Mythos Of Narcissus: Reborn As An NPC In A Horror VRMMO-Chapter 306 : Through The Roundabout

The dim glow of the holographic screens flickered across Viviane's chambers, casting shifting patterns of soft golden light against the walls. The air carried a faint, herbal fragrance—something subtle, yet grounding, an intentional contrast to the overwhelming sterility of the Landship's more mechanical sectors.

Ishmael stood in the center of the room, her posture composed yet wary, her sharp gaze shifting between the floating streams of data surrounding Viviane. Though she masked it well, there was a weight behind her stance—an unspoken caution, as if she had been called into something far more significant than she had anticipated.

Viviane, ever composed, remained seated at her desk, her hands gently clasped together as she observed the fragmented information suspended in the air before her. The holographic scripts wavered in a chaotic pattern, shifting symbols bleeding into one another, some distorting entirely into incomprehensible voids of static.

It was, in every sense, an anomaly—one that defied the very nature of the neuromorphic network's otherwise flawless capacity for analysis.

"Your abilities," Viviane began smoothly, her glowing orange eyes reflecting the erratic scripts, "Are unlike anything this bastion has encountered before."

Ishmael's fingers twitched slightly at the statement, but she said nothing.

"Your blood harpoon, for instance," Viviane continued, tilting her head slightly, "Possesses the same kind of an anomaly that a Foreigner has. Not that it matters but it certainly took a toll on your soul, albeit on a rather miniscule scale.

"Your unique power however, does not merely function as a weapon. It has properties that align with the concept of 'Authority'—something akin to a divine right over an aspect of reality itself.

"More specifically, you seem to possess the ability to seize the timepiece of a technology."

Ishmael finally reacted, her mechanical prosthetic shifting slightly at her side, her lips parting as if to speak—but she hesitated.

Viviane smiled faintly. "You're wondering how I came to this conclusion."

A flick of her fingers, and the chaotic script distorted into a new display—an orderly, precise deconstruction of Ishmael's combat performance from her previous engagements. Footage replayed in detailed overlays, highlighting the moments where her blood harpoon struck machinery, how upon impact, the very 'time' of the device itself seemed to fracture and shift.

"You do not simply disable or destroy technology," Viviane elaborated, her voice as smooth as ever. "You steal its function. You disrupt its temporal state, forcing it into a moment of halted existence before its very nature collapses into irrelevance.

"Which might seem destructive at a glance, but you have the intention and will to make it along the line of disruption instead of letting the chaos take hold. Your mind hearken this Authority to do a piece of what it can usually do, not to perform its initial job.

"And thus, you can store and return it. In a way, you seem to have quite the knowledge and experience to master this power of yours.

"Something that might take more than a century worth of effort to achieve."

Ishmael exhaled sharply, running a hand through her jaded blond strands of hair. "So that's what it is…" she muttered under her breath.

Amazed, yet somewhat daunted by the explanation, she let out a soft chuckle, shaking her head slightly. "Authority over the timepiece of technology… That's quite the grand description, truly." Viviane remained neutral, though there was the faintest glimmer of satisfaction in her expression. "It is not just a metaphor. The nature of you ability aligns with a newly developed feature of the neuromorphic network—one that functions similarly to an appraisal system.

"Narcissus and Kuzunoha collaborated on its design, attempting to bridge the Theotech database with divine interference. Just like how you can access the timepiece of a technology, our technology can peek at the self-piece of you."

Ishmael blinked. "An appraisal system?"

Viviane nodded. "In its alpha stage. It allows for deeper analysis of the nature of Theotech , and to a great extent, us.

"Yet, even with this advancement, your existence still presents…" She gestured toward the data stream, where the unreadable script twisted in silent defiance. "…complications. Because as of now, we've managed to analyze the majority of the bastion's members without a single issue with a very minimalistic range of errors."

Yep, we did that.

Though, it was mostly Charis and Kuzunoha that did it. I just gave them my idea and schematic~

Ishmael frowned slightly, folding her arms. "So…? Does that mean I'm a problem?"

Viviane's expression did not shift. "It means you are an anomaly that the system cannot properly categorize. And I suspect there is a reason for that.

The room settled into silence.

Then—Viviane shifted the display once more, this time pulling forth a different set of data.

A single panel emerged—a deep, unreadable black void in the script.

An impossibility.

A section of data that refused to be interpreted, appraised, or even acknowledged by the neuromorphic network.

She turned her gaze toward Ishmael, her voice calm yet firm. "Ishmael. Have you, at any point in your voyage, been cursed?"

Ishmael stiffened.

It was subtle—an almost imperceptible reaction—but Viviane caught it. The slight tension in her shoulders, the way her mechanical fingers twitched ever so slightly.

Then, after a pause, Ishmael let out a nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of her neck. "Uh… Does it really matter?"

Viviane's glowing orange eyes sharpened, unamused. "It does. Because I have reason to believe that you require someone to keep you in their sight at all times. Both in the ethereal and corporeal sense."

A silence so thick it felt tangible.

The air in Viviane's chamber was still, the only sound the quiet hum of the hovering holographic displays, their shifting golden light casting restless shadows across the walls. The room itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting, stretching the moment into something deeper, heavier—something that settled into the very bones of its occupants.

Ishmael did not speak.

She did not move.

For a long, unbearable second, she simply stood there, frozen in place, her mechanical fingers twitching ever so slightly at her side. Her violet eyes—usually sharp, composed—were wide with unguarded shock, as if Viviane had spoken something that should have been impossible to know.

Viviane did not repeat herself. She simply watched, waiting for the inevitable confirmation.

Ishmael swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

Viviane took this as confirmation. "I take it my assumption is correct."

"H-How… How do you know that?"

"I'm a fae. We're quite expert in this topic." Viviane leaned back slightly, fingers steepling together. "Outside that. It was not difficult to deduce. The anomaly in your data only presents itself when you are alone, truly isolated. When left unobserved, your presence shifts in ways that defy logical consistency.

"That would imply that your existence is contingent upon perception—meaning that, if left completely unmonitored, your physical form would…"

She let the sentence hang.

Ishmael inhaled sharply.

"You knew," she muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Viviane did not answer.

Ishmael clenched her fists. "Then… you also know that I can't talk about it. I physically can't."

Viviane inclined her head slightly. "Which means something will happen if you do."

Ishmael hesitated. Then, slowly, she gave a small nod.

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Viviane's expression remained unreadable. "But non-verbal communication is not limited by the curse."

Another pause.

Then—Ishmael nodded again.

Viviane exhaled softly, closing her eyes for a brief moment before standing from her chair. "Then we will work around it."

She turned, summoning another set of holographic displays, but this time, they were not data streams.

Instead, they were carefully structured diagrams of symbolic gestures.

Viviane's glowing orange eyes remained steady as she uttered the words, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"Sign language." The statement was simple, final—delivered with the quiet authority of someone who had already made up her mind. "Considering that any psychic method will involve the same resonance of reality-altering signature as the curse you possess. We will develop a method of communication that does not trigger your curse."

Ishmael stared at her, blinking once. Then twice.

"Sign language…?"

She wasn't sure why she had asked. The answer was obvious.

Viviane did not humor the question with a response. She merely lifted a hand, fingers curling in a subtle motion—a silent command. Sit.

Ishmael hesitated. The weight of uncertainty pressed against her ribs, the familiar anxiety clawing at the edges of her mind. For so long, she had avoided this. She had accepted the silence, adapted to it, and lived within its confines. And yet, here was Viviane, offering a way around it with the same effortless grace that she applied to everything else.

Slowly, Ishmael sat.

Viviane wasted no time.

With a single motion, she dismissed the lingering holographic scripts, replacing them with a new projection—one filled with carefully structured symbols, fluid motions, and gestures that carried meaning beyond mere words.

"We begin now."

The process unfolded with methodical precision.

Viviane demonstrated a simple motion—fingers brushing against the palm, a flick of the wrist. A question."

Ishmael mimicked it, and in an instance, knowledge about this special language itself was embedded into her mind by some sort of fae bullshittery.

Another motion—both hands forming a closed circle before pulling apart. A statement.

Ishmael repeated it, slower this time, ensuring her movements were correct.

Viviane nodded approvingly. Then, without hesitation, she moved into more complex structures, crafting a silent lexicon between them.

Gesture by gesture, they built a bridge across the void of Ishmael's silence.

At first, the progress was slow. Awkward. Ishmael's hands faltered, her movements stiff, unnatural. But Viviane was patient, her instructions calm and precise, her eyes keenly observing every mistake and correction.

Then—something clicked.

Ishmael's fingers moved with greater confidence. The hesitancy faded, replaced by something else. Something close to relief.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, she could speak.

And so, she did.

She described her Authority—the power that bound her, the force that allowed her to seize the timepiece of technology. She explained how it intertwined with her very existence, how it was inescapable, an intrinsic part of her being.

She spoke of the curse—or at least, what little she could share without breaking its hold.

Her hands shaped the memories she could not put into words. The fragmented history she barely understood herself. The incidents that had shaped her. The countless moments where she had nearly been lost to something beyond comprehension, barely tethered to reality by the presence of another's gaze.

And Viviane observed.

She recorded every detail, sealing them away in encrypted data logs. But this was not just technology at work. This was something deeper, something safeguarded by forces beyond mere computation.

When the process was complete, Viviane lifted a hand, weaving layers of protection around their findings.

At the same time, Kuzunoha, who received the information from the adjacent room, began working on it.

Arcane sorcery surged through the air, coiling around the data like ethereal threads of woven silk. A second force followed—faint, yet undeniable—the delicate touch of fae magic, its essence laced with incomprehensible intricacies.

The knowledge was bound. Sealed.

And for the first time, Ishmael's origins—her anomaly—had been safely unraveled.

Without activating her curse.