Reincarnated Cthulhu
Chapter 34: Under the Universe

I sheathed my hunting knife and extended my hand toward the student. “Return it to me.”

“I’ll hold onto it for you, Professor. You’re limping, and since I know what’s inside, I can quickly find whatever you need. Wouldn’t that be more efficient?”

Her ulterior motives were transparent. After that one peek inside my bag, she’d become captivated by the dangerous items within. By now, I had her fairly well figured out. She resembled Arthur Frank quite remarkably. The only difference was their mental age—hers seemed slightly more advanced.

“Then don’t ever open it unless I specifically request something.” I admonished her.

I wasn’t particularly thrilled about the arrangement, but I did need her assistance. As demonstrated moments ago, I was already burdened carrying a rifle and cane—there was no possibility I could rummage through my bag quickly during an emergency.

In the end, I succumbed to her little ploy. She had likely calculated this outcome when she insisted.

Looking rather pleased with herself, she stooped to pick something up from the floor. An eyeball. Though blood clung to one end, its form remained largely intact. When she attempted to slip it into her coat pocket, I recoiled in disgust and reprimanded her.

“What possible reason could you have for keeping such a ghastly thing? Dispose of it.”

After my scolding, she muttered with disappointment. “Such a lovely color, too. I wonder why that person discarded it?”

Her comment made me realize she was correct. Blood stained the man’s forearm. I had naturally assumed someone had gouged out his eye, but the evidence suggested he had torn it out himself, smearing it with his own blood.

I couldn’t decide whether to attribute this to her keen observation skills or simply her strong stomach.

And what did she mean by “discarded” anyway? Her choice of expressions struck me as peculiarly artificial. Since earlier, she hadn’t bothered maintaining even minimal pretense, which itself felt unnatural.

Unless she was somehow channeling Arthur Frank himself, people typically maintain some semblance of courtesy in social interactions. For a young lady of her apparent social standing, proper decorum should be second nature. Her eccentric and irrational behavior seemed more like a performance than genuine behavior.

Whatever her motives for playing the role of an impish troublemaker, it was evident that the mature and dignified demeanor she displayed when we first met was equally an act. That had been her most appealing persona—a pity it wasn’t genuine.

We approached the room’s only exit. A pitch-black corridor emanating a revolting stench.

I let slip a curse before I could stop myself.

The putrid odor was to blame. Despite being accustomed to various foul stenches, this particular one was exceptionally vile. It reminded me of the cesspools brimming with excrement found throughout London.

Despite the electric bulb’s light reaching into it, the corridor appeared unnaturally dark, thanks to the black filth coating the walls. And I recognized this particular odor all too well.

It was tobacco—but not as this era knew it.

This wasn’t the sweet, distinctive scent of 19th-century cigarettes made from tobacco leaves, dried branches, and paper scraps rolled in paper. No, this was the noxious stench of 21st-century cigarette waste, laden with dozens of petrochemical additives. The unmistakable reek of tar.

I had never heard of such chemicals being mass-produced in this period, when physics and chemistry weren’t yet fully distinguished disciplines, and even oil refineries only managed to produce crude gasoline.

“Ugh…”

The student beside me retched at the smell. This reaction seemed incongruous from a young woman who had just attempted to pocket the eyeball of a man who had been severing his own head.

However they had managed to recreate this distinctive petroleum compound stench, its toxicity must be equally potent. Unless one possessed my unique constitution, not even vermin would venture through here, effectively making it a dead end.

“We’re going through.”

“Yes….”

She replied with resignation. Though neither of us spoke it aloud, we both knew we had no choice but to continue through this foul passage. Oddly, she behaved as if having filth on her shoes disturbed her more than facing transparent monsters that tore men’s jaws from their skulls.

As we stepped onto the path, a nauseating squelch transmitted through my shoe soles. I mentally consigned these shoes to the rubbish heap the moment we returned. The rest of my clothing would likely follow suit. My thoughts turned to the dormant skin condition that might flare up again after this exposure. Throughout our walk, she maintained a miserable expression, constantly glancing upward with dread, as if expecting the ceiling’s black ooze to drip onto her clothing at any moment.

After trudging for about a minute, we reached an abrupt dead end.

“Do you think there’s another mechanism hidden here?”

There would be no reason for this corridor to exist otherwise. I pressed my ear to the wall, listening intently. The subtle whisper of air currents from the other side confirmed my suspicion—space existed immediately beyond this barrier.

“We don’t have time to search for triggers.”

I extended my hand toward her as she approached the wall, mimicking my investigative stance. Unable to bring herself to touch the filthy surface, she nodded with sudden understanding. She reached into the bag and withdrew an item Arthur had thoughtfully provided.

That madman had supplied us with dynamite.

“Stand well back—this will be dangerous.”

“Certainly!”

I stacked the dynamite against the wall’s base and lit the fuse from a safe distance. My primary concern was whether this tar-like substance might ignite, but whatever its true composition, it thankfully remained inert.

We retreated hastily to our previous chamber. When I covered my ears, she immediately followed suit. Her lips moved as if speaking, but I couldn’t decipher her words from the movement alone.

—RUMBLE!

Even with protected ears, the avalanche-like roar hammered my eardrums, leaving them throbbing. A cloud of dust and debris billowed into our chamber, accompanied by an overwhelmingly foul tar stench that seemed magnified tenfold.

“… … …!”

My hearing temporarily muffled, I struggled to make out sounds. I turned toward her, trying to focus on her words. Her face had transformed to an expression of urgent alarm as she stared fixedly at something on the wall.

Emergency. Direction. Wall.

“… … …!”

Though I couldn’t understand her words, I swung my rifle toward the wall she indicated and fired.

—BANG!

Though nothing visible occupied my sights, a profound certainty washed over me that I had struck something solid. I ejected the hot shell casing, watched it clatter to the floor, and smoothly loaded a fresh bullet.

“Did I hit it?”

My hearing gradually returned to normalcy.

“How did you know where to aim?”

“In combat situations, you rarely communicate by voice. You learn to read expressions and act on instinct.”

While I perceived nothing unusual, she continued to stare cautiously in a specific direction.

“But your shot found its mark perfectly.”

“You mentioned it earlier, didn’t you? People without brains crawling along the walls.”

I snorted dismissively, affecting nonchalance despite the situation. In truth, without her presence, I couldn’t have attempted such a shot. Recalling the noise these entities made previously, I had attempted to target the approaching sound—never expecting it would manifest precisely when my hearing was compromised.

She proved invaluable. We returned to the tar-slicked corridor, where she pressed close beside me, visibly skirting around what appeared to be the corpse of something invisible.

Beyond the collapsed stone wall stood a scorched iron door. I placed my palm against it cautiously. Residual heat from the explosion lingered, but not enough to burn flesh.

“I’ll open it.” We silently delegated our roles.

Sensing my intention, she moved deftly to push open the iron door. I maintained a combat stance, rifle poised to fire at an instant’s notice. As the door swung wide, electric light flooded the darkness beyond.

What materialized before us was unmistakably an operating theater.

The conclusion was inescapable. The pristine white marble walls, the clinical sterility, the metal slab that could only serve as an operating table—this chamber announced its purpose without ambiguity.

But what truly confirmed my assessment were the people.

Unlike Victorian-era surgeons who operated while fully attired in their suits, these figures wore teal-colored modern surgical scrubs designed to make blood splatter easily visible. They all appeared surprisingly young—the female student beside me looked no younger than any of them.

They regarded us, these intruders from beyond the door, with eyes widened in abject terror, as though we were nightmarish apparitions. Then, in synchronized horror, they covered their eyes with both hands, collapsed to their knees, pressed their foreheads to the floor, and began to chant loudly.

“I cannot see. I cannot see.”

My companion shot me a bewildered glance, clearly expecting me to make sense of this bizarre spectacle.

“I cannot see. I cannot see.”

A theory was crystallizing in my mind. My suspicion gained substance with each passing second. Their intonation, their movements—everything reinforced my growing certainty. As understanding dawned, my heart hammered against my ribs.

“I cannot see. I cannot see.”

It was theatrical. They were performing a pantomime of self-dialogue. For our benefit.

They were… deliberately pretending we didn’t exist!

“Look there.” She clutched my sleeve and directed my attention to a tapestry adorning the wall.

Emblazoned upon the purple fabric was a familiar symbol. It resembled the solar emblem from the Oldcourt University crest, but with one disturbing difference—malevolent graffiti defaced the image.

Crimson lines had been drawn so that blood appeared to stream from the sun’s mouth and eyes.

“Do you know what the sun represents in the Oldcourt University insignia?” Her voice quavered with disquiet. I shook my head.

“Jamestown College. This is Jamestown College.”

We ventured deeper into the surgical chamber—perhaps more accurately, a dissection room. The presumed Jamestown College students continued their mantra, eyes and ears still firmly covered.

Upon one operating slab lay a human form.

It was the graduate I had been pursuing.

An incision ran from just above his nose to his crown, cleaving away nearly a quarter of his face. The cranial cavity, where his brain should have resided, gaped emptily.

Words failed me in describing this tableau. If forced to articulate it, I would liken it to surrealism—an artistic movement not yet conceived in this era—reminiscent of Salvador Dalí’s most disquieting dreamscapes.

“Was this the one?” I nodded slowly.

“The graduate? This person? But they look identical…”

“Identical to what?”

“The monster.” Her voice fell to a hollow whisper.

“That monster—that monster was actually a graduate. A graduate of St. Henry VIII College. Good heavens!”

The corpse on the table violently lurched upright.

—BANG!

The rifle bullet tore through the graduate’s chest, burying itself squarely in his heart.

A terrible clarity washed over me.

Since my arrival at Oldcourt, I had been constantly surrounded by them. From my first visit to the library, when signing documents in the dean’s office, while teaching classes or wandering down Cecil Road at Oldcourt—and finally, the thing I had just shot dead—they all shared the same appearance.

I had been seeing them all along.

The realization struck like lightning! My brain finally comprehended the horror! Wisdom! Terrible wisdom had impaled itself through my consciousness!

We retraced our path through the darkness.

Attempting to interrogate the Jamestown College students proved utterly futile. Not one would speak, leaving us no wiser than before. When I tried forcing them to talk, they attempted to rupture their own eardrums, making further questioning impossible.

As we retreated, I implored her:

“Once we’re outside, tell no one about what we’ve witnessed today. Leave the university immediately and go straight home. If possible, seek help from a military man you trust, and if you’re uncertain whom to trust, find Edmund Herbert. Tell him you came on my recommendation—he’ll certainly provide assistance.”

“No.”

My lengthy persuasion crumbled before her single, resolute word.

“I cannot turn back now. I’ve finally found it…”

Her voice trailed into silence. Though it seemed she had more to say, ultimately she revealed nothing further.

For my part, I was too preoccupied with devising a way to send home this young woman driven by some incomprehensible purpose. Neither of us broke the strange, heavy silence that settled between us.

I lifted onto my shoulder the man who, having gouged out his eyes and tongue, had been writhing on the floor like a mutilated caterpillar. He seemed docile now, as if exhausted by his self-destruction. By the time we reached the main corridor, more time had passed than I’d realized—the sky had darkened to a complete, impenetrable night.

Not a single student moved through the corridors. Instead, graduates were present in abundance. They walked in precise lines, pressed unnaturally close to the walls. Just as she had advised, when we passed with our heads bowed, they seemed not to recognize us and made no attempt to pursue.

I tried once more to persuade the student, but she maintained her resolute silence.

Eventually, we deposited the man in an empty classroom and ascended together to the Tower of the Irish Saint. The laborious climb provided time for my thoughts to settle. Though less numerous than in the main building, graduates could still be glimpsed occasionally lurking in shadowed corners.

Despite the late hour, electric light seeped from beneath the dean’s office door.

I already knew who occupied that room originally created for ■■■ ■■ ■■■. I didn’t bother to knock. Instead, I thrust my rifle forward, flung the door open, and stormed inside.

“I expected your arrival, Professor Herbert. That’s why I’ve been waiting. Dynamite, was it? The vibrations reached even here.”

“Acting Dean Callas, you’re going to explain everything—now. If you wish to avoid a bullet, you’ll need to be remarkably persuasive.”

He remained unnervingly composed even with a rifle aimed at his chest. As if he had anticipated this confrontation from the beginning.

“I foresaw that demand as well. My explanation is already prepared.”

“Using that vaunted wisdom of yours? Extracted from human brains through murder?”

“No, merely simple logic. It’s inconceivable that anyone could witness such atrocities and remain silent. If such a person existed, I would find them far more terrifying than what you’ve seen today. And surely you don’t believe you’re the only one who has attempted to unearth Oldcourt’s secrets? That would be rather presumptuous, wouldn’t it?”

Callas posed the question with a smile that never reached his eyes.

“What happened to the others, then? Did you silence them permanently?”

At this, he erupted into boisterous laughter and rose from his seat. That once-pleasant, open laugh now resonated like the deranged howl of a fanatical prophet.

“They stand before you at this very moment! I, too, am among those who discovered the university’s secrets, just as you have.”

He glided toward the window. Beyond the dean’s office panes stretched a violet canvas of night, adorned with glittering stars and the pale moon’s watchful eye.

“Silencing people? Preposterous. We venerate wisdom, and such crude methods of suppression only stifle free thought. Wouldn’t that impede our ascent toward the summit of knowledge? We do absolutely nothing to them.”

“You expect me to swallow that? Do you mistake me for some blind fool devoid of wisdom?”

I kept my rifle trained on Callas as he moved across the room, my finger itching against the trigger.

“Patience, Professor Herbert. Did I not promise an explanation? The truth is, we truly do nothing. We merely unveil their eyes to what has always been there. Any student who attains genuine enlightenment comes to this realization independently—they compete with one another to offer up their brains.”

Beyond Callas’s silhouette, the universe itself seemed to unfold. His face, backlit against this cosmic tapestry, contorted with rapturous devotion.

“For the greater glory of ■■■ ■■ ■■■.”

That expression of religious ecstasy—I recognized it with chilling familiarity.