Otaku Translation: I! Anomaly Cleansing Agent! C83

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Anomalies "produced" by the Cleansing Bureau were typically modified versions of pre-existing entities. Take Director Taurus, for example—she would forge new anomalies using remnants recovered after cleanup missions, preserving only the core abilities while rendering them controllable. In essence, they took uncontrollable phenomena and reshaped them into something manageable.

But if the manager’s account—and his interpretation of it—were accurate, then this Happiness Residence didn’t adhere to that principle at all. It wasn’t a modification; it was an anomaly created from scratch.

This revelation was monumental. He needed clarity on the matter—but there was one problem.

"Anna..."

"You two go ahead," Anna said softly, catching Leon’s hesitant glance. Despite her evident curiosity, the frail young woman offered an understanding smile before rising to her feet and retreating toward the inner rooms.

"It’s gotten awfully cold lately. I’ll check on Melanie and the others to make sure they haven’t kicked off their blankets."

"Thank you..." Leon murmured, watching her disappear behind the door.

He didn’t want his family entangled too deeply in the shadowy underbelly of the world. Once Anna was safely out of earshot, he exhaled sharply and turned back to the manager with earnest determination.

"If you don’t mind, could you tell me exactly how that person ‘helped’ you both?"

"What’s worrying you, boy?" The manager’s voice carried a note of concern as she studied Leon’s suddenly grave expression. "Is there some rule in your Bureau against helping people like us become what we are?"

"It’s not so much forbidden as... completely impossible," Leon clarified. Using language he hoped she’d understand, he explained the sheer difficulty of such an act. Then, seeing the worry clouding her features, he hastened to reassure her.

"Don’t worry—they won’t face any consequences. This ability to create anomalies is unheard of, and the Bureau has no regulations addressing it. Besides, you’ve been anomalies for nearly a century now. Most agents, despite being physically stronger than average, live lifespans comparable to ordinary humans. Whoever helped you likely passed away long ago."

He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "However, because this involves the creation of an anomaly—an unprecedented event—it’s incredibly significant. If possible, I’d appreciate it if you could share as much detail as you can."

"I see..." The manager visibly relaxed upon hearing that her benefactor wouldn’t be implicated. After a moment of reflection, she began hesitantly, "There’s not much to tell, really—we don’t know all that much ourselves. But you probably already know that this apartment used to be a workhouse we converted from our own property, right?"

Leon nodded.

The manager absently fingered her white curls, her gaze distant yet composed. "These weren’t always white. They turned this way after years of illness. That sickness brought constant, excruciating pain. I relied on massive doses of sleeping pills and painkillers just to survive. My lucid hours dwindled to three or four each day, and even during those brief stretches, the side effects left me vomiting and wracked with diarrhea."

She sighed, her voice heavy with resignation. "Though I hated leaving my husband behind, after enduring years of torment, I truly wanted to die. I planned to apply to have the workhouse converted into a municipal facility, then stop taking my medication and let nature take its course."

Her tone remained eerily calm as she recounted the origins of her snow-white hair, but her eyes hardened, her voice chilling as she continued. "I submitted that application over thirty times. My poor husband, dragging his crippled leg, visited the municipal office two or three hundred times. Yet every response was the same: 'Go home and wait.'"

By then, she explained bitterly, it had become clear that the government had no intention of taking responsibility. Once she and her husband were gone, the fates of those sheltered in the workhouse would undoubtedly be grim.

"At the time, the property was registered under my name. My husband couldn’t inherit due to past circumstances, so I simply couldn’t afford to die. I clung to life, searching desperately for alternative solutions for the people here. Though I managed to send some away, most lacked the means to support themselves. And my health... well, it was deteriorating rapidly."

Her voice grew colder still. "My heart stopped three times in that final month. My breathing faltered countless times. Even so, I held on, clinging stubbornly to life, until finally, I reached my limit..."

Heart failure... And still, she endured?

As Leon listened to the manager’s harrowing tale, an unsettling memory surfaced—one of the red-haired chief’s aphorisms: Only extremes leave lasting impressions. Only obsession dares to move forward. Only madness comprehends greatness.

Or, put another way: Whether positive or negative, only the purest, most extreme forces leave indelible marks on this world.

...

"But I truly didn’t want to die, and I couldn’t die."

Unaware of Leon’s thoughts, the manager’s expression twisted as she revisited those agonizing days.

"On my final day, I could barely open my eyes. My heartbeat and breathing had completely stopped—I was practically a corpse. My soul even left my body for a brief moment, and I saw myself lying there on the hospital bed... But in the end, I forced my way back. Why? Because I couldn’t accept it. I just wanted to know: why, when all it took was a signature to save so many people, did no one step forward to approve my application?"

After pausing to catch her breath, her face softened slightly. She reached out and grasped the hand of the burly old man who had quietly returned to stand behind her, supporting her. Lowering her voice, she continued.

"Though my soul returned, my body was already dead. Knowing this, my husband called in the mortician to prepare my remains. I don’t remember much from that point, but the undertaker was a young man—ordinary-looking, except his downturned lips gave him a perpetually sorrowful look. His eyes, though... they were sharp, and it seemed like he could see things others couldn’t."

She paused, her gaze distant. "He looked straight through my corpse and saw my lingering spirit. He asked me, with clear surprise, why I refused to move on even after enduring so much."

A young man with a perpetually sorrowful look and piercing eyes?

Leon made a mental note of these details, planning to ask the red-haired chief about them tomorrow. Then, softly, he prompted, "This man... was he—"

"Yes," the manager confirmed before Leon could finish. Her expression grew complicated as she continued.

"He asked if I had any unfinished business. At the time, I was consumed by hatred—so much so that I wanted nothing more than to become a vengeful spirit and slaughter everyone at the municipal office. I screamed at him, venting my rage."

"But after hearing my reasons, he ignored my anger and turned to my husband instead. He asked if he wanted to see me one last time—but at the cost of dying immediately."

Here, the manager paused, tightening her grip on the old man’s hand. Her voice softened, filled with affection.

"My husband didn’t agree right away. Instead, he asked the young man something else: what would it take if he didn’t just want to see me once, but wanted to stay with me forever? After a moment of surprise, the young man thought it over and told my husband that yes, he could bind our souls together permanently. But because my soul had grown stronger and more resilient through years of torment, binding us would come at a cost. My husband would lose most of his humanity and intellect, becoming little more than an appendage to my soul..."

So... he agreed, didn’t he?

Leon blinked, torn between admiration and disbelief as he glanced at the burly old man. One hand clutched the manager’s firmly while the other surreptitiously reached for a pair of large shears nearby.

"Don’t you dare move," the manager snapped, pinching the old man’s hand hard enough to make him withdraw sheepishly. With a hint of apology, she added, "Don’t worry—he won’t get anywhere near you while I’m watching."

"Ah... it’s fine, really." Leon discreetly touched the pendant around his neck, ensuring he could react quickly if needed, then pressed on. "So your souls were bound together and placed into this building?"

"More or less," she replied, her gaze dimming slightly.

"But we didn’t have our current strength at first. Back then, we couldn’t even eat or drink like living beings, let alone speak to the people inside. It wasn’t until the workhouse was reclaimed by the municipality and the remaining residents were forcibly evicted by the Police Department that we could only manage to appear faintly in the dead of night."

Leon nodded thoughtfully. After a pause, he asked, "Did your powers grow gradually over time?"

"No," she said quietly. "Our current state was... an accident."

Turning her face into the old man’s chest, her voice muffled, she recounted the story.

"One of the orphans who’d been driven out tried to sneak back late one night. While climbing the wall, he nearly fell. Worried, my husband and I briefly materialized to steady him. The boy must have sensed something—he screamed and ran off—but later, he came back several times. Word spread among the evicted that we might still be here."

Her hands clenched tightly, trembling as guilt washed over her. "Soon, more children began returning, hoping to see us again. We... we let ourselves be seen a few more times. Once word got out that some had actually glimpsed us, even those who’d already found new lives in other counties started coming back."

"But..." Her voice hitched. "...then winter came. That year was unusually cold, and they were all so vulnerable... Eventually, fewer and fewer came, and those who did were in worse and worse condition... and then..."

"...they froze to death."

Leon felt a sharp pang in his chest. He tilted his head up, blinking rapidly as the pieces fell into place. He recalled the archived reports he’d read earlier. Over a hundred people had been evicted from the workhouse, most unable to survive the harsh winter. Their bodies—cold, stiff, emaciated—were found scattered near Happiness Residence. What struck him most was that many bore smiles on their faces, a detail that had made headlines at the time. Clippings of the news articles were included in the files.

At first, Leon had assumed the smiles were the result of delusions brought on by hypothermia. But now, he realized the truth: those smiles were genuine.

"I’m sorry," Leon murmured, unsure of what else to say as he watched the manager silently sobbing into the old man’s arms. Regret gnawed at him for prying, but before he could think of a way to comfort her, the burly old man spoke.

"One hundred and three."

His voice was gravelly yet gentle as he delivered the number without emotion. Then, after a pause, he added, "I received their final wishes."

...

So... the reason the two of you can now live as if you’re still human is because of those 103 people who froze to death outside Happiness Residence that first winter—and countless others who once lived here—who believed with all their hearts that you were still present.

Leon clenched his fists awkwardly, unsure how to respond to the manager’s quiet sobs. Desperate to change the subject, he blurted, "What about the young man with the perpetually sorrowful face? Did he ever return?"

"He came back... once."

The manager wiped her tears against the old man’s chest before continuing in a low voice.

"About three years after that winter, he visited us again. When he saw how we’d changed, he was surprised—pleased, even. He said our progress exceeded his expectations. He asked what we’d done during those years, why we’d grown so strong so quickly, whether we’d killed the people we hated."

"But when we explained everything to him..." Her voice trailed off. "He seemed disappointed. He asked why we hadn’t sought revenge, and then he never returned. Oh, right."

She hesitated, trying to recall. "We asked him about his life too. We wondered if he was still working as a mortician. He said no—he’d joined the Cleansing Bureau. He mentioned a title... something like 'Handler' or 'Agent'? Does your Bureau have such a position?"

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