A few minutes later, four figures converged outside the reception room.
Though each had managed some rest in shifts, none had truly succumbed to sleep’s embrace.
Agents of a certain caliber possessed the crucial ability to maintain conscious control over their actions and thoughts, an essential prerequisite for navigating the treacherous mists of the long night.
Those endowed with the power of ‘dreams’ exhibited a remarkable resistance to the mist, which was why Komel had allowed herself the least amount of rest.
Indeed, until she was summoned, she had stood vigil at the entrance of the underground hospital, ensuring no one emerged and no unforeseen incidents arose.
“Snap.”
With a crisp snap, Helm closed his pocket watch, his gaze impatiently sweeping the misty sky for the elusive moon.
“We’ve been waiting for almost ten minutes. Are you sure the nun is showering and not just rambling in her sleep?”
His words were directed at the black-robed doctor, who stood motionless, leaning against the door.
Factoring in the time it took to gather everyone, a full twenty minutes had already elapsed.
He was the first to be roused, having only rested for half his allotted time when the doctor, with a chillingly indifferent tone, instructed him to fetch the two agents.
Though he belonged to a different system and, by all rights, had no obligation to obey her, her formidable strength was one compelling factor.
Coupled with the minor nature of the task, he had offered no protest.
Unbeknownst to him, such an aloof demeanor was merely Callan’s customary approach to most interactions.
Komel looked over, her intention clear, but Ramsey, pipe still clenched between his teeth, showed no reaction.
“If you’re so impatient, you’re free to rest; no one is stopping you. I imagine your captain will inform you of the developments later.”
“That also applies to the one with peculiar habits, who shows such disrespect to The Order.”
Callan, eyes still closed, did not look at either of them, her words aimed directly at Komel.
Indeed, pursuing a nun of the Dream Society was, in itself, an egregious offense, one that, if thoroughly investigated, could lead to a litany of serious accusations.
“No wonder the nun’s attitude towards you is so inconsistent; it must be because of your mouth,” Komel retorted, unwilling to back down.
“If you don’t know how to speak like a normal person, I can teach you.”
‘How did it come to this?’
Helm instantly regretted his earlier grumbling.
Just as he was wondering how to intervene, the sound of a door opening reached them.
“I didn’t ask you here to argue.” The door swung open ninety degrees, revealing a young woman in a conservative nun’s habit standing in the doorway.
“Your behavior makes me question your professionalism, and whether I should even tell you what happened.”
She wore no headscarf, her hair damp and unbound, clearly indicating she had just finished bathing.
“Does this concern Bishop Sartre?” Ramsey removed the pipe from his mouth.
“How did you know?” The young woman looked at him.
“Experience,”
He circled his finger near his temple.
“…coupled with a touch of intuition.”
After closing the door and drawing the curtains, the group gathered around a table, awaiting Ghervil’s statement.
“Have any of you heard of an interview, one conducted in a dream about the plague, between a Ms. Eldoria and a Mr. Sicily?”
“Where did you learn about this interview and the name of that woman?” Komel was the first to respond.
“The surname Eldoria… this woman should be Hera-Eldoria, daughter of Iniesta-Eldoria, one of our society’s founders.”
“Why wouldn’t she simply be the founder herself?”
Ghervil asked, puzzled.
‘When associating someone with a surname, shouldn’t it be the most famous one?’
“She disappeared over fifteen years ago.”
“She disappeared?”
“She vanished in the Oblivion Snow Mountains,” Helm interjected, seizing the opportunity to contribute.
“The plague only emerged four years after her disappearance.”
The disappearance of such a prominent figure was known even to him, despite his long-standing isolation in Mistfall City.
“The Mr. Sicily you mentioned must be Bagg-Sicily, a senior researcher within our bureau and also a lecturer at Plague College.
He participated in the plague research, which was later terminated for undisclosed reasons, ultimately fading into obscurity.”
Ramsey stated calmly,
“I never imagined such an interview would remain.
If no news of it spread, then… it must be classified within the Level One Archives, requiring director-level clearance to access.”
The atmosphere grew perceptibly heavier.
Everyone present understood the immense significance of Level One Archives.
While Callan held a chief-level position within the hospital, her age and tenure meant she wielded little actual power, and thus had access to few confidential matters.
“I am not at liberty to disclose the source of the interview; I can only share its contents with you.”
Both Ramsey and Helm listened in silence, having no intention of pressing for further details.
As Callan had indicated, they possessed no authority to interrogate a nun from the abbey.
On a personal level, they regarded the nun as a friend and respected her wishes.
Perhaps Komel harbored similar investigative thoughts, for beyond her role as an agent, she also held the esteemed title of a scholar.
However, upon catching the gaze of the doctor beside the nun, she abandoned the notion.
“I shall focus on the most crucial aspects,”
Ghervil stated, her gaze sweeping over the group.
“Through two years of extensive research into the plague, Mr. Sicily’s team—or rather, Mr. Sicily himself—arrived at a singular conclusion: they could not ascertain the plague’s method of transmission.”
This outcome was precisely as the others had anticipated, aligning with the recorded information.
“But that is not all.”
“The research also uncovered a worst-case scenario, a possibility that threatens to overturn all faith.
Furthermore, Mr. Sicily was adamant that this possibility was unequivocally correct.”
“A worst-case scenario…”
Ramsey repeated, the words hanging heavy on his tongue.
Helm, having heard no further explanation, stroked his chin and glared at the young woman.
“Why are you speaking like those old fogeys from The Order, being so cryptic and only telling us half the story!”
“Because the useful content of the interview essentially ends here; the rest comprises casual conversation between the two, which is largely irrelevant.”
Ghervil, unperturbed, offered her explanation patiently.
Helm immediately sensed a wave of displeasure emanating from the doctor, whose brows furrowed as she stared in their direction.
‘Old fogeys from The Order…’
‘That shouldn’t include her, right?’
‘I specifically added the prefix ‘old’ to avoid offending anyone inadvertently.’
‘Her rank might be high enough, but her age and appearance are far from ‘old’.’
“Could you please share your conclusion or hypothesis with us?”
Ramsey’s timely question diverted the attention, effectively rescuing his colleague.
‘Well done, Captain!’
Helm, for once, mentally addressed him as ‘Captain’.
Ghervil took a deep breath.
‘Dealing with intelligent people is so much easier.’
‘If it were merely the surface content of the interview, there would be no need to elaborate further.’
“The reason this interview with a professional is needed to support my claim is precisely because this hypothesis is almost impossible to believe… how should I put it? From my perspective, it might be described as sacrilegious, but I don’t care, for I have lost my memory.”
“Perhaps the Goddess herself endorses my actions, otherwise she would not have allowed me to witness those visions in my dreams.”
“Dreams?”
Komel, who had remained silent for some time, finally spoke.
“Not necessarily dreams; they might be events that truly transpired in the past.”
Ghervil turned her gaze, meeting Komel’s eyes with profound seriousness.
“In those visions, your father told your mother that he intended to defile the Goddess’s dream, by some means, when everyone fell into slumber.”
“And that method, if my suspicions are correct,”
“is the plague itself.”