The guardhouse fell into an unnerving silence that seemed to permeate the air as though the very atmosphere had congealed into an unsettling stillness. At that moment, the elderly custodian felt odd, as if reality had taken on a dreamlike quality, tricking him into believing that time had frozen in its tracks. It felt as if the shrine on his desk, the delicate flame of the candle, the gentle wafts of incense smoke, and the ambient spiritual energy suspended in the air had all momentarily ceased their natural progression.
Could this be merely an illusion? Uncertain, the old man lifted his gaze, catching sight of the candle flame dancing within his field of vision as if it had only commenced its lively flicker the moment his gaze fell upon it.
His eyes lingered on the pale, dancing flame for a long moment before slowly shaking his head, dismissing his strange sensations. His attention was then redirected back to the letter laid out in front of him. As his eyes began to scan the words, he experienced an uncanny emotion he had never felt before.
However, after traversing through a mere few lines, he could no longer dwell on the peculiarities of his feelings. The content of the letter demanded immediate attention, forcing him to realize the gravity of the unfolding situation.
Warnings indicating that their city-state was being slowly corroded and infiltrated by the profound forces of the deep sea. Clear evidence of the ominous Annihilation cult orchestrating large-scale operations. Intriguing speculations regarding the mysterious saint’s encroachment into the mortal realm. And finally, an alarming alert concerning Dagger Island.
The old custodian studied the lines of the letter with an intense focus. He suddenly felt an unnerving realization that the recent inexplicable tensions permeating throughout their city-state had found their plausible cause.
While he was uncertain whether he should trust this “report” derived from an inexplicable entity, he was sure about one thing: it was of utmost importance to inform the gatekeeper and the cathedral immediately.
Meanwhile, Agatha was carefully observing the orc woman, who was soundly asleep on the sofa. Completely oblivious to the large assembly of guardians congregating in the room, the orc woman occasionally mumbled in her sleep.
The fact that she could articulate words while sleeping suggested that her consciousness remained intact during the earlier “attack,” and that the unexpected visitor who had entered their dwelling did not harbor any harmful intentions.
Agatha’s eyes drifted over the orc woman’s figure, noted as robust in her observation. Most orcs were built this way, inherently endowed with muscular physiques and skin as resilient as stone. After conducting a quick assessment, the young gatekeeper noted the woman’s muscles occasionally tensing in rhythm with her restless mumblings. It seemed her dreams were filled with unrest and unease.
“No external injuries, no signs of mental corruption, no evidence of a physical altercation, and her condition seems akin to natural sleep, though she remains unresponsive,” a priest dressed in a gray-white robe reported his findings to Agatha, providing an overview of the current situation. “Considering the undamaged lock on the door and the evidence of recent cooking activity in the kitchen, we tentatively deduce that the ‘intruder’ was granted access to the home.”
“It could possibly be someone familiar to the household or a guest who gained her trust,” Agatha quietly mused. “What about the second floor?”
“We’ve gathered a significant number of samples and uncovered what appears to be a dying declaration. The individual who left this testament appears to be the source of the… unusual substances we found in the room,” the priest nodded in response. “From additional clues we gathered around the house, we believe the individual who left this testament goes by the name ‘Scott Brown,’ a folklorist by profession.”
“A folklorist?” Agatha furrowed her brows in puzzlement. “Have we started investigating his background?”
“We’ve dispatched someone to the nearest residents’ registry office to procure his records. However, we’ve yet to receive any response.”
“Stay here and continue watching over this woman,” Agatha directed, nodding her understanding. “I’ll go upstairs to evaluate the situation.”
“As you command, Gatekeeper.”
On the second floor, in what appeared to be a study, the guardians had already wrapped up the initial phase of evidence and sample collection. When Agatha arrived, she found her subordinates carefully removing dried “mud” clinging to the bookshelves to handle the plethora of books in the room safely.
In locations where supernatural occurrences had occurred, books left at the scene could potentially be infected by unearthly energies. Despite potentially being seen as “altering the crime scene,” it was crucial to relocate and preserve these books for further investigation.
Agatha’s gaze settled on the dried, grey-black substance. It invoked memories of the samples they had collected from Cemetery No. 3 – odd substances resembling “primordial” matter.
She also focused on the aforementioned “dying declaration” – conspicuously displayed in the center of the desk.
Looking at the document, Agatha noted that it had obviously been handled before because it bore distinct marks of careful cleaning.
This level of diligence didn’t seem characteristic of a malicious intruder; instead, it reminded her of the “professional” approach someone like herself would take when investigating a scene. Thinking of the orc lady peacefully sleeping downstairs, Agatha began to form some preliminary hypotheses in her mind.
A mysterious third party, who appeared to bear no ill will – could they be the same group that had engaged in a conflict with the followers of Annihilation in the nearby alley?
If so, the potential influence of this “third party” demanded careful scrutiny.
As a swirl of speculations and deductions flooded her mind, Agatha slowly scanned the words written on the “dying declaration.” As she absorbed the impassioned testament, brimming with resolution, bravery, and wisdom, her expression became progressively more solemn and heavy.
The individual who had written this record had astonishingly managed to retain conscious awareness and memory.
After a brief moment of contemplation, Agatha inhaled softly. With a solemn expression, she carefully returned the dying declaration to its original place on the desk. She then lifted the staff she always had with her and methodically dragged its metallic end across the wooden floor.
The resonating sound of metal grating against wood echoed through the room. A ghostly flame ignited at the end of her staff, leaving behind a similarly ethereal, glowing trail on the floor. As the flame and its radiant trace expanded, the frictional sound of the staff scraping the floor began to alter. It grew deep and sluggish, almost like an intangible barrier was forming, gradually segregating the space around her.
Before long, Agatha had delineated a triangular area sufficient for an adult to stand within. Then within the triangle, she inscribed the symbol of the Death God, Bartok. Once done, she stepped into the center of the enchanted area, propping her staff beside her and reaching for her own eye socket with her free hand- a living eyeball promptly sprung out of its socket, settling comfortably in her palm.
In that instant, the surrounding noises ceased abruptly, with all sounds from the material dimension obstructed outside the triangle by the unseen barrier. Then, an array of hushed whispers arose within the silence, reminiscent of a multitude of invisible spectators gathered beyond the confines of the triangle, ceaselessly murmuring undisclosed matters to the gatekeeper.
With the palm facing upwards, Agatha raised her hand, using her dislodged eyeball to survey her surroundings.
Every element within the room, be it the busy guardians, the dust particles whirling in the air, or the hands of the wall-mounted clock, appeared to be frozen in time, akin to insects trapped in amber. They rapidly lost their vibrancy, fading into a monochrome haze. An otherworldly pallid glow seeped in from the outside through the boarded window, casting delicate shadows within the room.
Within this uncanny, luminescent, and stagnant space, only Agatha, standing at the center of the triangle, maintained the hues and semblance of a living being. With her eyes shut, she held her own eyeball in her left hand while she surveyed her surroundings, calmly announcing, “I wish to communicate with the deceased present here.”
The overwhelming whispers around her abruptly lessened, and Agatha pivoted her left hand, enabling her eyeball to observe the desk nearby.
That was where the folklore scholar, Scott Brown, had last labored, leaving behind his final testament. Theoretically, if a spirit had ever resided here, there should be lingering traces of its presence.
Although the strange “mud” scattered across the room suggested the potential habitation of a “monster” created by supernatural forces, this “monster” evidently retained fragments of its human nature. Agatha had grown certain of this after reading through the testament.
However, she found the space around the vacant desk entirely devoid of any signs of the supernatural.
There were no lingering souls, no spectral apparitions formed by emotional attachment, and not even the faintest traces of spiritual remnants. All that was left was a colorless desk laden with piles of the black substance from which thin streams of smoke were rising.
Deep in thought, the gatekeeper considered the possibilities while the eyeball oscillated gently within her open palm.
Had the soul’s remnants dissipated over time due to the entity’s demise? Or was the entity occupying the room merely an “imitation,” never truly human but merely simulating human memories and personality traits? Or had the soul transcended through Bartok’s gate, finding solace in the realm of rest?
The final hypothesis seemed highly unlikely. After all, considering the room’s current condition, if there were any remnants of “Scott Brown’s” soul still lingering, they would have been gravely contaminated. And a tainted soul wouldn’t be granted passage through that door.
But then, where had the soul vanished to?
The whispers surrounding her returned, their murmuring growing louder and more cacophonous than before.
The shadows of the spiritual realm started stirring, displaying their clear disdain for the sudden intruder. Even for a potent gatekeeper such as Agatha, it was best not to linger too long in these spectral depths.
Holding that thought, Agatha lifted her staff and struck it twice against the floor.
The metallic staff’s impact against the wooden surface resonated like thunder.
“Gatekeeper Agatha, envoy of the mortal world, seeks to converse with the Gatekeeper of the realm of the deceased,” she announced solemnly.
