Visions and Demands

Endless darkness enveloped her.

She could hear the faint sound of her own breathing.

Such a sensation had eluded her for what felt like an eternity.

The last time, barely a month ago, she had still been a boy.

In that sense, it hadn’t been long at all.

More sounds began to filter in.

Her own heartbeat, the night wind, and beyond a wall and a door, the muffled clamor of footsteps and conversation.

Two male voices.

“Are you still standing guard? If you ask me, she’s perfectly capable of looking after herself. Who could possibly threaten a Chief?”

“This falls on me; it was my oversight as captain.”

“The Sister’s narcolepsy is no secret. I don’t believe you weren’t intentional about it. Suit yourselves, then. Continue to be met with a cold shoulder here; I’ll go arrange for them to take turns entering the dream.”

A heavier set of footsteps receded, and a warmth seemed to emanate from her palm.

“Quiet! Her toe twitched. It seems she can hear us!”

‘My toe?’

‘Had someone removed my shoes?’

‘Who even pays attention to someone else’s feet?’

“There have been descriptions of narcolepsy, noting that sometimes the consciousness is clear, yet unable to react to external stimuli,” the remaining male voice responded.

“You’re disturbing her rest!”

….

The voices outside the door grew much fainter, barely audible.

“It seems she won’t let us in. Agent Lalviye-Komel, the rotational care plan appears to be unfeasible.”

….

“Where are you going?”

“To the underground hospital.”

“Do you need me to come along?”

“No, thank you.”

“Just to check on the patients.”

The female voice paused.

“And my mother.”

The audible sounds vanished completely, though the warmth in her palm lingered.

****

After an indeterminate stretch of time, a timid female voice emerged, this time accompanied by corresponding visuals.

“It’s been arranged… a total of thirty-six infected individuals…”

In the antechamber of the sanctuary, a nun reported the situation to an old man in white robes, who stood gazing at the statue of the Goddess.

Her tone suggested she was terrified, not by the oppressive presence of the Bishop before her, but by the vivid, harrowing sight of the ‘infected individuals’.

“They are like us, not ‘infected individuals’ as you call them,” the old man in white robes said, slowly turning to fix his deep-set, somewhat hollow eyes upon her.

“Yes, Bishop…”

The nun subtly tugged at her collar for air, daring not to speak further, and bowed before departing the antechamber.

The scene shifted, revealing the Bishop at the entrance to the underground hospital—or rather, a mere subterranean space not yet fully converted.

Pushing open the door with one hand, he revealed a basement whose condition could only be described as sorrowful and chilling.

In one enclosed compartment, a young man, whose back was riddled with fist-sized holes, knelt on the floor.

His hair had completely fallen out, and his eyes were filled with utter despair.

From those holes on his back, disgusting rats would emerge at unpredictable moments, threatening to devour his body entirely if not promptly removed.

He had endured enough of this torment, his mind and body subjected to endless suffering.

Crawling forward on his knees, he clutched the robe of a bewildered priest, begging him to end his life.

He even harbored a degree of hatred for them, for he could have simply perished in the calamity.

Many others suffered similar fates.

Twice the number of priests and nuns were required to constantly clear away rats and offer solace to the afflicted.

One rat, by sheer chance, managed to escape, instinctively scurrying towards the least threatening path—the open basement door.

“Splatter.”

Flesh splattered as it was flattened into a bloody paste beneath the foot of a wizened old man, and a fallen candle flame consumed its remnants.

The old man closed the door, then walked past each compartment, and as if by some influence, the patients inside collapsed, falling into a deep slumber.

In the following years, numerous groups were dispatched from above to conduct research, including agents, university professors, doctors, and scholars.

A considerable amount of time passed, yielding pitifully few useful results, yet they did manage to reach some conclusions.

Maintaining a relatively stable emotional state among the infected could slow the rate at which rats emerged.

Furthermore, some rats might retain the memories of the people they consumed, presenting an opportunity for them to evolve into formidable ‘White Rats’.

Even more unsettling, entities beyond White Rats had been eliminated on the very night of the disaster; they had never encountered such beings, nor did they possess the courage or confidence to attempt their creation.

Day after day, year after year.

The Bishop preserved these lives through the power of dreams, growing increasingly frail in the process.

It was one afternoon.

A highly respected local doctor was invited by the Bishop to the sanctuary.

The doctor’s husband had perished in the plague, driving her to dedicate herself to researching its cure.

Blood Rose.

She and the Bishop discovered this particular material.

A concoction, formulated with other medicines, proved effective in suppressing the disease.

From then on, the emergence of rats became rare, and everyone believed that those with less severe infections had a chance at recovery.

The final scene depicted a fierce argument erupting between two voices: Bishop Sartre, clad in white robes, and the bewildered female doctor kneeling on the ground.

“Are you truly going to do this?”

The woman’s voice trembled as she questioned him.

“To defile the Goddess’s dream… none of us can bear the consequences. It could even… implicate our daughter…”

“If a Goddess truly exists, these calamities would never have occurred! Nor would she deign to offer a mere semblance of refuge by letting people hide in dreams!” the old man in white robes roared at the woman, his voice powerful and ringing, as if he were an entirely different person.

“Do you truly wish to watch me die? This old man’s consciousness has been almost entirely devoured by me. I need an opportunity—an opportunity to draw everyone into the dream.”

The woman fell silent.

She could neither refute him nor convince herself.

If there were no Goddess, how could the immense power of the ‘Dream’ be explained? And if there truly were a god, they stood now in its very presence, before its statue, uttering words worthy of the gallows, yet remained utterly unpunished.

“Perhaps there are gods, but they are certainly not gods of humanity. Humans are merely tools for the divine to test the Mists, to test the Plague.”

The voice beneath the white robes grew calm.

“Such gods are unworthy of reverence.”

“Rest assured, I will protect our daughter.”

….

“Wake up—!”

“Ghervil—!”

The vision tore and shattered, and she heard someone calling her name.

Her body was shaken, and a sweet liquid flowed into her throat.

Struggling to open her eyes, she saw a beautiful face gradually come into focus before her.

“You’re finally awake.”

Dr. Callan placed her palm on Ghervil’s forehead, sighing in relief when her temperature proved normal.

“What happened…?” Ghervil asked, rubbing her eyes.

“Your temperature was very high just now, and your body was trembling,” Dr. Callan explained, supporting her back to help her sit up.

“I tried many ways to wake you, but nothing worked. I had no choice but to make you drink the potion.”

Ghervil took a cursory glance at her surroundings.

It was a private guest room, furnished with a basic bed, table, chair, and bookshelf, along with a small washroom.

The grandfather clock on the wall indicated 8:20 PM, meaning five to six hours had passed since the bell chimed.

The potion on the nearby cabinet was nearly depleted; with careful rationing, it might last another two weeks.

“You didn’t… do anything to me, did you?”

She quickly checked her body: her collar was partially open, and her skirt had been pulled up to her thighs.

Aside from her shoes, her clothes and socks remained.

“No, nothing like that. I just wanted to help you… cool down. You were sweating profusely… I didn’t know what else to do…”

Confronted by the young woman’s questioning gaze, Dr. Callan couldn’t meet her eyes, her words becoming muddled.

‘If I had been wearing over-the-knee socks today, this person probably would have taken them off too,’ Ghervil thought.

Ghervil felt a surge of relief.

She was unwilling to expose her thighs to anyone, not even in special circumstances.

“I doubt you’d dare,” Ghervil retorted, her voice lacking warmth.

With that, the young woman pushed Dr. Callan away, got out of bed, and, still in her small leather boots, propelled her all the way to the door.

“Go find the agents. I have something very important to tell them.”

The more Dr. Callan thought about it, the more annoyed she became.

During their first encounter, things far more inappropriate had occurred.

She had stood guard for so long, not to mention the effort, only to receive no gratitude for her kind help.

Yet, she conceded that she also had her own issues; she had felt no qualms when bandaging Ghervil’s thigh back then.

Now… she didn’t even dare remove a sock, the soft touch evoking an inexplicable sense of guilt within her.

‘It was just a normal procedure for an emergency…’

‘Are you still the Chief Doctor? You’re becoming increasingly useless!’

“Bang.”

Her internal struggle had not yet concluded when she was pushed outside, the door immediately slamming shut.

“I’m just going to find people. There’s no need to lock me out, is there?” she complained, knocking on the door.

The door opened a crack, revealing half of a small head.

“I need to shower.”

The young woman’s single sentence silenced Dr. Callan.

The door closed again, locking with a click.

“No one is to enter until I finish my shower and open the door myself.”