The words that slipped from the gatekeeper’s lips held a potency that was palpable, resonating in the air with an imposing force. As she let her tin staff slam against the ground, the resultant echo was like a peal of thunder, making its way layer by layer into the cryptic and tumultuous depths of the spiritual realm.
In the blink of an eye, the silent “whisperers,” whose presence had filled the room, ceased their murmuring, once again succumbing to silence. However, after a few moments of this quiet, a low, distant rumble began to permeate the atmosphere, suggesting the approach of some massive, lumbering entity.
The gatekeeper, Agatha, lifted her hand to adjust her eyeball, shifting her gaze toward the origin of the noise. There, a window stood, its view obstructed by layers of wooden planks, where a pale glow eked out through the narrow gaps between them. Suddenly, the subtle glow flickered, then dimmed dramatically as if a gargantuan being had positioned itself outside the window.
In the next heartbeat, the wooden planks barring the window spontaneously splintered, and countless pieces of the grayish-black wood cascaded silently, only to suspend in the air near the window as if trapped in suspended animation. From beyond the broken window, a behemoth made its appearance.
Draped in a black robe that symbolized the grim nature of death, the giant’s frame was swathed in bandages beneath the robe. Only its eyes, emitting a soft, yellow glow, were visible. The size of the giant was truly astounding as it stood next to the building, its stature comparable to a house’s height. Then, it hunched slightly, bringing its impassive bandaged head level with the opening on the second floor. A hand was raised, displaying three extended fingers toward Agatha.
“Three questions and answers,” the colossal figure intoned with a voice that boomed like thunder.
Agatha hesitated slightly at the sight of the gigantic figure before her. This entity was different from the familiar gatekeeper she often communicated with – it had a far more imposing physique. This figure was obviously a higher-ranking envoy. Why would such a powerful being respond to her summoning?
Quickly though, she pushed her doubts aside – all envoys were servants of Bartok, the god of death, so it was unnecessary for her to probe further. Her priority at that moment was to ascertain what had transpired there.
“I am in search of the soul that was last present in this room,” she said, her staff indicating an empty table nearby. “It might have been tainted, but now its location is unknown.”
“That soul has departed and entered the realm of repose. A formidable force has absolved it of its debts, and it no longer suffers from contamination,” boomed the voice of the Death Messenger from outside the window. Following this proclamation, it retracted one finger, signifying two questions remained.
Agatha momentarily hesitated, her attention drawn to the phrase “formidable force” in the messenger’s declaration. She rapidly assessed her situation before launching her second question, “Who wields this formidable force? Who has wiped clean the soul’s debts?”
“The Usurper of Fire,” declared the messenger, his eyes, aglow with an obscure yellow light, flickered momentarily as if issuing a tacit warning. As the echo of his words dwindled, he retracted another of his extended fingers.
The words “Usurper of Fire” made Agatha’s head reel. She felt an unanticipated rush of dizziness as she realized she had brushed up against knowledge buried deep within the world’s layers, a knowledge previously unbeknownst to mortals.
However, Agatha managed to retain her composure. Conversing with the gatekeeper from the “other realm” and occasionally stumbling upon potentially perilous knowledge was part and parcel of her existence. Despite her relative youth, she had experience in navigating these waters. Furthermore, the fact that the messenger outside the window had chosen to divulge this term to her indicated she was deemed capable of grappling with it.
If it were a truly forbidden inquiry, the messenger would have surely issued a clear warning.
With her resolve fortified, Agatha steadied herself, inhaled softly, and proceeded to voice her third question, “Who is the Usurper of Fire?”
“Human,” came the reply from the messenger outside the window. As the final word echoed in the air, the messenger withdrew his last finger and abruptly vanished into a fierce gust of wind, affording Agatha no chance for further dialogue.
The previously suspended wooden fragments began to quiver, and in a blink of an eye, they reconstructed into their initial form. The room’s window was once again obstructed, the chaotic, pallid light squeezing through the cracks to illuminate the room, casting an astounded Agatha in its ethereal glow.
The young gatekeeper remained rooted to the spot, struck dumb. For the first time in her life, she felt a sense of bewilderment following a conversation with the gatekeeper from the “other side.” The answer to her last question still echoed clearly in her mind, yet she was utterly at a loss as to what this perplexing response implied.
Human? How could that be construed as an answer? Could it possibly mean… the Usurper of Fire was a human? And could the “great power” that the Death Messenger had mentioned have originated from a human?
What kind of “human” would that be?! Could such a being even be considered a “human” anymore?!
Gradually, a cacophonous murmur began to rise, and outside the triangle, a myriad of unseen spectators seemed to buzz with excitement. The noise disrupted Agatha’s contemplation, and the eyeball in her hand whirled around to see that outside the triangular barrier, wisps of black substance reminiscent of hair strands were proliferating, steadily becoming more like droplets of ink dispersed in water.
The spirit world was starting to reject her, the uninvited guest.
Shaking off her disorientation, she raised her hand to replace the eyeball in its socket while simultaneously grasping her staff to dispel the pale flames delineating the triangle on the floor.
In the blink of an eye, the shadowy specter of the spirit world receded, yielding to the vibrant colors and lights of the physical world. She was returned to the bustling setting where her subordinates continued their diligent and orderly work under her vigilant guard.
With an effortless flick of her eyeball, Agatha retrieved a small bottle from her coat pocket, uncapping it with a pinch of her fingers, then leaned her head back and administered two drops of eye medicine into her eye socket. The parched discomfort swiftly ebbed away following this administer.
One of her subordinates approached her, patiently waiting for Agatha to stow away the eye drop bottle before venturing to ask, “Did you uncover any leads?”
“The soul has made its departure. The gatekeeper from the ‘other side’ has confirmed that it has passed through Bartok’s gate and settled in the realm of rest,” Agatha relayed with a composed demeanor, “…that’s the extent of it. There are no further leads.”
For the sake of their safety, she opted not to disclose the term “Usurper of Fire” to her subordinates. This term evidently bore a significant weight and even hinted at potentially perilous deep-seated knowledge. She was uncertain of the consequences that could arise from vocalizing it. It seemed most prudent to carry out an exhaustive review of the literature and information once she returned.
Though the subordinate appeared to have caught a whiff of Agatha’s reluctance, as an experienced guardian, he refrained from prying, merely nodding in acknowledgment before resuming his tasks.
Just as Agatha was gathering her thoughts, the sudden patter of footsteps from the adjacent corridor interrupted her. A guardian who had been tending to the downstairs area burst in, “Gatekeeper, the lady has roused from her slumber.”
“The young orc woman with has awakened?”
Pushing her thoughts aside, Agatha made a beeline for the first floor, where she found Garloni, who had stirred from her unconscious state.
The formidable woman, her skin resembling stone in terms of toughness, sat ensconced on the sofa, cradling a cup of soothing herbal tea brewed by the priest himself. She stared absently at the tea table before her, only registering Agatha’s presence when she sat opposite her and gently rapped the table. Slowly, Garloni began to regain her senses.
“Hello, my name is Agatha, you should recognize me,” said the young gatekeeper, scrutinizing the woman opposite her with a keen eye, “Do you recall what happaned?”
“I… my name is Garloni,” replied the female apprentice clutching the herbal tea, her voice faintly slurred and her gaze still somewhat vacant, as if she had yet to completely rouse from her sleep. “I apologize, Gatekeeper, my mind is still in a fog. I feel as though I’ve had an incredibly prolonged dream wherein I was incessantly solving mathematical problems, proving them time and again. I’ve never experienced such fatigue, even when I amalgamate all my educational experiences from childhood to my adult years…”
“Solving math problems?” Agatha’s surprise was evident, but she quickly composed herself to ask more pointedly, “Do you recollect how you descended into such profound slumber? Prior to that, did you encounter anyone unusual or undertake any peculiar activities?”
Garloni’s brow knit in concentration as she strained to summon the memories, but after an agonizingly long half-minute, she apologized and shook her head, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember. In fact, I have no recollection of anything since yesterday afternoon. If not for these guardians reminding me, I wouldn’t even be aware that an incident had occurred at my residence.”
Agatha’s features mirrored Garloni’s furrowed brow.
Memory obliteration, deep sleep, and “solving math problems” – these suggested the workings of the clergy of the God of Wisdom.
But why would the clergy of the God of Wisdom, one of the four primary deities, resort to such actions?
They were not heretics.
The events of the day seemed to be piling up in a jumble of perplexing puzzles, and a faint headache began to prick at Agatha’s temples.
The unexplained and suspicious combat traces in the alleyways outside, the rising cultist activities in the city-state, the “elements” and suspect accidents in the mines, the peculiar happenings in this house, and the messages from the emissaries of death…
“Excuse me,” Garloni interjected apprehensively, her eyes glued on the young gatekeeper before her. Despite Agatha’s youth, Garloni couldn’t shake off an uneasy feeling, “Is my teacher alright?”
“Your teacher?” Agatha echoed, bemused.
“He should be upstairs, his name is Scott Brown,” Garloni hastened to explain, “When I woke, I was somewhat disoriented and forgot to mention it. He requires some solitude and tranquility…”
Agatha found herself rooted to the spot in stunned shock.
