After deciding to attend the secret gathering, Dorothy found herself facing a dilemma: what kind of bargaining chip she could use to exchange for a coveted mystic knowledge if she encountered one. Although she considered herself to have some money, she wasn’t sure if it would suffice in such a clandestine setting.
Upon reflection, Dorothy concluded that it would be more appropriate to trade mystic items for other mystic items. The only surplus mystic items in her possession were a few spiritual fingers. She figured she could keep one for recharging her corpse ring, sell the remaining two, and still have enough spirituality to keep the ring operational for a long time.
However, using spiritual fingers to barter at the secret gathering posed another issue. The Crimson Eucharist was known to be present at such events, and openly trading their items would undoubtedly attract attention. If they tracked her down after the gathering, it would spell trouble. Thus, dealing with potential Crimson Eucharist pursuers became another problem to solve.
Dorothy’s solution? Take full advantage of her current appearance as a child. She planned to act as though she was merely a naive participant sent by someone else. After all, few would believe a seemingly innocent child attended such gatherings on her own initiative.
Dorothy and her corpse marionette would then stage a performance, misleading Crimson Eucharist pursuers into thinking the marionette was the mastermind behind her actions. This would divert their attention and allow Dorothy to escape. By leveraging the corpse marionette’s abilities, she could make it jump into a river to evade pursuit.
Meanwhile, her surveillance crow would monitor the pursuers’ movements, enabling her to track them back to their base.
Now, all Dorothy needed to do was subtly pass along some information to her older brother, prompting the Serenity Bureau to investigate. With their resources, she could topple the Crimson Eucharist’s base.
But Dorothy decided against taking immediate action.
“This isn’t likely their headquarters—at most, it’s just a contact point. If destroying it only costs them a small hub, it’s not worth the effort for now…”
Sipping her overly sweetened coffee, Dorothy murmured softly. To her, targeting this contact point wouldn’t yield much benefit and might even alert the eucharist prematurely.What she needed was to wait for the right moment—a chance to deliver a more devastating blow to the eucharist.
Taking another sip of coffee, Dorothy pulled out an old, thin book from her small bag. This book, The Dream Seeker’s Chronicles, was a mystic book she had acquired from Grayhill. According to Grayhill, it supposedly taught one how to master dreams and enter the Dreamscape.
“A book on dream entry… interesting. I wonder how much spirituality it contains.”
As Dorothy prepared to start reading, another thought crossed her mind.
At the gathering, she had repeatedly heard the term “cognitive poison”. Many of the items being traded were claimed to protect against this so-called poison. For instance, the medicinal powder sold by the old woman at the beginning was for this very purpose.
Dorothy was curious: what exactly was this “cognitive poison”? Why did the attendees value it so highly? Was it a type of toxin? And why were they so concerned about exposure to it?
The wealthy individual with the codename "Shepherd Dog" had provided some clues.
He had declined to buy a mystic book from Grayhill, stating that he hadn’t yet finished studying the last one he had purchased. He feared that studying a new knowledge might accumulate cognitive poison, leading to contamination and eventual loss of control.
In other words, practicing mysticism could expose one to this cognitive poison?
This revelation startled Dorothy. She had already completed studying a mystic book—the partial manuscript of “The Art of Sacred Anatomy”. If that was the case, she must already be contaminated by this cognitive poison!
But the problem was—she hadn’t noticed any effects.
To her, “The Art of Sacred Anatomy” was little more than a curious anatomical knowledge. It was a bit eerie but not enough to be mentally overwhelming. If this minimal exposure counted as contamination, what about the rigorous dissections medical students conducted in her previous life? Would surgeons even exist under such rules?
This discrepancy puzzled Dorothy. The attendees at the gathering seemed convinced that studying mysticism caused cognitive poison and sought methods to resist it. Yet she had experienced none of these issues.
Was it a matter of exposure quantity? Or had she already been subtly contaminated without realizing it? Could her consciousness have been rewritten without her knowing?
Shaking her head, Dorothy dismissed the idea that she had been contaminated without noticing. If that were the case, someone around her—especially her brother, Gregor, a Bureau squad leader—should have noticed something amiss.
Moreover, if cognitive poison was insidious and undetectable, there would be no way to resist or prevent it. The fact that so many people sought remedies at the gathering suggested its effects were noticeable to one’s conscious mind.
Thus, it seemed to be a matter of degree.
With this thought, Dorothy decided to conduct a small experiment.
After finishing her coffee, she took a carriage to a secluded riverside area on the outskirts of town.
In the afternoon sunlight, Dorothy sat on the grassy riverbank, the breeze rustling through the reeds. She retrieved “The Dream Seeker’s Chronicles” and prepared to read it, page by page. As she read, she carefully monitored her mental state to observe any changes that might indicate the effects of cognitive poison.
If she felt any discomfort, she was prepared to stop immediately.
The reason Dorothy chose such a remote place to read the book was that, in case the worst happened—if she unexpectedly lost control—she wouldn’t harm anyone nearby. At the very least, she could throw herself into the river to cool off and regain her composure.
In short, Dorothy’s experiment officially began. She sat beneath a tree, carefully opened the old book, and began reading earnestly.
One page down… nothing happened. Two pages down… still nothing. Three pages down… everything remained normal.
And so, Dorothy continued reading, page after page.
By the quiet riverside, under the lush canopy of trees, the serene and beautiful young girl was fully absorbed in her book. The grass and her hair swayed gently in the river breeze, fallen leaves drifted lazily, and the soft sounds of wind and water harmonized in the background. At that moment, if the book in her hands were a classic literary masterpiece instead of a forbidden knowledge, the scene could have been the perfect opening for a romantic school drama featuring a bookish heroine.
Unfortunately, the book couldn’t be swapped.
…
At 22 Western Elmwood Street.
Inside a meticulously decorated study, a middle-aged man of average build, dressed in sleepwear, with a bald head and sagging skin, sat in an armchair. He held a cigarette in his hand, his expression grave. Kneeling on one knee before him on the carpet were two men.
“So you’re saying… a finger of the ‘Chalice’ appeared at Grayhill’s gathering? And it was clearly something made by the organization?” the middle-aged man asked sternly, smoke swirling around him. The two men responded immediately.
“Yes, Mr. Burton. Even Grayhill himself confirmed it was something from the organization. There’s no doubt about it!”
“The seller didn’t dare appear in person and sent a kid to the gathering to handle the transaction. In the end, they used the organization’s treasure to exchange for a mystic book from Grayhill. We tracked them, but they jumped into the Ironclay River midway!”
Listening to their report, the man named Burton fell silent, seemingly lost in thought. After taking another puff of his cigarette, he spoke.
“Did you get a good look at the seller’s appearance?”
“Yes, sir. He seemed to be in his twenties, well-dressed, a bit tall and thin, with pale skin—like he was sick.”
The two men described the figure in detail, having gotten close enough during the pursuit to recall his features clearly.
Burton’s brow furrowed deeper as he listened. Finally, after exhaling a long stream of smoke, he stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray and rose slowly from his armchair. Walking to his desk, he rummaged through a drawer and retrieved a photograph. He then returned to the kneeling men and handed them the photo.
“Was it this person?” Burton asked.
The men looked up immediately to examine the photo. It depicted a man identical to the one they had pursued.
“Yes! That’s him, Mr. Burton!” they confirmed emphatically.
Burton paused, then let out a cold snort.
“Hmph…”
He walked back to the desk, picked up a teapot, and poured a cup of thick, dark red liquid with a rancid stench. Holding the cup, he approached the two men and offered it to them.
“Split it between yourselves,” he ordered.
“Thank you for your generosity, sir!” the men exclaimed with excitement, carefully taking the cup before retreating with grateful bows.
Left alone in the study, Burton turned his gaze back to the photograph in his hand, flipping it over. Written on the back in red ink was a single name: Edrick.
Burton moved to the bookshelf, reached for a nearby candelabra on the wall, and twisted it. The bookshelf creaked and shifted, revealing a hidden chamber.
Inside the chamber stood a small altar built from bloodied human bones, about waist-high. Four candles surrounded the altar, their flames illuminating the fresh blood glistening on the skeletal structure. Scattered around the altar were bones, some still bearing scraps of unchewed flesh.
Atop the altar rested a bloodied skull, still attached to remnants of flesh. Embedded in the top of the skull was a human ear, grotesquely connected to the cranium by veins and roots that burrowed into the bone and twisted deep within.
Burton gently stroked the ear, watching as it twitched slightly. Then, he spoke in a low voice.
“Gentlemen, there is progress on the Albert case. I’ve identified who leaked information to the Serenity Bureau.”
“Edrick… that insolent, treacherous rat! Not only is he alive, but he hasn’t been secretly detained by the Bureau either! It was him—he betrayed us! He caused Albert’s death in Vulcan! And now he struts around this city, alive and well, with the treasures he stole from us!”