student began to dance with ghastly enthusiasm.

─────Clap clap clap clap!

The seated students broke into synchronized applause.

They directed subtle pressure toward me as well, as though I were expected to participate in their incomprehensible celebration. Naturally, I had no such inclination.

It mirrored previous incidents, save that this student’s condition appeared far more severe. I stepped forward to intervene.

“Congratulations on your graduation!”

“Congratulations on your graduation!”

Graduation ceremony.

Even on what should have been a joyous occasion, the student’s expression remained rigid with terror. His face, already crimson, began blackening like necrotic tissue. Yet he danced with manic glee, sometimes whirling in a grotesque parody of a waltz, sometimes leaping in a demented polka.

I recognized those movements all too well.

Blanching, I retreated hastily to the podium. The student continued his macabre dance as he lurched toward the exit.

“Class dismissed… Everyone out, now!”

“Sir?”

The students appeared perplexed, as though my reaction were somehow disproportionate. For them, this spectacle was unremarkable—merely an ordinary graduation scene.

I snatched up the golf bag I had carefully propped against the wall, my movements frantic. Then I bolted from the lecture hall, cursing my aging body’s sluggishness.

The corridor showed no sign of the student.

Yet his path proved easy enough to trace—wracking sobs and a gruesome trail of blood marked his passage. I pursued at speed, withdrawing the rifle from my bag.

It had not been a dance at all. It was a convulsion.