The anomaly had not yet concluded.
Blood seeped into the floorboards, spreading along their cracks, and every object it touched was marked with strange symbols.
The armchair in the corner, the hand-painted murals on the walls, the carpet adorned with rose patterns—all began to transform.
Their original textures and compositions shifted, morphing into these bizarre markings.
“Leave this room!”
Dr. Callan issued the command without hesitation.
Several individuals immediately sprinted towards the door.
Dr. Schmidt, being the closest, had already flung the door open.
“Chief!”
“Go on ahead, don’t mind me.”
As she spoke, a scalpel, attached to a thread on Dr. Callan’s finger ring, flew out and wrapped around the doorknob; once the three had exited, she swiftly pulled the thread, shutting the door.
The blood had already pooled at her feet.
Gently, she sliced her finger with a scalpel, allowing a drop of crimson blood to fall and mingle with the tainted pool on the floor.
Her intention was to attempt a reverse infiltration, carving a path to retrieve the priest.
The priest, still unconscious, knelt where he was, his body continuously seeping blood, his hands already red from clutching his own throat.
The blood she introduced lost its connection within three seconds, causing Dr. Callan’s brow to furrow deeply; this was far more unusual than anything she had encountered in the dreams of Mistfall City, where her influence usually lasted over a minute within the shadows.
Her right index finger delicately tugged a thread, guiding a scalpel to slice open her left palm, allowing more blood to flow and merge with the floor’s crimson expanse.
With each step forward, the blood before her dispersed explosively, clearing a passable path beneath her feet.
Cautiously, she reached the priest’s side, and just as she prepared to examine him, a long, chaotic whisper, unlike any human utterance, echoed in her mind.
‘Serai—Erg—Gunors—’
‘Serai—Erg—Gunors—’
The sound repeated incessantly.
Her head felt as though it would explode, something surging from her body towards her brain, followed by intense pain throughout her entire being.
Dropping to one knee, her hands involuntarily clamped around her own throat.
Her vision turned red, and she, too, began to exhibit the same terrifying symptoms as the priest.
More objects in the room were now tainted with grotesque symbols; the blood on the floor flowed back towards her, while an even greater volume converged on the bed, enveloping the Baron in a crimson shroud, transforming him into a ‘blood-man’.
“Damn it… what in the world is this…?”
With sheer willpower, she gritted her teeth, desperately trying to stand and retreat.
*Thud—*
The priest before her toppled sideways onto the floor, the robe over his abdomen sunken and stained crimson.
His entire body, limbs and face alike, slowly withered and shriveled.
Dr. Callan realized that most of the priest’s internal organs had melted, explaining the immense amount of blood that had poured from him.
“Crimson Lotus…”
His lips, now etched with the texture of bone, moved faintly.
The priest wasn’t dead after all!
Dr. Callan’s eyes widened in disbelief, and she forcibly halted her retreat.
Concurrently, as the faint voice reached her ears, the agony in her body somewhat subsided.
“Trust Aylmer…”
“What…? Explain it clearly…!” she managed to utter, her mouth struggling to form the words.
The whispers within her mind continued to distort her hearing.
*Thump—*
*Thump—*
The surrounding blood surged faster, coalescing around the Baron, encasing him in a blood-cocoon.
It pulsed with a powerful, rhythmic beat, like a colossal heart.
Something was about to hatch from within the cocoon.
A potent intuition screamed a warning: that thing was exceedingly dangerous, and it must not be allowed to fully form!
Enduring the pain of her consciousness being torn by the whispers, Dr. Callan directed ten scalpels with her fingers, sending them hurtling towards the cocoon.
*Bang!*
The explosion ripped open a gash, through which she barely glimpsed a grotesque, incompletely formed heart within.
Before the remaining scalpels could pierce the heart, the blood on their blades lost connection, and the opening swiftly healed.
“Trust Aylmer… he’s not a traitor…”
The voice repeated itself, just barely decipherable.
Her attention was drawn back.
*Click-clack—*
The sound of bone joints rotating filled the air.
The priest before her slowly raised both hands, gripping the crucifix at his chest, and plunged it violently into the vicinity of his heart.
A dazzling radiance erupted from his chest.
It contained shifting hues of red and blue, slowly transitioning to gold, then to a myriad of other colors.
The entire room was illuminated by the brilliant light, and time seemed to slow.
She saw strands of hair swaying gently, and individual drops of blood descending slowly to the floor.
A profound drowsiness flooded her mind, replacing the whispers; the agitation and pain vanished.
It felt as though sunlight was bathing her.
Asriel could not hold on much longer; he was buying time with his last vestiges of life.
This brief reprieve would be enough.
Enough for her to make a desperate stand.
Casting a deep, respectful glance at the priest, Dr. Callan bowed her head, then gritted her teeth, fought off the encroaching drowsiness, retrieved her scalpel, and stood amidst the pooling blood.
Then she froze.
Behind the bed, at some unknown point, another person had appeared.
They wore the white robes of a clergyman.
They gazed in her direction, then down at the priest lying at their feet.
Images from her memory and records surfaced, and Dr. Callan recognized the individual.
It was Kern-Aylmer, the missing priest from the Cathedral.
“Kern-Aylmer!”
****
*Bang—*
*Bang—*
In a spare guest room on the second floor.
A bullet from an agent’s gun shattered the window.
They intended to break the glass and escape outside.
Seven or eight bullets struck the glass, leaving only bullet holes and cracks.
“It’s no use; this is specialized laminated glass. It would take too long to shatter it with bullets. We need another approach.”
Restraining their subordinate, Valo-Ramsey unfastened the outer clothing of a corpse on the floor, then lifted its shirt to reveal the garments beneath.
It was the body of the agent who had left earlier; they and the doctor had died in the first-floor hall.
Both had met the same grim fate: their bodies shriveled and melted, copious amounts of blood oozing from within.
All the paintings on the hall walls had transformed into eerie symbols, the main door was locked shut, no sound could be heard from inside, and the entire building had become an enclosed space.
With numerous symbols already spreading across the first floor, their only recourse was to flee to the second.
“Dr. Schmidt, would you mind performing an autopsy?”
“I don’t believe that will solve anything,” Dr. Schmidt replied.
Dr. Schmidt stood by the door, wary of the situation outside.
Companions who had been on a mission with them mere minutes ago had, in a short while, turned into cold corpses.
As a doctor, she understood the inevitability of death, yet she found the Epidemic Prevention Bureau captain’s demeanor disturbingly cold-blooded.
He remained impassive in the face of their recently deceased comrades.
“I have a theory: the curse’s spread is determined by the duration one gazes at the symbols. The longer one stares, the greater the chance and severity of being cursed.”
“The Chief mentioned that the curse’s origin might be a mythical creature, and that it has a name, though they didn’t specify what it was.”
“A name…”
Valo-Ramsey nodded slightly, lost in thought.
“Ah—”
A sudden scream erupted from the window, and the agent who had been shooting at the glass collapsed, writhing frantically on the floor, clutching their face.
Blood oozed from between their fingers; clearly, they had succumbed.
“Hold on, Agent!”
Dr. Schmidt rushed over, grabbing their arm, attempting to forcibly restrain the agent in the black trench coat.
However, their strength was immense, and with one hand, they shoved the doctor to the ground.
Valo-Ramsey looked above the two of them, at the bullet-riddled glass; the bullet holes and cracks were grotesquely wriggling, reorganizing themselves, with several already having morphed into bizarre symbols.
“We can no longer stay in this room.”
Four gunshots immediately followed, precisely striking the agent’s limbs, incapacitating them without hitting any vital organs.
Two of those shots had whizzed past Dr. Schmidt’s ear.
This was the quickest and most effective method.
Causing someone on the verge of madness to instantly faint was simply unrealistic.
Dr. Schmidt took a deep breath, still shaken by Valo-Ramsey’s actions; if the bullets had strayed even slightly, they would have struck her instead.
“Being your subordinate and working with you are both truly unfortunate endeavors.”
Grumbling with clear dissatisfaction, she helped the incapacitated agent to their feet.
“Let’s hope this misfortune doesn’t cost them their life.”
Holstering his gun, Valo-Ramsey stepped forward to lend a hand.
Arriving at the staircase in the corridor, they were met with a scene of utter despair.
The grotesque symbols had already spread from the staircase to the entire second floor, infecting every room, and likewise, the stairwell leading to the third floor.
Every escape route was blocked.
“I must retract my previous statement.”
Valo-Ramsey set down the agent, then deftly produced a match and lit his pipe.
“Let’s hope this misfortune doesn’t claim the lives of everyone here.”