Our Hotel Is Open for Business as Usual - Chapter 27

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 27.

What I am about to undertake is no mere ritual.

It is a structural failure designed to precipitate memory into blood, an intentional descent, a calculated agony—and…

“…”

I collapse as a sacrifice prepared for that very failure.

* * *

Before the incident reached this point.
When Lee Yeon-woo dwelt alone within the Hotel.

One day, he read. And he remembered.

“Annotations of the Crimson Core…”

A grandiose title.

“…Annotations concerning the essence of crimson?”

Interpreted intuitively, it amounted to something like “commentary on the scarlet heart.” The naming sense was crude beyond measure, and the implications contained within were equally unhinged.

‘One should never have expected a sane author for such a text.’

A scripture of the Blood-Worshipping Heretical Cult. A haphazardly compiled collection of fragmentary commentaries derived from various texts—though what intention guided their assembly remained a mystery—assembled with considerable crudeness.

“Testimonies from failed experimenters and sacrifices, annotations and anatomical diagrams, all interwoven with bizarre prophecies and screams. Laid out in such a manner, it almost sounds like a rather literary composition.”
“Indeed.”
“Nine of the thirteen chapters have been deemed impossible to execute.”

Was it a book meant as a cautionary tale?

“I’m not entirely sure….”

The Library of this Hotel was lined with dangerous books.

Not merely in their subversive content, but in the kind whose very existence posed a physical threat. Indeed, as I turned through the thick hardbound volume, I suffered from a relentless, excruciating headache.

Ah, now a nosebleed too.

“….”
“…Thank you.”

I looked at the tissue Coco offered. It was a box of tissues she had pushed forward with her head. I accepted her consideration without hesitation.

Fortunately, the nosebleed stopped quickly.

“A remarkable tome in every sense.”
“Yes.”
“…But there must be some way to apply it.”

The Sixth Stage: ‘The Blood’s Rebuttal, Rejecting the Heart’s Will’.

“Blood cannot replicate the body.”

I read on from the tome.

“Yet it can remember you far longer than you remember yourself.”

This was not the format of any academic paper I had encountered in my lifetime. If I had to categorize it, perhaps it deserved the name of a demonic text. It was closer to the deranged journal of someone—stained with dried bloodstains.

Thin passages, thick passages, viscous phrases that clung. It felt as though memories had been extracted directly from veins, as if drawing marrow with a syringe. The contamination that gnawed at the brain—I suppressed it with reason as I always had.

“When the heart is laid down, blood answers.”

The sentence structure fractured, breaking off precariously.

“Restoration responds not to form but to purpose, and emotion must be bound so that it does not cross the boundary. The soul will drift if not sealed. Who is it that designs the structure of blood.”

The moment I read it, not my eyes or brain, but my blood itself responded first.

“That is not your memory. You merely borrowed it for a time—do not presume to claim ownership of what is not yours….”

My heart hammered violently, veins at the back of my hand pulsing visibly.

It was not pain.
It was alienation.

“….”

I had never felt it before, yet I understood it perfectly.

‘This is a sensation directed at the act of remembering itself.’

Lee Yeon-woo gazed down at the book, his brow furrowed deeply.

“…It seems I’m not in my right mind after all.”

I had intended to approach this with the humble attitude of one learning from foundational principles, but truthfully, I found it utterly repugnant. Between every line of text lay the stench of blood-soaked history, thick and suffocating.

For Lee Yeon-woo, who had always pursued a career within the bounds of common sense, this book induced visceral revulsion. It was less knowledge than sin incarnate. Was it not?

‘Beyond mere danger—its very existence is unethical.’

This tome, abbreviated as the “Crimson Commentary,” was the detritus of forbidden ritual, the grotesque remnants of a failed mythology left to rot in plain sight.

“The objective is personality replication through blood… and the establishment of immortality, I presume.”

Predictable.

“All the more repugnant for its predictability.”
“Yes.”

Beyond mere displeasure lay a certain vertiginous emptiness.

“A cost-effective discipline reliant upon blood, no less.”

What an ancient lineage this knowledge possessed.

“According to the text’s perspective, it began the moment humans became aware of blood’s existence.”
“Yes.”
“The grace of our ancestors is truly boundless.”

Extreme selfishness stirred revulsion, yet I couldn’t deny my scholarly fascination. Humanity’s endless curiosity and potential occasionally granted me a peculiar satisfaction.

‘Those dreaming of immortality have always been abundant, so the accumulation of research data itself isn’t surprising.’

What audacity possessed them.

‘To commit such atrocities for that goal, and even leave records behind. Remarkable nerve. I couldn’t fathom such actions as an ordinary person.’

Or perhaps they simply never thought at all.

But the author’s psychological state wasn’t my research concern. I finished organizing the content to verify whether I’d fully grasped this messy, unhelpful text.

“To summarize—blood creates flesh, preserves memory, and can replicate the self. So they researched consciousness that could exist even without a body.”
“Yes.”
“Severing body parts to gather blood, constructing a consciousness repository, then attempting bodily reconstruction… bold indeed. Though most ended in failure. The synchronization between self and blood became misaligned, causing collapse or runaway, it seems?”
“Failure.”
“Right, failure. There are quite amusing passages. That phrase—’Let the heartless guide the blood’—is one. A sentence rich with interpretive possibility… hmm….”
“No.”
“Yes, dangerous. Yet still fascinating.”

And horrifying.

‘How many did they grind into this?’

The thirteen-page text was remarkably thick. Heavy and worn. Every sentence written in blood.

‘This transcends mere unethical transgression.’

Was there any history or scholarship in existence so fundamentally destructive of order? Yet what emanated from this record wasn’t malice—it was zeal. Within the effort to restore the self, that desire laid bare.

Repulsive, fascinating, and therefore exquisite. Like a living organism.

‘And if I truly defined this as a living organism, would respect be warranted?’

A research subject that tormented me between ethics and gain—genuinely compelling.

“….”

A sacrifice was essential to this ritual.

“…Maintaining a living state while restructuring the blood’s composition… perhaps through a medium capable of emotional disruption. Yes, with this approach, the five fundamental components of blood would incorporate emotion, will, and even memory.”

Merely perusing several texts had granted me a grasp of the approximate mechanism. The outcome was equally predictable.

“When positioned above the corresponding formula, blood would react most intensely the moment it witnesses someone’s death. Ultimately, the victim must not lose their sense of self until the moment of execution.”
“Yes.”
“Perverts. They knew full well it wouldn’t be easy, yet they repeated the same attempts endlessly.”

All failures. Failure upon failure. Records saturated with nothing but side effects.

“…The sacrifice’s blood did not collapse; emotion and soul condensed viscously. With the onset of deep-level collapse, all involved parties were consumed by the blood’s consciousness… how pathetic.”

Lee Yeon-woo felt something akin to pity, or perhaps disappointment. Whoever penned these texts possessed surgical skill that surpassed most competent physicians. Yet such talent had been squandered recording only failure.

‘But this text addresses the subject closest to the problem I’ve been contemplating. With a little more study, I believe I could comprehend it. Yet I’ve only just begun manipulating blood flow—it may be premature for me to master this….’

And yet.
Still.
It fascinated me.

“….”

Velmareth quora solven dei.
Rithmar, rithmar, delashta in keen.
Myorn be unspoken, skinrend to namefall.
Red upon red. hush the breath that never left.
Take not me—take what knew me….
Velmareth….
Velmareth….
Velmareth.

Velmareth.

“…”
“No.”
“Alright.”

The corners of my eyes were caked with blood.

The way it trickled down my jaw felt exactly like tears.

‘If we’re being technical, then I suppose I’m crying for the first time in ages.’

I felt the blood responding to the written words. When the blood had scraped through my insides, I was unmistakably feeling something. Emotions bound to memory had been dragged up alongside it.

‘Why? Because I’m remembering the victims in the records? Because of knowledge squandered so wastefully? Because I’m thinking of time abandoned so regrettably?’

Either way, I hated it. Truly detestable.

‘How shameful.’

And it was uncomfortable.

“…”

As I wiped it away, blood stained the cotton gloves.

“…I understand well enough that this is not something I should attempt in my current state.”

That day, Lee Yeon-woo suspended research into the ritual. I felt it was beyond my capacity. In an emotional and volatile state like this, nothing would succeed.

‘The side effects are too severe as well.’

The original objective was ‘using blood as a vessel for the self and existence, enabling transition into a sustainable blood form even after abandoning the flesh,’ but the side effects were far too catastrophic.

‘…Is the blood running rampant while abnormally integrating the self, memory, emotion, and soul? Incomplete self-decomposition, emotional contamination, memory overload, soul orientation failure, and so on… ultimately, the boundary between self and blood collapses…’

Sensory distortion. Memory overflow. Autonomous blood action. Dual consciousness. Every recorded side effect signified the loss of self.

It was tragically absurd. An attempt to preserve existence had instead obliterated it, leaving only stagnant rot in its place.

“Failed specimens endlessly mutter specific phrases, existing in a state neither living nor dead, their blood left to decay eternally. This is called deep blood collapse.”

A dangerous ritual.

“Collapse of the blood’s depths, you say.”
“Yes.”
“The very name is terrifying, is it not.”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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