Some scenes, even if you were to wear out an “Encyclopedia of Weirdness,” wouldn’t have a corresponding entry.
Take the current situation, for example.
“Hallelujah” still echoed over the river. The waters of the Seine seemed to have encountered a titan; they were being forcibly pried apart, curling upward into two 3-meter-high red walls of water.
Solidified metal fragments could be seen on the surface of the water walls, looking like flies trapped in amber.
The riverbed, covered in silt and bleached white bones, was exposed. And directly above it…
A man wearing a black priest’s robe stood on the surface of the water. He held a fishing rod, the line dangling into the silt below.
“Yo.”
The man turned his head and saw the three people standing on the bank. He enthusiastically waved his hand—the one not holding the rod.
“I bet the Pope that you’d come, but the old man didn’t believe me. He insisted you were too busy scamming people for money in Montmartre to care about this mess.”
The man smiled gently. He didn’t look like a clergyman; he looked more like a kindhearted old fisherman at the docks.
“I really wasn’t planning on caring.”
Cicero stood on the steps, the cigarette in his hand still lit. The sparks flickered in the gloomy light.
He looked at the man sitting on the water and rolled his eyes without the slightest attempt to hide it.
“If I had known you were the one ‘gatekeeping’ here today, I would have checked the almanac before leaving the house. It would have definitely said, ‘Unsuitable for travel.'”
“Don’t be so cold.”
The man wasn’t angry. With a gentle flick of his wrist, the fishing rod traced an arc through the air.
“I wanted to sleep at home too. But those old guys down there were making too much noise. They woke me up from my afternoon nap.”
The man sighed, a look of “I’m also quite desperate” on his face.
Vivian hid behind Cicero, still secretly clutching the iron railing she had tried to repair. She could only awkwardly use her body to shield the evidence of her crime.
She poked Cicero’s lower back and whispered, “Boss, who is this?”
“You can call him Zebulun.”
Cicero exhaled a cloud of smoke, his eyes fixed on the man suspended in mid-air with a complex gaze.
“One of the Church’s Twelve Apostles. He’s in charge of waters, shipping, and boundaries. Simply put, he’s the watchdog the Church keeps by the river.”
Having said that, Cicero paused and added another sentence.
“But this dog is rather lazy. He only does a bit of work if you give him a kick.”
“Hey, hey, hey, I can hear you!”
Zebulun shouted in dissatisfaction. His voice traveled through the refraction of the water’s surface, arriving with its own built-in reverb effect.
“Levi! How is your tongue still so sharp? After leaving the Church for so many years, haven’t you learned a bit of ‘love and peace’?”
Cicero flicked his cigarette ash, a mocking curve hooking the corner of his mouth.
“‘Levi’ is gone. The person standing before you now is the law-abiding Mr. Cicero.”
He pointed at Vivian and the old man, who was still in a daze.
“And his assistant, as well as an innocent witness.”
“Fine, fine, you’re whoever you say you are.”
Zebulun shrugged indifferently, clearly uninterested in philosophical questions of identity.
“Regardless of who you are, since you’re here, why not lend a hand?”
“I don’t have time. We’re going back to eat.” Cicero turned as if to leave.
“Don’t be like that!” Zebulun panicked, nearly falling off the river water. “The thing down there is too heavy! I can’t hold it back alone!”
Cicero stopped in his tracks.
He looked back at the two towering walls of water.
Indeed, although Zebulun looked relaxed, those two separated water walls were trembling violently. It was as if some massive creature was frantically crashing against them from behind, trying to break through the restraint.
“You can’t handle it either?” Cicero narrowed his eyes.
He sniffed the air, catching the strong scent of rust.
Zebulun gave a bitter smile and pointed at the silt beneath his feet.
“The year 1871 was unusual, Levi… I mean, Cicero. You should know that better than I do.”
Cicero fell silent.
He stood on the embankment, his trench coat snapping in the wind.
Vivian watched him. She could feel the laziness in her boss that wanted to just walk away, but it was currently having a violent brawl with the sense of responsibility etched into his bones.
After a long moment.
Cicero sighed. it was the heavy sigh of a corporate slave forced to work.
“Since you want to fish, then fish for something big. But let me give you fair warning: if you pull up a shark and it bites your hand off, it’s none of my business.”
“I knew you couldn’t bear to leave me!” Zebulun was overjoyed and let out a whistle.
“Who can’t bear to leave you? I just can’t bear the thought of what would happen to the people of Paris,” Cicero replied crossly.
He raised his cane, pointing the tip at the churning red silt.
“Hey, I say.”
Vivian was still completely confused. “Boss, what are we actually doing? Are there really fish in this river?”
“There are.”
Cicero’s voice was soft, but certain.
“And it’s a big fish that has been eating hatred for 20 years.”
He turned his head to look at Vivian.
“Remember the taste you just sampled?”
“Huh? The rust?”
“Yes, rust.”
The moment the words left his mouth.
The fishing rod in Zebulun’s hand suddenly bent into a terrifying angle!
*creak — !*
The sound of the air being torn apart exploded instantly.
Zebulun, who had been standing as steady as a mountain on the water, suddenly lurched forward. He was nearly dragged into the silt.
“Holy shit! I’VE GOT A BITE!!”
The smile vanished from Zebulun’s face. Both his feet pushed hard against the invisible film of the water. The muscles in his arms bulged instantly, tightening his priest’s robe.
“Cicero! This thing’s strength is too much! It’s dragging me down!!”
“Hold on!”
Cicero barked the command while pulling a Bible from his coat, flipping through the pages rapidly.
“Vivian! Get back!”
“Ha? Back where?” Vivian looked around at the mud everywhere.
“Climb a tree! Scale a wall! Or just fly! Whatever!”
Cicero had no time for her. He spoke at a lightning pace in a language Vivian had never heard before—ancient and abrasive.
Following his chant, the silt on the riverbed began to churn violently.
Countless bubbles rose from the depths of the mud. Every time a bubble burst, it made the sound of a rifle being chambered.
*clack.*
*clack.*
*clack.*
Thousands of *clacks* converged, turning into a deafening roar.
Zebulun’s face had turned a deep shade of purple. He gripped the fishing rod with all his might, the poor willow branch letting out a groan as it reached its breaking point.
“Damn it! It’s coming up!!”
Zebulun let out a roar.
“RUN! QUICK, RUN!”
*boom — !!!*
Before anyone could react.
The willow branch exploded into powder with a *pop*.
The silt erupted.
A giant “hand,” composed of countless rusty rifles and shattered artillery shells, burst from the ground!
The hand was as large as a small building. Dark red molten iron dripped from its finger joints.
It grabbed the empty space where Zebulun had just been sitting and squeezed its five fingers shut.
*psh!*
The sound of the air being crushed made Vivian’s eardrums ache.
“What the hell is that? A Transformer?!”
Vivian watched in stunned silence as the steel monster slowly crawled out from the bottom of the river.
The thing had no head. It only had a bloated torso made of heaped scrap metal. And in the center of its “chest” stood a tattered red flag.
Zebulun performed a clumsy mid-air flip and landed steadily on the railing next to Vivian.
He wiped away cold sweat. Looking at the iron giant that was still growing, he spread his hands to Cicero with a bitter smile.
“Looks like… we’re in big trouble this time.”
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