Demon King Daimaou: Volume 13 by Mizuki Shoutarou

Author:Mizuki, Shoutarou [Mizuki, Shoutarou]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: J-Novel Club
Published: 2019-10-12T16:00:00+00:00

4 - Infinite Universes

Maybe opening up all the possibilities was a mistake. Space is finite. Characters are finite. But their combinations are infinite. Opening up a possibility meant breaking down the walls of the worlds within Akuto that might have been.

It was the equivalent of giving birth to a new universe within himself. Of course, the tools for this universe weren’t limited to what was inside Akuto. The gods of the outer universe, even they became a part of the story. As a result, the story became chaos.

What does it mean when a story turns into chaos? You can find the answer within one of our oldest stories: “The Tower of Babel.”

Until then, you could say that humanity shared a story. Everyone, essentially, was playing their own role in the story. That’s why the world refused to allow anybody but Akuto to alter it.

But what happens if a story ceases to be shared?

The answer is: chaos.

The gods of the outer universe were, you could say, their own main characters, with their own main stories. So multiple protagonists tried to advance their own stories within the same place. It may have been chaos, but there was no conflict.

The reason for this was that it wasn’t just strong stories that were trying to take control, but even weak stories were included in this as well. The frustrating thing was that the strength of a story had nothing to do with its size.

Weak, huge things drove daily life.

Strong, small things drove the abnormal events.

Those stories that explained the birth of the world and made humanity realize its shared nature were large in scope, but some of them dissolved unnoticed into the bustle of daily life. Stories of individuals were carved irreparably into the mind, but of course, they applied to nothing more than individuals.

Individuals.

This was the first time that humanity became “individual”.

With shared words, but no shared stories, no relationships could be born. It was impossible for someone to be an enemy or a friend, of course, but they couldn’t be a stranger either. Infinite possibilities made stories impotent.

Infinite loneliness.

First-Person Pronouns.

But still, I begin the story, no, what comes before it.

Sleeping in the darkness. No, rolling.

Being thrown. Doing nothing.

I hear a voice.

Fast. No, near.

I don’t understand. Is the voice calling someone? Calling me? Or someone else? No way to know. Maybe it is my voice.

As long as the voice continues, I may be able to understand that time exists. But there are no units. It is continual, eternal. No guarantee that the same word isn’t being repeated. Count an eternally ringing bell, and you’ll have no words to describe a single toll.

How many times? Counted how? From which eternity?

I hypothesize that the voice is my own. It’s still not a story. There’s not even loneliness. Because I am a first person pronoun.

I speak. Sound.

I speak to speak.

I speak. Words.

Can’t find the right answer. No meaning. Not even a wrong answer. Meaningless.

A misspoken word. A mistake.

Everything, nothing.

I move my body.

Move.

Outside and inside.

Barely separated.

Move.

Which way? Is space outside? Or inside? Go inside, and find nothing.

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