Worthless Skill Escape (WN)

Chapter 219

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TL: ALT

Chapter 219 – The Selfless King Part 2

The ideal king must be selfless.

That was my grandmother’s conclusion.

Selflessness means having no self.

The ideal king is one who has no personal feelings and serves the people according to their needs.

But as human beings, we all have personal interests.

We have feelings.

We care about our own interests.

There is no such thing as a completely unselfish person.

It is difficult to find anyone even close to that.

If someone were completely selfless, or even close to it, he would not seek his own benefit.

Someone close to being selfless would be liked by his neighbors, but he would not be able to show outstanding leadership to lead the country.

If someone were truly completely selfless, he would be indifferent to his own body and mind, and it might even be difficult for him to live a healthy life like everyone else.

This means that no ordinary person has the qualifications to be an ideal king.

When you come to this conclusion, ordinary people give up.

But my grandmother didn’t give up.

She had a way to solve the problem.

That way was her own education.

It seems that my grandmother, who was a spiritualist, was someone who had a very weak sense of self.

Because she had so little of her own, she was able to take the souls of others into her own being.

There was no room in the bowl that was already full of other people’s souls to pour in other people’s souls.

On the contrary, it could be said that the experience of training and practicing as a spiritualist had, without her realizing it, taken away her own self.

That is, she thought:

“I will raise the ‘King’s Vessel’ with my own hands.”

She trained the innocent child to become a spiritualist―or more thoroughly than that.

No, the word “train” is not correct.

This education was not something that trained the child by giving him something.

On the contrary, it was something that took everything away from the child, took away his substance.

My grandmother took everything from me.

That is why I have no feelings.

But I never resented my grandmother.

Even the emotions necessary for resentment are no longer in me.

I also have no memory of my training being painful.

Because even the emotions necessary to feel something as painful are no longer in me.

“Of course, it’s not as if I have no way of experiencing emotions at all.”

I pulled out a drawer from my desk, muttering to myself like my grandmother used to do.

Inside the drawer was a yellowed notebook.

On the cover of the ordinary-looking notebook, in handwriting that gave the impression of being written in a hurry, was the word “Insect Cage.”

This is a novel.

But it was never published.

It was probably submitted to some kind of contest, but this work would never be published.

“Because the girl who wrote it was murdered.”

A few years ago, there was an incident where a high school girl allegedly took her own life, and her suicide note was circulated online.

I happened to see a fragment of this “suicide note” that was shown on a variety show, and I immediately recognized “that thing.”

“This is not a suicide note. It’s a novel.”

I don’t know why I thought that.

But I know.

My heart, which has been completely stripped of emotions, is able to see the emotions of others very clearly.

My grandmother summoned the spirits of the dead, but I am just alive, and I am possessed by the thoughts of the living people around me.

In a sense, I am summoning the spirits of the living on my own.

I have no control over the process.

However, my heart reflects the emotions, intentions, and desires of others who come from outside.

And I try to fulfill those feelings, intentions, and desires as they are asked of me.

In form, it is similar to the way those who have fallen into codependency try to ingratiate themselves excessively with the object of their dependence.

It is said that “the voice of the people is like the voice of God,” but for me, the intentions of others are like a divine oracle.

As a devout believer, I simply move until I have exhausted all my energy to fulfill the will of the people, which is God.

With this special mental structure, I can instinctively tell the difference between words spoken by a real person and words that have simply been made up.

The fragments that were passed around as a “will” did not register in my mind as another person’s feelings or intentions.

They were a well-made imitation.

But they were “feelings” that had been invented.

I immediately realized that this “will” was not a will at all but something someone had made up to pass off as one.

At the same time, I also had a hunch that the text of the letter itself had not been prepared from the beginning as a suicide note by a third party.

“This is a novel―a work of art. It is not a forged document intended to deceive the police.

After intuitively realizing this, I was suddenly overcome by a tremendous emotion.

It was a feeling of regret.

It was a different kind of regret from the regret felt by the soldiers who died in battle and whose lives were eventually taken over by my grandmother, a regret that was sticky and raw, a regret for life.

“Unless the handwriting in the notebook is in doubt, the only person who could have written this novel is the girl who is said to have committed suicide.”

The girl’s regret was not that she was killed like an accident at the end of bullying.

It is the regret of a writer who died young without being able to show the world the masterpiece she had written with such passion.

The impulse and passion for creation in the heart of a girl who was not even allowed to call herself a writer.

The regret, resentment, remorse, and humiliation of it all ended without taking shape.

“Oh, how beautiful or how ugly humans are!”

The girl’s ambitions were not just made up of pretty words.

She was filled with various pent-up frustrations and complexes, and while she hated the world in general, she also fiercely desired recognition from it.

I was captivated by the kaleidoscopic colors of her conflicting emotions.

I felt grateful to her for allowing me to experience such emotions.

I don’t have any emotions of my own, but it is possible to absorb and enjoy the emotions of others.

My soul, which is hungry for emotions, tastes and gets drunk on the emotions that others bring to me.

Because they are not my own, I can enjoy them as pure pleasure.

The emotions of the woman who supposedly committed suicide were particularly vivid, even compared to all the other emotions I had experienced before or since.

If I had felt that way, I would have fallen in love with her.

I was the manager of the Rakan Group at the time, and I used all my connections to try to find her.

No, she’s dead.

I searched for the person who killed her.

I soon found out that there was a high school student who worked part-time at one of the Rakan Group restaurants and was a member of the bully group in question.

This high school student was a follower of the main bully, Junko Himuro.

It was through this student that I later came into contact with Junko, who later became my daughter―― [T/n: Damn, so this is Seiji Tozaki’s POV.]

“Junko was also a find.

It wasn’t a suicide note―when I pressed her on it, even Junko couldn’t hide her excitement.

But she’s a born sadist.

Junko immediately saw my true nature.

That I had no feelings to be influenced.

“What is your goal?” she said.

“I want the complete text of the novel.”

I replied.

“What? I can’t possibly give you that.”

“So there’s more, isn’t there?”

“Tch…”

Junko had kept the notebook, which should have been useless to her, after making it look like a suicide to cover up the “accident” during the bullying.

It’s hard to understand the psychology behind keeping a notebook that could be used as evidence of manslaughter or even murder.

But I don’t understand.

I only know by looking into my own heart.

“You wanted to keep the ‘prize’ with you. For you, this notebook is a trophy. I’m sure you have other things you’ve taken from other people that you keep in your room or carry around with you, right?”

“…You’re a creepy old man.”

Junko said with a frown.

“I’m starting to get interested in you too.”

“What? You don’t think that’s your goal, do you?”

Junko is beautiful, it’s true.

She is a poisonous flower, but that is why many men find her attractive.

“I don’t want to buy you.”

“Then what do you want?”

“My goal is the notebook. The feelings of a girl who has met an untimely death are truly sweet. I want to possess it as a toy that will help relieve the boredom of my own emotional life.”

“…You have good taste.”

“But even if I offered you money to buy it, you wouldn’t accept it.”

“Of course not. If that notebook got out into the world, I’d be charged with manslaughter at best, and juvenile detention for murder at worst.”

“If you were to give it to me, you would probably destroy the notebook, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course. It’s my favorite collection, but if I get caught, it’s all over. I didn’t plan to kill her in the first place, so if the police really start investigating, they’ll probably find other evidence as well.”

Nevertheless, Junko shows no fear of the police.

She thinks she can control whatever happens.

She’s just a high school student.

“Your parents have trouble dealing with you.”

Her background was investigated by a private detective agency.

It was said that her good parents were unable to deal with this evil girl who had sadistic tendencies from an early age.

At the same time, until the “suicide” incident, she had skillfully hidden her true nature and avoided being ostracized from society.

Even this time, she managed to cover up the incident, which should have been classified as either murder or manslaughter, by claiming that it was a suicide.

She was not able to escape socially unscathed, but she did not make any “mistakes” that would lead to her arrest.

There is no doubt that she is in control of the police, her parents, and the adults around her.

Putting aside the question of right and wrong, she has the makings of an extremely good ruler.

“…So what?”

Even when I pointed out that her parents did not like her, she showed no sign of being upset.

This is quite rare for an adolescent girl.

“Let’s call it a deal, shall we?”

I leaned forward slightly, taking on the face of a businessman about to close a deal.

On the sun-bleached, peeling table of the coffee shop, behind the glass of iced tea Junko had ordered, she furrowed her brow slightly.

“A deal?”

“I’ll take you in as my daughter.”

“…..Huh?!”

Even Junko, who was usually so composed, let out a startled voice at this sudden proposal.

“No parent would give evidence of their daughter’s crime to the police.”

“That’s probably true, but why are you going to such lengths?”

I reply to Junko, who looks at me seriously with a doubtful expression.

“I want to learn from you. Your ‘personality’ itself.”

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