Mythos Of Narcissus: Reborn As An NPC In A Horror VRMMO

A soft chime rang through the room, signaling the arrival of a Duolos—which I intentionally called for an impression purpose.

The door slid open with its smooth, soundless mechanism, and through it stepped one of my bastion's loyal and hive-minded attendants—an adorable figure clad in an immaculate maid uniform, the fabric pristine and well-pressed, the design similar to that of the Heavenly Maids.

Of course, the real Heavenly Maids were all deployed with the Theotech Expedition, meaning this Duolos was simply replacing the role assigned to the guest quarters.

Without a word, the Duolos vessel moved with measured grace, carrying a carefully arranged tea set upon a polished tray. The fluidity of its motion was almost unnatural, its every action precise and deliberate, as though dictated by an unseen, perfect rhythm of countless combined experiences.

She placed the tray on the low table between Ishmael and me, setting down delicate porcelain cups before filling them with a rich, dark brew that carried faint hints of citrus and spiced herbs of various blends that I crafted before. The fragrant warmth drifted through the room, mingling with the sterile, regulated air.

The Duolos executed a flawless bow before retreating, exiting as soundlessly as she had arrived.

Ishmael, meanwhile, sat stiffly across from me, looking as though she had forgotten how to function as a person.

Her pale fingers gripped the fabric of her ragged coat that she huddle on her lap, eyes darting between the teacup, the Duolos, and me as if trying to piece together whether this was real. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came.

A full five seconds of heavy silence passed before she finally attempted conversation.

"… S-so, uh…" Her voice was strained, struggling to sound casual but failing miserably. "Nice… weather we're having?"

I blinked.

Then, slowly, I allowed an amused smile to cross my lips.

"There is no weather in this room, dear guest."

Ishmael went still, realization dawning as her face turned visibly redder. "I—uh—I mean—uhm—"

She inhaled sharply through her nose, visibly recalibrating her entire approach to existing in this conversation.@@novelbin@@

I chuckled, resting my elbow on the armrest, propping my chin against my knuckles. "But, if you'd like, I could have the observation deck simulate some clouds for you."

Ishmael groaned in embarrassment, burying her face in her hands. "Please don't entertain my nonsense, I—I'm already losing what little composure I have left—"

"Then take your time," I offered smoothly, picking up my tea. "No need to rush."

She peeked at me between her fingers, gauging my expression.

Finding only patience in my gaze, she exhaled slowly, lowering her hands, though she still looked as though she wanted to collapse into the floor and disappear.

She hesitated, then straightened her posture slightly, clearing her throat.

"… Let me try again," she muttered to herself.

Then, she met my eyes.

"Ishmael. I am Ishmael, a sailor."

A proper introduction.

I nodded approvingly, setting my cup down. "A sailor? That's a rather rare occupation in these lands. The nearest shore is days away from here. What brings you to this region?"

It was certainly a quaint predicament on her side, since I doubted that she was even in this place of her own accord, looking at how she acted and all.

Also, as an addition to the context of my curiosity, it was due to the same strange phenomenon where I couldn't barely peek into her soul's history.

As if something, or someone, was deliberately hiding it away from me.

Ishmael frowned slightly, her hand twitching against the rim of her cup.

"… I don't know," she admitted. "But I know it has something to do with my latest voyage."

A vague answer, but not an evasive one.

She wasn't hiding something—she simply didn't have an explanation herself.

Interesting.

I leaned forward slightly. "Tell me, then—this thing you called the 'Pallid Mermaid.' What is it?"

"It seems like all the details uttered in this place are not left unfounded…"

"This bastion is filled with careful folks, so it is normal for secrets to have no way of escaping their clutch."

"That is both reassuring and unnerving, depending on which side… I mean, I didn't insinuate that you're unnerving or anything!" Ishmael's fingers curled slightly. "… As for the Pallid Mermaid. Well, I remember referring to them as a Foreigner."

The word struck a familiar chord.

Foreigner.

I recalled the term from one of my past conversations with Kuzunoha. A word used to describe anything not native to Carcosa. That included things like the Calamity Objects and various anomalies.

But…

"That's quite a broad classification," I remarked.

"I know… but." Ishmael shook her head. "That's because the Pallid Mermaids are exactly that. Foreign. They don't belong to this world. They exist outside of it. And they hunt humans. Hence the usage of the term, even if it's too broad and not precise in categorization…"

Her voice dropped slightly at the last sentence, her words gaining weight.

I watched her carefully.

The conviction in Ishmael's voice, the way her pupils contracted just slightly—this wasn't secondhand knowledge.

It wasn't something she read. It wasn't something she had merely heard of.

This was experience.

And it showed in the way she said that word.

Hunted.

Not fought. Not encountered.

Hunted.

I set my teacup down, the soft clink of porcelain against the table the only sound between us.

"Elaborate," I said, my voice calm, but firm. "What do you mean by 'hunted'?"

Ishmael exhaled, gaze darkening. She laced her fingers together, as if grounding herself in the gesture.

"They erase people," she murmured, voice quieter now. "Silently. Carefully. They don't just kill." Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, her next words coming out lower, heavier. "They remove them."

That statement sent something cold slithering down my spine.

I thought back to the foreign realm I had claimed.

Back to the ethereal harpoons that had found their mark.

Back to the instincts that had screamed at me—warned me—of something fundamentally wrong about those creatures.

A creeping dread, primal and undeniable, telling me that direct contact would be irreversible.

I leaned back slightly in my seat, contemplative.

So I wasn't the only one who had felt that.

I reached for my tea, letting the warmth settle against my fingertips before taking another measured sip.

Then, I met her gaze.

"And what of you, Ishmael?" I asked. "What is your connection to these creatures?"

Ishmael blinked. "My… connection?"

"You recognized them immediately," I pointed out. "And something tells me it wasn't just passing knowledge. You've fought them before, haven't you? Even if you don't remember a single thing about them, but trusting your own vitriol instinct."

A tense pause.

Then—

"… I think I hate them."

Her voice was steady, but I caught the slight tremor in her fingers as she spoke.

"I know I hunt them," she continued, "but I don't know why. It just—" She hesitated, as if grasping for something just out of reach. "It feels right. Like it's something I'm supposed to do."

My eyes narrowed slightly.

That was… far too familiar.

Almost eerily so.

It was the same way I had felt when wielding those harpoons. As if something within me had recognized those creatures, had deemed them my enemy long before I had even understood what they were.

That wasn't normal.

I exhaled through my nose, weighing my next words carefully.

I could press further. I could dissect this moment, prod at the nature of her enmity, unravel the reasons buried deep in her subconscious.

But…

I looked at her hands, curled so tightly they trembled against her lap.

I looked at the way her shoulders tensed, as if bracing herself for something she didn't want to remember.

And I chose not to.

I allowed my posture to shift, something lighter, more casual.

"Then let's talk about something else," I said smoothly, tilting my head. "What's your plan now, sailor?"

Ishmael stiffened slightly, caught off guard. "My… plan?"

I gestured vaguely around us. "You're here now. So what do you intend to do from this point forward?"

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

I saw it then. That flicker of helplessness. The way uncertainty shadowed her expression, tightening the corners of her lips.

"… I don't know," she admitted. "I don't have anywhere to go."

Ah.

There it was.

A lost thing, adrift. A woman without a home, without a direction.

Perfect.

I smiled.

"Then I have an offer for you."

Ishmael blinked, caught off guard.

I leaned forward slightly, resting my elbow against the table.

"You're clearly an experienced combatant," I mused. "And your knowledge, or atleast, feelings and instinct of these specific 'Foreigners', is invaluable."

I extended a hand.

"Why don't you stay? Join my bastion."

Her eyes widened.

A sharp breath hitched in her throat, her gaze flicking to my outstretched hand.

For several seconds, she didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

She simply stared, as if the very concept of being offered a place—being welcomed—was an alien thing to her.

"… Is this real?" she finally whispered.

"Of course." My smile deepened. "I don't joke about recruitment."

I saw the way her fingers twitched, hesitating.

Her gaze flickered—not with fear, but with something uncertain.

I recognized that look.

It was the look of someone who had never truly belonged anywhere. The look of someone who had only ever known displacement, uncertainty, and the fleeting nature of temporary refuges.

I had seen it in others before.

And I knew, without a doubt—

She wanted to say yes.

She wanted to reach for that outstretched hand.

But something inside her hesitated.

Something in her told her she wasn't worthy of this offer.

I waited.

I let her process.

I gave her time.

And then—

Slowly—

She reached forward.

And shook my hand.

Her grip was hesitant at first. Then, stronger.

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A decision was made.

A path chosen.

A sailor, once adrift, now anchored to something greater.

My smirk widened slightly.

"Welcome aboard, Ishmael."