Kays Translations

Chapter 16: The Crimson Echo of Gunfire

As Musa Mein had predicted, Marlon truly had grasped the enormous commercial value of this invention. More than that, he had also come to understand the shocking reality—that within the crystal sphere existed an actual “world,” self-contained and burning in the flames of war.

Yet, if his assumption was correct, what entered this blazing battlefield wasn’t his flesh and blood, but rather a projection of his spirit—an echo of consciousness, detached from the physical body.

Marlon, after an initial wave of astonishment, regained his composure far quicker than most men would. For him, someone who had already endured the bizarre experience of being hurled across worlds, what was this but another layer of strangeness added to his already peculiar fate? It was unsettling, yes—but hardly enough to leave him paralyzed in fear for long.

That didn’t mean he was unaffected. The ground around him was littered with torn limbs, twisted torsos, and the reek of freshly spilled entrails. The grotesque sight churned his stomach, threatening to wrench up the contents of his last meal.

The realism was unbearable. Too real. Sickeningly real.

“Remarkable… how did you manage this?”

Fighting back nausea, Marlon twisted his body and glanced behind him. To his surprise, Musa Mein wasn’t standing there. Instead, what his eyes beheld was a striking young officer in a black Helfa military uniform, his features clean and sharp, almost delicate in their refinement.

What on earth—? Possession? A soul riding another body?

The thought surfaced unbidden, and Marlon instinctively raised his hand before his eyes. What met his gaze wasn’t the familiar, slender hand of his youthful self—Marlon Lister—but a gloved, broad-fingered palm. The thick leather gloves, the sleeve clamped tightly at the wrist, the very fabric and hue—they all belonged to the attire of the Helfa Defense Army.

So it was true. He had been soul-swapped as well.

“Put simply,” the young officer spoke, though the voice was unmistakably Musa Mein’s, “I took fragments of my father’s theoretical research and inverted the logic of certain magical principles. The detailed explanation would take hours, perhaps days. Even if I began now, by the time this colossal vessel—the Isumenas Valkyrie—crashes to her ruin, I would still not have finished.”

Even as artillery thundered around them, Musa—speaking through the borrowed lips of the officer—remained unnervingly calm. Not a flicker of fear stirred within him. On the contrary, he even found time to reassure Marlon.

“Don’t trouble yourself. The place where we currently lie will not be struck again until this super airship is destroyed in full. As long as we remain prone here, feigning death, no harm will touch us.”

Then, after a brief pause, his tone shifted—lightened, even—laced with an almost childlike anticipation.

“Imagine it. To witness firsthand, through your own eyes, a war of such magnitude and savagery… Do you not think there would be countless men and women willing to pay dearly for such an experience?”

Would they?

Marlon frowned. It was difficult to say. Watching war as one might watch a film—through multiple angles, a safe spectator to the carnage—that was one thing. But to inhabit the fragile body of a trembling soldier, fearing at every moment to be snuffed out like an insect crushed underfoot… That was not entertainment. That was torment. Masochism of the highest order.

Yet—if Musa Mein could project a living consciousness into this grand stage, the “Battle of Coriasa,” then surely he could do the same with other settings, other “scenes.”

What if, instead of war, it was love? A romance? That would be easier to sell. Still, even the most breathtaking scene would sour after two or three visits. People would grow bored of watching the same tableau repeat itself.

Unless… unless those who entered could seize the role of the protagonist themselves. Unless they could shape the course of the story.

Wait.

The thought struck Marlon like a thunderclap.

To become the protagonist? To alter the very destiny of the world one stepped into?

If that were possible… then Musa Mein’s invention could be the cornerstone of something greater—something revolutionary.

A virtual game.

Not a crude facsimile, not some pale imitation, but a fully immersive, one-hundred-percent lifelike game world.

Marlon’s heart pounded with sudden, feverish excitement. If the odds of making profit through “war tourism” were fifty-fifty at best, then the creation of such a virtual game was, without a doubt, a guaranteed fortune.

Game scripts? Content? Ha! On Earth, there had been countless classics. Role-playing adventures, action-packed battles, sprawling strategy epics, real-time wars, fighting arenas, shooting escapades, puzzles, races, card duels—Marlon’s memory brimmed with treasures from a lifetime of gaming. He could recall hit after hit, each one a masterpiece waiting to be reborn here in this starved world.

“Benefit the world”? Perhaps. But honesty compelled him to admit the truth: the real reason his blood raced was because this world was barren of joy.

No computers. No radios. No televisions. No phones. No PSP in his pocket. No La Liga, no Euro Cup, no World Cup—not even the frustrating chaos of the Chinese Super League.

His nights had become a dreary routine. After dinner, beneath the flickering glow of gas lamps, he would tell reimagined fairy tales to entertain his companions. When the stories ended, it was time to dictate longer works to his maid and assistant, Adela, who dutifully transcribed his words. Sometimes it was The Count of Monte Cristo, sometimes his adaptation of The Royal Emblem, or even fragments of The Classic of Mountains and Seas to hold the wandering interest of Master Claw Druid.

After that, nothing. The gaslight extinguished, he would lie in the oppressive dark, aching for the lost treasures of his past life—electric light, telephones, computers, all drifting further and further away into memory.

And now… suddenly… the possibility of reviving those lost worlds of play, not on a console or computer, but as fully lived experiences in this foreign realm?

How could he not be moved?

The only question left—the key, the hinge on which it all turned—was whether Musa Mein could truly do it. Could he project a person’s soul into other “scenes”? And if so, could those projected souls interact with the inhabitants of those worlds—change their lives, alter their fates?

“Musa,” Marlon asked at last, voice steady despite the storm inside him, “what I need to know is this: can you take any setting, and turn it into something like this crystal sphere—a world where our souls can enter? And once inside, can we… can we interact with the people within? Influence them? Even decide whether they live or die?”

Though he couched his words in the plain speech of this new world, Musa still took a moment to puzzle out his meaning. Then, when he understood, he offered no verbal answer.

Instead, his hand slipped to the holster slung across the young officer’s waist. From it he drew a small firearm, much more compact than the bulky steam rifles common in Helfa. Its surface gleamed with etched, blood-red runes—an ominous pistol unlike any Marlon had seen.

Under Marlon’s questioning gaze, Musa lifted the gun and, with eerie calm, leveled the muzzle directly at Marlon’s forehead.

“Musa Mein, what do you think you’re doing?!”

Though he cried out, Marlon already knew. Deep inside, a terrible certainty told him exactly what Musa intended next.

Bang!

The gun roared.

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