My Self-Consciousness Exceeds the Schwarzschild Radius and Saves the World (3)

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Episode 3: The Singularity at the Entrance and the Philosophizing Galapagos

1

I arrived back at my apartment at dusk, when the world was blurring ambiguously at the boundary between madder red and ultramarine, like a poorly painted watercolor.

The 'Corpo Melancholia' where I live—a nickname the landlord gave it after seeing the desperate faces of the tenants—is a forty-year-old wooden building. Every time I climbed the stairs, the entire structure let out a grumpy creak, like an old man clearing his throat.

When I reached for the doorknob, I felt a faint sense of rejection in my fingertips.

'Hmm, something is different.'

I muttered to myself.

The sensation of the key being sucked into the keyhole was about 30% heavier than it had been this morning. It was as if an invisible mucous membrane had been stretched across it, refusing my return.

With a click of heavy metal locking into place, I pushed the door open.

At that moment, I furrowed my brow deeply.
Someone had invaded my sanctuary.

It wasn't a thief. The arrangement of the furniture and the piles of philosophy books scattered on the floor were exactly the 'intellectual disorder' I had constructed this morning. However, the quality of the space had been decisively altered.

To use an analogy, it was like having a steaming pile of dog feces sitting with mathematical precision based on the golden ratio on top of pure white sheets woven from the finest Egyptian cotton. It wasn't just dirt. It was a malicious desecration of perfect beauty—a form of artistic terrorism.

'...Who's there?'

Without even taking off my shoes, I stepped into my six-tatami-mat 'empire'.

The air in the room was thick, like consommé soup that had been simmering for three days, and unpleasantly humid.

And the 'source of the discomfort' was sitting proudly in the center of the room, on the thin, worn-out futon I loved most.

2

A huge, black, rock-like mass.
Complex grooves reminiscent of ancient geological strata were carved into its surface, dully reflecting the dim lighting of the room.

It looked like a shell. Or rather, it was a shell. It bore countless scars and traces of moss, like an inscription carved with 150 years of 'boredom' and 'philosophy' that it had lived through.

In this room surrounded by cheap IKEA furniture, only that object radiated a gravity called 'history,' physically distorting the surrounding space. A damp smell, like the soil of a forest after the rain—different from the stench of a beast—assailed my nose.

When I tried to reach out to the object, a wrinkled neck slowly extended from the side of the rock.

'You're late, Kyouya Akagi.'

The creature—a giant tortoise—looked up at me and opened its mouth heavily.

The voice was a deep bass that resonated directly in my gut, reminiscent of a cathedral pipe organ.
I dropped my bag on the floor. A normal person would have screamed, but my brain circuits produced 'acceptance' before 'fear'.

'That makes sense,' I muttered under my breath.

Indeed, this is a room where a person of my caliber lives. It's only natural that a talking turtle would come to greet me. In fact, it would have been more unnatural if it hadn't come until yesterday.

'This is trespassing,' I said, trying to remain calm.

'And you're occupying my futon. Do you intend to split the rent?'

A moment of silence fell.

'Rent?'

The turtle snorted. The vibration made the empty cans on the low table rattle.

'What I pay is not money. It is the 'stability of the world'.'

The turtle used its short front legs skillfully to lift the teapot on the low table.

'Let me introduce myself. I am what you would call a Galapagos giant tortoise. I once served as the director of the Far East Branch of the Gravity Management Bureau.'

'Gravity Management Bureau,' I repeated.
'It sounds like a civil servant position, but I don't expect any benefits. Is the retirement bonus lettuce?'

3

The turtle—the director—slurped the cold tea with a loud sound.

'Akagi-kun. Have you noticed that today's sunset is abnormally long?'

The director gestured toward the window.

The sun seemed to have abandoned its duty to set, clinging to the western sky. The gradation of red and orange stained the houses dirtily, like peeling, cheap wallpaper.

'I noticed. I thought the Earth's rotation was slowing down to match my speed of thought.'

The director let out a deep, long, damp sigh.

'The thickness of your thought process, which twists reality to connect with yourself... I am amazed and impressed at the same time. What the world needs right now is exactly that kind of boldness.'

The director stared at me head-on. Its eyes, which had a warmth you wouldn't expect from a reptile, were stricter than a bar exam interviewer, and at the same time, contained a deep sadness.

'Let me be blunt. The world has become too 'light' now. Because people have discarded the weight of the meals they ate yesterday and the bitterness of the mistakes they made, the wedge of the Earth's axis is loosening. If things continue like this, the girl you are fond of will literally dissipate into the sky.'

I frowned.

'That would be a problem. I haven't yet discussed Kafka's 'Metamorphosis' with her—the argument that he should have turned into a giant turtle, not a poisonous insect.'

I wore a wicked smile and muttered.

'Although, it seems that very metamorphosis is happening right in front of me now.'

The director raised the corners of its mouth slightly in satisfaction.

'That is why I need you, Kyouya Akagi. Your ego, which is unnecessarily profound, unproductive, and like a self-contained singularity. Only the 'weight of self-consciousness' you possess, which no one understands and which is of no use to anyone, can act as a weight to anchor this flighty world to the ground.'

4

I crossed my arms and looked up at the water stain on the ceiling.

Saving the world. The chosen one.

It's a cliché phrase, but if I play the part, it becomes the ultimate art.

'I understand,' I nodded.

'In other words, just by existing here, I end up saving the world. The gravity emitted by my existence becomes an absolute attraction that even transcends the laws of physics.'

'I'll leave the interpretation to you. The result is everything.'

The director nodded in satisfaction and pushed the empty teacup toward me.

'Then, the contract is concluded. First, start by boiling some water. Earl Grey. The tea leaves are Mariage Frères. The temperature is 95 degrees Celsius. I will accept nothing else.'

'...The first step to saving the world is being a tea server?'

'Of course. I don't think someone who can't even brew a perfect cup of tea can tune the world. Besides, I have a sensitive tongue. Calculate the cooling time as well. Know the 'weight' of the act of waiting.'

I sighed once and stood up.
I headed to the kitchen and put the kettle on the fire. Watching the blue flame of the gas rising incessantly, I felt a strange sense of exhilaration.

A tea server? No, that's not it.

This is a creative ritual in which I, the absolute being, give the world the order of 'perfect temperature'.

Behind me, the giant turtle is muttering to itself, 'The tatami weave is coarse; it makes my shell itch. This is why modern industrial products lack mass.'

My sanctuary was defiled, but in exchange, I got a toy called the world.

Not a bad deal.

The only problem is that this apartment doesn't allow pets, but for the sake of the cosmic order, I'll use my intellect to deceive the landlord's eyes.

Thick steam was rising from the kettle.
It looked like the first signal for the world to begin rebooting.

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