“Good evening, Dr. Callan, Sister Ghervil.”
After a brief stalemate, the white-robed old man’s voice emerged, raspy and aged.
“Is that book I gave you still with you?”
“That book written in dream script, a tome of immense value?”
Ghervil poked her head out halfway, only for it to be promptly pushed back.
‘Don’t let him trick you; it might not truly be him.’
Several blood-stained scalpels materialized in Dr. Callan’s hand; should the other party make any extraneous movement, she would attack without hesitation.
“No need to be tense, Dr. Callan. At least for the next five minutes, I am trustworthy; relying on some lingering power within this place, I have briefly regained my consciousness.”
“How can you prove that?”
“When you were a child and visited Mistfall City, I often gave you milk candies.” The old man offered a dry, brittle laugh.
“I wonder if that can serve as proof.”
“Silence! Such entities are capable of pilfering memories!”
Undeterred, a series of images flickered through Dr. Callan’s mind, confirming the veracity of his statement.
Back then, she had been studying by the Director’s side, occasionally needing to visit the Holy Sanctuary, and this bothersome old man would always press candies upon her, which she accepted out of basic politeness.
“You like eating milk candies?”
The voice from behind her made it difficult for Dr. Callan to maintain her stern demeanor, and she turned to glare at the young girl.
“As your employer, I demand you forget this incident. I only accepted them out of basic politeness… those sickeningly sweet candies were all discarded afterward!”
‘So, she dislikes overly sweet candies… Does this also need to be forgotten?’
‘Is she doing this on purpose? Why am I even explaining such things to her!’
“So, there is no method of proof.”
The old man slowly shook his head.
“But that does not hinder what I am about to tell you. You may judge its veracity for yourselves.”
Dr. Callan, suppressing a surge of irritation, remained silent, which amounted to tacit consent.
“Let us return to our initial topic: is that book I gave you still with you?”
“It’s already… lost…”
Twirling the fingers of her left hand with her right, Ghervil couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.
“Haha… perhaps it is the Goddess’s arrangement; it may not be a bad thing.”
Every word the old man uttered felt like a prick of a needle.
Her guilt deepened, and she dared not reveal where it had been lost, or even stolen.
“My substantial power resides within that book, capable of initiating the ritual. From what I understand of the current situation, should the ritual commence, the entire city will be beyond salvation, with every individual becoming sustenance for rats in their sleep.”
“Tell us your current state. We already know these things. Why can we only trust you for five minutes?”
Finding the old man overly verbose, Dr. Callan interjected.
The old man narrowed his eyes, his gaze turning hauntingly vacant, utterly devoid of luster in the flashlight’s beam.
He resembled a living corpse.
“Only within the Holy Sanctuary, under the Goddess’s watchful gaze, can I barely maintain lucidity; at all other times, ‘it’ assumes control.”
“‘It’?”
“It appears to be a mythical creature that has inherited the memories of Agent Kayol.”
A shock coursed through her heart.
Dr. Callan was familiar with this term.
Such creatures, it was said, predated the Great Mist.
Originating from an immensely ancient era, they were the genesis of countless calamities.
Various ancient texts recounted that even more malevolent and potent forces lay behind them.
A small number of organizations and individuals worshipped these powers, standing in direct opposition to the Goddess, and were the primary adversaries of the Order and the Kingdom before the Great Mist.
“Do such creatures truly exist?”
After all, in her nearly twenty years of life, she had never encountered one; she held little faith in legends and ancient texts, believing them susceptible to human exaggeration and fabrication.
“Well now…”
The old man raised his hands, casting his gaze downwards to inspect his body, a grotesque composition of rat flesh and blood, then looked towards the woman behind him.
“Perhaps when Sister Ghervil eventually reclaims her memories, she will be able to provide you with an accurate answer.”
“Playing the mystic.”
Dr. Callan scoffed with disdain.
‘How could that little money-grubber behind me, barely literate and obsessed with coin, possibly comprehend such arcane secrets?’
Ghervil felt an inexplicable gaze upon her.
“I do not know what ‘it’ has said or done to you while inhabiting my form, but I can perceive a part of its emotions.”
The old man continued to narrate.
“Fear, born of a primeval creature’s instinct.”
“Driven by this primal instinct, it descended into the cellar, where it was suppressed by an unknown force, until you unearthed those rats, leading to my current state.”
“Is it the Director’s power?!”
The young girl behind them exclaimed, leaping forward.
Dr. Callan did not stop her; she, too, yearned for the answer.
A surge of hope blossomed in her heart.
The power capable of effortlessly suppressing a mythical creature, as described by a Bishop, suggested that this city might indeed be saved.
A greater possibility still was that Director Anthea had not perished.
“It should be her power.”
“But regrettably… this power is exceedingly weak, and its master has likely… *chuckles*… I believe you can infer my meaning.”
“To suppress it for five minutes is the final struggle of my remaining consciousness; you may consider it my contribution.”
He was dying.
Yet, he proudly puffed out his chest, as if recounting no sorrowful tale.
The young girl’s spirits plummeted to rock bottom.
If the Director was truly dead, then what did the abbey’s invitation mean?
What of the lessons in the cellar, the transfer of property, the fabrication of her identity?
Her eyes instantly welled with a stinging sensation.
Dr. Callan, momentarily stunned, quickly came to terms with it.
By the time she had heard the news and rushed to Mistfall City, most of her initial emotions had already dissipated.
Had it not been for the secret the young girl revealed in the Holy Sanctuary, which made her feel as though Director Anthea had fooled her, she would have long since fully let go.
Having witnessed countless deaths, she had grown accustomed to it.
Ghervil remained enveloped in a maelstrom of complex emotions.
A faint tickle brushed the crown of her head; someone was stroking her hair.
She knew who it was without needing to think.
In a semi-dazed state.
She lacked the inclination to care.
‘Let them touch, then…’
“I forgot to tell you… I know a characteristic of ‘it’ that might or might not be considered a weakness,” the old man’s voice drifted over.
‘He truly has no sense of timing.’
A slight displeasure stirred in Dr. Callan’s heart.
“As long as a single rat remains alive, this mythical creature cannot be vanquished. Beyond preventing the ritual from commencing, you must exterminate every single rat within this city.”
“That is mostly all I can tell you.”
“Do you have any last words?”
She withdrew the hand that had been caressing the soft head.
This was, indeed, a crucially important piece of intelligence.
“Should any of my remains or other relics persist, cast them indiscriminately into the wilderness or commit them to flame; I am unworthy of burial in a consecrated graveyard.”
Having uttered these solemn words, and without Dr. Callan needing to intervene, the old man disintegrated from the bottom upwards, reverting into a putrid pile of rat carcasses.
The flashlight’s beam abruptly dimmed, as if shrouded by a veil of black.
A colossal shadow, silhouetted against the moonlight, snaked its way out of the cellar exit, carrying with it a gust of foul, putrid air.
Before either of them could ascertain its nature, shouts erupted from the front courtyard outside.
“Are you two not done yet? I can barely hold them back!”
Dr. Callan scrambled out of the cellar first, with Ghervil following close behind.
They hurried through the living room and into the front courtyard.
The scene on the street caused both their pupils to constrict involuntarily.
A dense, shadowy throng of human heads swarmed toward Number 101.
Upon closer inspection, pairs of crimson eyes glided amidst the interwoven gaps between the people.