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Doughnuts are Holes with Rims Around Them – Part 01

—wiretap radio 2—

Beep.

Bzzzzt.

“He’s dead.”

“The spy is dead.”

“Carmilla and Morella killed him.”

“All according to plan?”

“Of course.”

---

The Masque of the Black Death

Middle of the 14th century.

The castle was calm.

A huge labyrinth made of stone stood solemnly on a white sandy beach, surrounded by a purple sea.

At night, high tide filled the beach with seawater. Now under the morning light, seashells and green seaweeds left behind by the water sparkled. But come nighttime, the beach transformed into a world of darkness, where waves crashed and retreated.

The huge castle, resembling the skull of a sinister fly, glistened wetly. Its corridors were built like a labyrinth, winding, sloping upward little by little, and were filled with water during high tide and disappeared into the sea, save for a few rooms at the very top. Traces of seawater remained, in the smell that lingered in the air, in the droplets trickling down the walls and doors.

Servants from nearby villages gloomily entered the castle. Their faces were dark. Several years had passed since the Black Death, which broke out in Italy and swept across Europe, ravaged this small eastern country. Those who had lost parents, siblings, and children had no choice but to return this morning to take care of the man hiding in the castle.

The king.

A frail young man.

At the furthest end of the labyrinth, in a dark room with no windows, beyond a door too small for an adult to pass through, the young man was shaking, terrified, as he had always been, that the man in black, the incarnation of the Black Death, would find him. He spent his days trembling, raging, thinking only about his survival.

Meanwhile, countless citizens perished.

Because of the king’s deception. Because of his desire for self-preservation.

The king was a young man of only twenty years. His seniors, who were supposed to teach him good judgment and responsibility, fell victim to the plague. All he could do was run away scared. To escape the Black Death, he had a labyrinth built in the sea, where he secluded himself. At the time when the whole kingdom was teeming with death.

That particular morning.

Through the shimmering shells, seaweed, and white sand, a figure walked toward the castle. Slowly. Leisurely. The bottom of his black coat flared in the brisk morning breeze. The man’s face was obscured by his hood, and the only thing discernible was his large build. A man in black, as big as a mountain.

The man approached the castle.

The servants stopped working and looked at the man.

He walked slowly past them, keeping his eyes down.

The servants said nothing. They made way for the man.

No one stopped him.

They simply watched the man as he walked into the castle.

The trail he left behind was marked with murky blood. Copious amounts of it. It was clear that he didn’t have long. The man’s coat flapped in the wind once again.

The long sword he was clutching under his coat glinted in the morning light.

The servants silently acknowledged the man. Then, trembling, they made the sign of the cross above their chest over and over.

---

At the innermost room, where sunlight couldn’t reach, the young king, wrapped in a cloth, was shaking, unaware that morning had arrived. He was a man of thin build.

The door opened, and a man in black entered.

“Who’s there?” asked the king in a shrill voice.

“The savior of your soul,” the man groaned. “Do not fear.”

“I-I know that voice!” The king sprang to his feet, trembling all over.

Even standing, the man in black was still taller than the young king. The man slowly removed his hood.

A sinister face covered in black spots and wide-open eyes.

A hideous visage that would make one doubt if he was a human being at all.

A horrifying head, like a fly.

“Marquis!” the king exclaimed.

The man nodded. “O’ foolish, young king. As ruler of this land, you have lived a life of luxury since you were young. But it seems to me that no one taught you that with said luxury comes the duties of a king. When the Black Death swept over the kingdom and your subjects needed help, you fled.”

“B-But… I…”

“My wife died suffering. My young daughter passed away in agony. And I will not survive much longer.”

The man’s eyes widened. Blood oozed from the dark spots on his face. Reddish-black fluid, tinged with sorrow and rage, dripped from his eyes down to the floor.

“Stay away! Don’t come any closer!”

“I have come to save your foolish and immature soul. As one of your seniors. As one of your people, who lost his precious family.”

“How did you get here? What happened to the servants?”

“Nobody stopped me. We all feel the same. You abandoned your responsibilities and holed yourself up here alone. As such, you are no longer king.”

The man approached the king with a long sword in his hand. The king was petrified.

The sword pierced through the king’s thin body and came out his back as easily as if it were cutting silk.

Fresh blood dripped.

Dark-red blood gushed out of the man’s mouth too.

His eyes widened, red tears streaming down his face. He was about to say something when suddenly, as if someone had severed his lifeline, he passed away. The king, a long sword lodged in his chest, fell to the cold floor, pinned under the man. Blood spurted from his pale lips. In his last moments, he whispered.

“I don’t want to die.”

His voice trembled.

“I came here to survive. My soul cannot be saved. My soul cannot be saved, Marquis!”

His body convulsed.

“C-Curse you,” he snarled, coughing up blood. “Curse you. Curse this fortress. May those who come here shudder before the sinister mask of death. May this curse last for centuries, for eternity. Death will…” His lips quivered. “…come. Over and over.”

His eyes slowly closed.

This all happened a long, long time ago, in this very same place.

---

Chapter 5: Doughnuts are Holes with Rims Around Them

The front yard of the monastery was silent. When a body suddenly rolled out of the cabinet, the spectators simply stood there without a sound.

Thunder roared in the distance. Dark-blue clouds were slowly gathering in the night sky. Rain was coming.

Carmilla, her gray hair strewn on the floor, was holding her bloody sister. The abbot snapped back to his senses. He pulled a small knife from his pocket and cut the straw rope that bound Morella and Simon Hunt together.

Horrified, Morella crawled as far away from the corpse as possible. She shrieked, gasped for air like someone drowning, before losing consciousness.

A drop of rain fell on her wrinkled face.

Rain began to fall. Thunder rumbled.

Screams rose from the crowd, the cold rain bringing them back to reality. They rushed into the monastery. Simon Hunt’s body was starting to get wet from the rain.

“Call the police!” someone yelled.

“Does this place have a phone?”

Men covered the body with a cloth and carried it into the monastery.

Kazuya rushed to Victorique, who was sitting on the suitcase, and stood in front of her to protect her. His head was poked from behind.

“Wh-What is it?” he asked. “Can you save it for later? We’ve got a situation here.”

“Don’t breathe, Kujou,” Victorique said in her husky voice.

“Okay, got it. Wait, what do you mean ‘don’t breathe’?” Kazuya looked up at Victorique in disbelief. “I’ll die. No thanks. What’s wrong with you?”

Victorique’s green eyes silently regarded Kazuya. Her face was more serious than ever. Kazuya stared back at her with a curious expression.

Victorique pulled her eyes away and pointed at the white smoke. “I mean, as much as possible, don’t inhale that smoke.”

“Smoke? You mean the smoke they used as a screen? It doesn’t smell like anything.”

“Look around you, Kujou.”

He did as he was told. Women were screaming at the sight of the corpse. Men were shouting in rage. They seemed to be acting strange, their eyes blazing. A girl fainted. A young man slowly collapsed on the spot.

Kazuya glanced at the rising smoke. The cold rain gradually cleared the smoke away. A dark sky hovered above.

He turned behind him. “What’s going on here, Victo— Whoa!”

Victorique wobbled and fell off the suitcase. “You should be… more careful,” she mumbled smugly, her cold green eyes glowing sharply.

Kazuya quickly dove to the ground to catch Victorique.

“Hey! Stop messing around. Victorique? What’s wrong?”

Victorique let out a groan as she lay limp in Kazuya’s arms. She was lax as an unwary kitten. Kazuya shook her.

“Don’t… inhale… the smoke.”

“What’s in that smoke?” Kazuya looked over his shoulder.

Amidst the rain, the white smoke was almost gone now. Kazuya carried Victorique to the monastery to take shelter, dragging the suitcase along with him.