The alchemist seed quite the light-hearted fellow, laughing rrily the whole ti.
Honestly, neither of us had the gravitas one might expect from people nad “transcendents.” The alchemist might have lived for nearly a hundred years… but sotis he looked even younger than !
Chuckling, the alchemist explained his new concoction.
“Really, a potion that turns you into a bug isn’t entirely useless! There are quite a few folks who need such a—well, absurd potion for plays based on transformation thes!”
“Is that so? I suppose it does feel way more realistic on stage than with fantasy spells.”
“I thought it might be fun, so I casually connected with the troupe and gifted them the potion—oh, have you gotten used to handling possibilities yet?”
“Not really, since I’m not a wizard or anything… I’m more focused on making sure the world doesn’t go completely haywire.”
“That’s not a bad take! The world can fall apart so easily, can’t it? For instance, if I were to enchant a raincloud with an immortality elixir and made it rain forever, it wouldn’t take long before everything turned pretty terrible, maybe in about a hundred years or so. What a sha!”
I nodded along with the alchemist’s musings.
Among the many potential futures I could “foresee” since becoming transcendent were scenarios where the empire’s foundation controlled all wealth, leading to a great depression, or a world war sparking long after asymtric power was invented, wiping out humanity still clueless about ‘mutually assured destruction’.
I pruned those possibilities away, but still, the world was brimming with infinite potential. Little trivial things could spiral into imnse destinies.
The whole idea of neatly trimming infinite possibilities reminded of church discussions on free will.
Even if I left only the future “not destroyed by books,” the future was still saturated with infinite potential. Potential like a fractal, where one branch can sprout infinite others, and that structure keeps repeating infinitely.
“Since I beca an alchemical transcendent, I hold eternal life in my hands and have the ability to skip all trial and error, yet it’s delightful to see a new potion erge. Haha! In that regard, the writings of Hor are quite precious to .”
“I get it. I, too, appreciate so unconventional cultural developnt through book publishing.”
At the ntion of the alchemist’s words, a peculiar play currently trending in the empire popped into my mind.
I hadn’t actually watched the play, but I had read the script.
And upon finishing the whole thing, I couldn’t help but chuckle.
“I was a bit surprised when ‘the rider’ suddenly showed up.”
“What’s a rider?”
“A hero.”
…
…
…
Not long after the publication of “tamorphosis” in the Empire, just like other works by Hor, it too was adapted into a play. A stage performance starring a filthy and grotesque bug surely wasn’t a pleasant sight, but the artistic endeavor managed to transform such unpleasantness into sothing worthy of appreciation.
Thanks to the ample support from the Hor Foundation, the quality of the play improved significantly.
Imagine, there’s the purple tower representing illusionary magic, the white tower packed with advanced optical tech for photography and projections, the blue tower skilled in structural installations, and the gray tower with engineering prowess—these towers, which normally wouldn’t even interact for a pile of gold, sent technical consultants just for a single “play.”
The crucial ‘bug’ role was portrayed more convincingly thanks to an ‘insect-transformation potion’ brewed by an unnad alchemist.
Thanks to that, the play adaptation of “tamorphosis” quickly sold out all its seats.
And then…
“Ewww, those bugs look really gross…”
“It seems like they toned down the gross parts a bit, but… wow, they still look terrifying when blown up to human size.”
“Haha, is that right? Thanks! I’ll give it my all!”
“Uh, well, just relax in the waiting room; we’ll step out for a bit…”
A fourth-year actor from the Firefly theater troupe.
‘Friesender Howlen’ was covering the role of Gregor Samsa—the ‘bug.’
Even with four years of experience, it wasn’t quite enough to land a lead role in such a major production. The rule in the theater world is that you usually endure for about three years doing minor roles or assistant work before breaking into the spotlight for realsies. Being four years in just barely ans he’s shed the “rookie” label at best.
But this fuzzy limbo allowed Howlen to snag the role of the ‘bug’ that many seasoned actors would push away.
It was an awkward spot to be in, but Howlen, thirsty for a lead role, eagerly accepted.
“Whew, I’m a bit jittery. My first leading role in a Hor’s play, and in such a large production… Hahaha, is this a dream?”
With his thin, hairy, insect-like hand, Howlen gently stroked the “transformation” script, fortifying his resolve.
He tried slapping his solid, fleshy cheeks with that claw-ish hand and peered into the mirror, pondering how best to channel his inner Gregor.
Gregor was a family man who had beco an outcast because he could no longer earn a living.
The despair, anguish, guilt, misery, and tornt that Gregor must feel transitioning from family pillar to burdenso liability—he pulled all those emotions to the breaking point.
And then…
“Howlen! The play’s about to start! Ready?”
“Yes!”
The play kicked off.
…
…
…
Due to Gregor transforming into a bug and losing his ability to speak, all of his lines were voiced by the narrator.
Howlen’s part was rely to create hissing sounds and wriggle his many legs.
[“If we just wait a bit longer, things might turn out alright.”]
As the tenth-year actor narrated, Howlen flinched.
Wiggling like a bug. His many slender legs flopped about in sheer disgust and despair.
[“What if I just slept a bit more and forgot all these ridiculous jokes?”]
So audience mbers mocked Gregor along with him, while others clicked their tongues in sympathy, and a few even teared up feeling his plight.
But the attention of the audience was directed at the sweet voice of the ‘narrator’, not at the grotesque bug, Howlen.
They absorbed the story not from the writhing of the ugly bug, but through an inner voice they could easily latch onto and understand.
[“Nurous legs, painfully thin compared to their thick, round bodies, flailed helplessly before my eyes.”]
None bothered to inspect Howlen’s ticulously portrayed wiggling.
People typically refer to theater as the “art of acting.” In that sense, Howlen was more like a prop than an actor.
But still, Howlen poured his heart into it.
His first lead role, created by the most admired author, Hor, the craft of acting, and a dream he nurtured since childhood.
Every piece of him had coerced Howlen to perform right then and there. After all, art is essentially a selfish act of satisfaction. And artists tend to be a group of greedy individuals perpetually unsatisfied with any level of self-gratification.
Being registered with the Horic Arts Foundation made Howlen passionately an artist.
So, when the play concluded…
“Actors, please co on stage!”
The curtain call began.
So actors received lovely flowers from the audience. An uproar of cheers and support showered the perforrs.
Yet…
Not a single audience mber offered flowers for the grotesque bug.
“Hey, your narration was superb! I was absolutely moved!”
“Haha, thanks.”
None of his coworkers bothered to thank Howlen for his hard work either.
…
…
…
After wrapping up the play.
Howlen trudged ho, feeling utterly drained.
As the effects of the transformation potion hadn’t worn off, he completely hid his figure under a baggy coat and hat.
“… am I just not cut out for acting?”
Four years—definitely a long haul.
Almost too long to not recognize his own lack of talent. mories resurfaced of peers who snatched lead roles, the cold glares from seniors, recollections of being ignored by audience mbers during curtain calls. All those experiences seed to whisper, “You don’t have what it takes to be an actor.”
Those whispers grew louder with the years, too.
The more significant roles he landed in theater, the eerily quieter everything around him beca. The incompetent senior who snatched opportunities from newbies, the useless junior after all his ti, and the peer who lagged behind, embarrassing everyone around.
That was Howlen’s place in his troupe.
In his cherished tale from Hor, the Little rmaid couldn’t approach the prince because she lacked legs, and she couldn’t convey her heart due to having no voice.
Yet Howlen, despite his two legs, could not reach the hearts of the audience, and even with his fluent speech, he couldn’t sway them.
So what, in the end, was the point?
Howlen lacked talent.
A talent capable of sparkling.
And he figured it out far too late.
Howlen was rely a worm, incapable of even transforming into a firefly.
[“If you wait just a little longer, it might be okay.”]
[“Just another nap, and maybe I could forget all this nonsense.”]
[“Nurous legs, tragically thin compared to that mighty round body, flailing pathetically before his eyes.”]
Acknowledging that truth…
His vision warped.
Tears stread down his face, rendering him immobile. Groans escaped his throat, drowning out the sounds of chirping critters surrounding him.
It was a sight befitting only a bug.
And as Howlen, now fully a ‘bug’, cried in an utterly disgraceful manner for a while…
“Ugh!”
“Soone, help !”
“—Eh?”
From sowhere, a scream echoed.
Looking around, a one-ard and one-legged disabled person was bewilderedly scanning the area. In front of them was a railway track, and upon it sat a disabled individual from the Little Prince Foundation, who was blushing and sobbing.
The wheelchair’s wheels seed to be stuck on the tracks.
The one-ard, one-legged fellow known to Howlen was indeed famous for his nightly watch—people usually steered clear of that job. Not every day you co across a one-ard person.
Around the wheelchair, several disabled individuals struggled to pull it free. Perhaps they were en route to procure supplies from the Hor Foundation.
And it seed they could hardly budge the wheelchair with sheer force. So ended up toppling over amidst their efforts. anwhile, the Imperial magic locomotive was barreling down the track with a deafening roar.
“……”
The second he grasped the situation…
Howlen’s body had already dashed toward the tracks.
Not on two feet, but with all its insect legs.
Countless legs squird, propelling him forward, and Howlen quickly closed the distance to the tracks.
With its slender, hairy legs, it hoisted the fallen man back up and dragged the wheelchair along. A jolt revealed that the wheelchair had gotten hopelessly tangled with the track ties.
Howlen chewed through the rope with its teeth and severed it.
It was peak “bug-like” behavior. The locomotive thundered by re monts later, and the onlookers who saw Howlen shrieked in terror, stumbling back.
“Ah, th-that looked dangerous… I’m sorry.”
“A monster!”
“Are you the one who saved us? Thank you!”
Then, a woman with a pristine white cane stepped toward Howlen.
“The horns of the locomotive blared, people were screaming around , and I feared I’d fall…but you pulled back, saving my life. Did I catch that right?”
“Oh, uh, yes. I think I actually did save you. Maybe?”
“Well, thank you very much. Because of you…I’m still here!”
The woman was blind, so she didn’t recoil in horror at Howlen’s ‘bug’ appearance.
Thanks to her, other disabled individuals began to calmly assess the situation.
“Thank you, um, not a monster… what should we call you?”
“I’m Friesender Howlen.”
“Ah, Howlen… thank you! You’ve saved my life.”
And…
One after another, they graciously showed their gratitude to the ‘bug’. A few even cheered for Howlen’s heroic antics!
To Howlen, it all felt surreal, like a dream.
Eventually, he rembered that he’d been crying all along—surprise and shock had montarily wiped that from his mind!
So, as usual, Howlen did what he did best.
“Hmph….”
He cried.
And that’s how the absurd notion of bugs saving people turned into a craze.
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