“A theft case? The Eight-Spired Nest would even care about something like this?”
Inside a moving carriage on the nighttime streets of Tivian, Dorothy was currently seated in the compartment, reading the words written back by Gregor on the pages of her Literary Sea Logbook, her thoughts tinged with curiosity.
“What is this group from the Eight-Spired Nest up to...? Why would they suddenly show concern over two petty thieves? Do those two have something unusual about them?”
Dorothy pondered with some confusion as she sat in the carriage, then lifted her pen again and began writing on Gregor's contact page.
"Are you certain you’ve fully investigated those two thieves’ identities? Absolutely no issues?"
After writing, she waited quietly for Gregor's reply, and shortly afterward, his handwriting rapidly appeared on the page before her.
"The Eight-Spired Nest asked me that exact question too. I’ve gone through all their records, seen them in person, tested them, even contacted the police station in their hometown. I can say with absolute certainty that they’re just two ordinary people with no hidden background. As for the theft case they were involved in, there were no signs of any mystical traces. I don’t believe they’re some Shadow master pulling the wool over my eyes."
Reading Gregor’s script, Dorothy fell into a slight silence after scanning it. Then she picked up her pen again.
"Can you explain the details of the case they were involved in?"
"Sure. Their case is pretty common in Tivian’s western district logistics and storage warehouses. It was an internal theft. According to the police investigation, the two of them worked at a warehouse logistics company and had a habit of stealing valuable goods over time. During their shifts, once they identified high-value items in a shipment, they’d open the packages and steal part of it, then sell the goods privately at the market.
“To avoid detection, they usually targeted luxury items like spices, tobacco, and tea—bulk goods that are weighed rather than counted. After removing some of the goods from a container, they’d replace them with lower-grade substitutes of the same type to maintain the original weight. Because they operated carefully and only took small amounts each time, it was hard to detect. They’d been doing this for about a year and had never been caught, with few shippers noticing anything unusual.
“But recently, they got greedy and stole too much from a batch of high-end dyes. The substituted low-quality dyes were also more abundant than usual. After the recipient used them, the results were clearly substandard, damaging their reputation. The client quickly filed a complaint with the warehouse company, which conducted an internal investigation, identified the culprits, and reported it to the local district police station. The two were soon arrested and are still in custody."
Gregor's detailed account of the case quickly unfolded before Dorothy. After skimming through it, she wrote again.
"You’ve checked those goods yourself?"
"Yes, already checked. All mundane dyes. No mystical traces of any kind."
"And after the Eight-Spired Nest received your report, they didn’t follow up?"
"Correct. After I submitted the report, I received no further instructions. I suspect... they just wanted to confirm the two had no ties to the mystical world."
Gregor’s direct response appeared before Dorothy. After reading it, she gave a slight nod and finally wrote:
"Alright. Thank you for your intel, Mr. Black Dog. We’ll continue monitoring the situation. Please send us the full case file—we’ll organize a follow-up investigation ourselves."
With that, Dorothy concluded her message to Gregor. Gregor then forwarded additional case details, including the current holding location of the two suspects and information on the detectives handling the case.
Afterward, Dorothy reminded Gregor to remain cautious in the coming days, exchanged a few parting words, and ended their correspondence.
Having received this intel from Gregor, Dorothy exhaled softly, glanced at the dark street scene outside the window, and rested her eyes for a short while. Then, she reopened her Literary Sea Logbook and flipped to another contact page.
Tonight, Gregor wasn’t the only person Dorothy planned to speak with. There was another figure deeply entangled with the Eight-Spired Nest.
"Good evening, Lady Devonshire. Are you there?"
Dorothy wrote on the page, reaching out to the noble knight she had once aided. Before long, a neat line of script appeared before her eyes.
"Good evening... I have long awaited you, Rose Agent."
"Just call me Scholar."
Looking at Misha’s words, Dorothy replied directly.
Misha Devonshire—former member of the Serenity Bureau, noble lady of the Prittish Devonshire family, knight to Prince Harold. Several months ago, Dorothy had saved Misha from an assassination attempt by the Eight-Spired Nest and helped her fake her death to escape. Ever since she slipped from the Nest’s watch, Misha had been covertly contacting suspicious members within the Serenity Bureau and Prittish nobility, actively investigating the Nest. Now that Dorothy had returned to Tivian to once again confront the Eight-Spired Nest, she naturally hoped to glean useful intel from Misha’s side.
"How is it going, Lady Devonshire? How have your recent efforts progressed?"
Dorothy wrote again in the contact page, inquiring after Misha’s situation.
Misha replied promptly.
"Not too well, I’d say… Initially, I wanted to choose a few trustworthy individuals within the Serenity Bureau and Tivian’s nobility to reveal myself to, win their trust, and gradually form a resistance force in secret. But then I realized—with the extent of the Eight-Spired Nest’s infiltration among the current upper ranks of Pritt—I truly cannot tell who can be trusted. Revealing my identity rashly is too great a risk, so up to now, I haven’t shown my true face to anyone.
“These days, I confirm potential allies through observation and contact them using various secretive means, trying to subtly win them over. But since I refuse to reveal my true identity and only interact using aliases, it’s very hard to gain their trust. As a result, I haven’t managed to recruit many people yet."
On the book’s page, Misha wrote to Dorothy about her current situation. After reading it through, Dorothy picked up her pen again.
"Recently, it seems the Eight-Spired Nest is planning something major in Tivian. Have you caught any wind of that on your side?"
"A major move? Sorry, I’m afraid I haven’t received any news regarding that. I’ve mainly been focused on gathering clues and evidence about the Eight-Spired Nest’s corruption of the upper ranks in Pritt.
"I learned from an informant I developed within the Serenity Bureau that the Church seems to have taken an interest in Tivian’s current situation. A special team has already arrived from Holy Mount to launch an investigation into the Serenity Bureau. I took advantage of the opportunity and passed along some of the clues I’ve gathered these past few months regarding the Bureau’s corruption. Hopefully, they’ll be able to trace the source."
Misha responded like this on the page, and as Dorothy read her handwriting, she immediately understood what was going on—this was Artcheli’s doing.
After learning there was something amiss in Tivian back in Igwynt, the Secret Cardinal Artcheli had rushed over to Tivian without delay, arriving long before Dorothy, who took her time riding the train to conserve spirituality. She had immediately launched her investigation upon arrival.
From her earlier correspondence with Gregor, Dorothy already knew that the petite Saint had begun leading an inquiry into Tivian’s situation. And naturally, the Serenity Bureau was the first target of the investigation. With the way the Eight-Spired Nest had suppressed Pritt on the mystical front, it was no surprise—it had everything to do with how deeply the Bureau had been infiltrated. Investigating the Serenity Bureau was absolutely the right move.
"Passing intel to the Church, huh... fair enough. Maybe the Church really will help track down the origin of the Eight-Spired Nest’s corruption of Pritt. Turning the Serenity Bureau into their personal backyard didn’t happen overnight. If the Church can assist in the investigation, all the better...
"Aside from that, do you have any other valuable information on your end?"
Dorothy wrote this on the Literary Sea Logbook’s contact page to Misha, who quickly replied.
"Not at the moment—but I might have something soon."
"‘Soon’? What do you mean?"
Dorothy asked with curiosity, and before long, Misha responded.
"Through a contact I made in noble circles, I’ve been introduced to someone who may be key to unraveling the mystery behind the Eight-Spired Nest’s corruption. After some time getting close to him, he’s finally agreed to meet me. I believe I might be able to glean more useful information from him."
"Key figure? Now that’s interesting... Who is he?"
Dorothy wrote, her interest clearly piqued. Soon, Misha’s reply appeared before her eyes.
"His name is Sophocles. He’s the current chief court physician of the Royal Hospital. He once led the medical team that cared for the Despenser royal family in Tivian. But three years ago, he was suddenly reassigned. Now he works as a professor at the Royal Crown Medical Academy.
"Based on our previous investigations, we suspect the Eight-Spired Nest’s corruption of Pritt’s upper ranks and the Serenity Bureau may have something to do with the Despenser royal family. Since Professor Sophocles once oversaw the royal family’s health in the capital, he likely knows something. I recently succeeded in contacting him and maintained correspondence with him for some time through the guise of the Craftsmen’s Guild. During our exchanges, he subtly hinted that he is indeed aware of Tivian’s current state and is willing to meet in person to exchange information. The meeting is set for tonight—I told him I would visit at ten o'clock."
Misha’s writing appeared line by line before Dorothy, who rubbed her chin thoughtfully as she read.
“A court physician of the Despensers? Someone like that just might know something. Lucky to have found him…”
Thinking this to herself, Dorothy immediately wrote back to Misha.
"So the meeting is tonight—that explains what you meant about possibly having intel soon... Lady Devonshire, if you don’t mind, would it be possible for our people to meet with the professor as well?"
"You want to meet him face-to-face too?"
"Yes. After all, once we hear what he has to say, there may be questions best asked in person. Things are urgent now—our intel gathering must be timely."
Dorothy responded, and after what seemed to be a moment of consideration, Misha wrote back on the page.
"Alright then, but you’ll need to move quickly. Come find me at the designated location. Let’s try not to be too late."
"Understood. We’ll arrange for your old friend to meet with you."
Dorothy replied one final time. After seeing the address Misha had written down, she instructed the corpse marionette coachman to change course, halting the return journey to Green Shade Town, and instead heading toward a different part of the city in the dark of night.
“Whew... looks like it’s going to be a bit of overtime tonight…”
Staring out at the blur of city streets rushing past the window, Dorothy sighed inwardly.
After the carriage had traveled for some time and neared the location Misha had provided, Dorothy disembarked and found a safe, hidden spot to release another of her corpse marionettes—Ed.
Clad in a trench coat and short-brimmed hat, with a hooked nose and deep-set eyes, the corpse marionette man bid Dorothy farewell before heading toward the rendezvous point. Before long, he arrived at the prearranged meeting place: a graveyard on the outskirts of the city. Through Ed’s eyes, Dorothy saw a figure in a hooded cloak waiting there.
"Good evening, Lady Devonshire. We meet again."
Edrick smiled and reached out in greeting to the cloaked Misha. She examined him briefly before speaking plainly.
"Long time no see. I trust you’ve been well, Detective."
"Glad to be working with you again. Let’s skip the pleasantries—where are we headed? Where does the professor live?"
Ed asked courteously, stepping ahead of her.
Misha glanced around, seemingly using some method to check for pursuers, then replied.
"Follow me."
With that, the hooded Misha covered her face and walked toward the edge of the cemetery. Edrick followed without hesitation. Eventually, they reached a secluded corner where a carriage was parked.
Misha instructed Edrick to get in. He did so without protest. Once he was seated, Misha climbed into the driver’s seat and drove the carriage forward into the night.
In the northeastern suburbs of Tivian, Misha’s carriage came to a bumpy halt in front of a somewhat remote residence. After stopping at the iron gate of the property, Misha stepped down from the carriage together with Ed.
“This is the professor’s house?”
Ed asked as he stepped down and looked toward the residence beyond the iron gate, where lights were still glowing from within. Standing already at the gate, Misha nodded in reply.
“Yes, this is—wait…”
Just as Misha was about to speak, she furrowed her brows and said with a grave tone.
“There’s the scent of blood inside.”
Upon hearing this, Dorothy—watching from afar—paused as well, then had Ed step closer to Misha’s position and sniff. Indeed, he also detected the scent of blood wafting from ahead.
Sensing something was wrong, Dorothy immediately directed a corpse marionette bird, which had been circling above as a lookout, to swoop down toward the residence. Once it landed on the rooftop, she deployed more miniature marionettes from the bird’s body and dispersed them into the building for reconnaissance—what they found was a grisly scene.
Inside the house, several men and women dressed as servants lay on the floor, their faces frozen in terror, sprawled in pools of blood that had stained much of the house.
And within the residence, a young man in a blood-soaked suit wandered coldly and silently through the rooms with a bloodied short sword in hand. He appeared to be searching for something. Judging by the condition of the bodies, they were likely his doing.
Corpses, a killer, and blood—these elements combined into a gruesome murder scene. But there was more. In the attic, one of Dorothy’s marionettes found a middle-aged man trembling and hiding—apparently a survivor!
“Someone’s been killed inside. The culprit seems to be a young man with slicked-back hair in a black suit, armed with a short sword. He’s still inside. We’ve confirmed one survivor hiding in the attic, looks to be in his fifties…
“We need to rescue him—and ideally, capture the culprit alive!”
Through Ed’s mouth, Dorothy relayed the situation to Misha. After hearing it, Misha paused briefly, then immediately surged forward, riding a strong gust of wind as she charged toward the mansion. She crashed through a window and entered directly, landing right in front of the cold-eyed young man.
Upon seeing Misha’s sudden appearance, the man’s expression hardened. Without hesitation, he lunged at her with his short sword. His speed was extraordinary—clearly not an ordinary person. He was at least a first-stage Shadow—likely an Apprentice.
But Misha, a White Ash-rank Shadow Beyonder herself, dodged his attack with ease. In a ghostlike movement, she slipped behind him and landed a precise chop to the back of his neck, knocking him out instantly. The young killer collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
After hitting the ground, the young man began convulsing violently, twitching like he was having a seizure, before ultimately foaming at the mouth.
“Ugh… ah… pain… pain…”
Under Misha’s surprised gaze, the young man trembled with alarming frequency until, moments later, he passed out completely, lying motionless on the ground.
Once she was sure he was fully incapacitated, Misha exhaled softly and examined the young man’s face more carefully. Then, in a stunned murmur, she spoke.
“This is… Viscount Yarti…”
…
In the dead of night, within a spacious and tidy room in the now-crime-scene residence, the blood-stained young man had been tightly bound to a chair. He sat rigidly, head tilted back, eyes dull and staring blankly at the ceiling, his face stiff and lifeless.
Ed, dressed in a trench coat, stood before him conducting a thorough examination—checking his pupils, mouth, pulse—sometimes applying sigils, sometimes using both mystical and mundane techniques to assess the man’s condition.
“How is he? Can you confirm what happened to him?”
Misha asked with concern from a nearby carpet. She clearly remembered that her strike was precise and controlled—just enough to knock him out. There was no way it should have rendered him vegetative.
“He’s gone,” Ed finally declared after completing his examination, stepping back as he delivered the conclusion. Misha, shocked, spoke in disbelief.
“Gone? Impossible… I didn’t use that much force…”
“It wasn’t you. I suspect this is the Eight-Spired Nest’s doing—precautionary measures to prevent intel leaks.”
As Ed explained, he lifted one of the man’s arms and rolled up his sleeve, revealing a small mark inked with a spider symbol.
“Just before losing motor control, he received an overwhelming surge of pain, likely transmitted through this mark by some remote mystical means. The intensity of the pain was far beyond what any human—even an Apprentice—could endure. The sheer shock shattered his mind, reducing him to a vegetable. We won’t be able to retrieve any intel through hypnosis or necromancy.”
Ed explained calmly to Misha, while Dorothy—watching—recognized that the mark on the young man’s arm bore similarities to her own Marionette Mark. It acted as a receiver for long-range mystical power. The young man must’ve had his mind burned out by an immense wave of agony transmitted through it.
“Pain… destroyed his mind? I never would’ve thought Viscount Yarti would suffer such a fate… or that he was connected to the Eight-Spired Nest at all…”
Staring at the lifeless young man bound to the chair, Misha couldn’t help but speak in astonishment. Ed, raising an eyebrow, asked directly.
“So you know who he is?”
“…More or less. He’s Viscount Yarti, a peripheral noble of the Despenser royal family residing in Tivian. I’ve seen him at banquets before. I didn’t know much about him, but I did recognize him. I never imagined he was tied to the Eight-Spired Nest—and why would he be sent to kill Sophocles?”
Looking at the now-vegetative man, Misha spoke frankly. Hearing her, Dorothy fell into brief silence, then had Ed say plainly.
“If that’s the case, then we’ll have to ask the victim himself.”
With that, Ed exited the room, and Misha followed closely behind. After passing through a corridor, they arrived at another neat room, where a middle-aged man with graying hair sat on a sofa, trembling slightly.
“Professor Sophocles… good evening.”
Ed looked directly at the visibly shaken homeowner sitting on the sofa and asked plainly. The man, named Sophocles, raised his head upon hearing the question and glanced at Ed and the still-hooded Misha before speaking in a low voice.
“Ah… it’s… it’s you… Thank you… thank you for saving me…”
“No need to thank us, Professor. Since you agreed to share information with us, we would never allow you to be harmed so easily. There’s no need to panic now—with us here, you’re safe.”
Misha spoke soothingly to calm the nervous Sophocles, then shifted her tone.
“Before we get to the details you wanted to share, may I ask: what exactly happened? Why… did Viscount Yarti attack you?”
“Well… I’m not entirely sure myself. Viscount Yarti had just visited me not long ago, asking about symptoms of mental fatigue. I received him, answered his questions, and he left… but then, not long after, he came back! He was completely different—cold, murderous…
“My servants who went to receive him were killed. Then he began attacking anyone he saw and stormed into my study. I took advantage of the moment when my bodyguard tried to stop him and hid in the attic. That’s where I stayed… until you saved me.”
Still trembling slightly, Sophocles recounted what had happened. After hearing this, Ed asked curiously.
“You said Viscount Yarti visited earlier? Around what time?”
“Around… yes, around 10 o’clock. I hadn’t expected him at that hour, but everything about him seemed normal. He didn’t act strange at all—just like a regular person. I had no idea he’d come back again, and like a madman start killing… The Despensers… they must have madness in their blood…”
As he recalled the horrifying encounter, Sophocles tried to steady his nerves. Ed followed up with a pointed question.
“Despenser… madness in their blood? What do you mean? Could you explain in more detail?”
Sophocles didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked once more at Ed and Misha, then whispered in a conspiratorial tone.
“You… you’re with that group… the so-called Watchers of the Wind, right? The ones who claim to secretly protect Pritt and defend the royal family. Let me tell you… there’s definitely something wrong with today’s Pritt—especially among the upper ranks of Tivian, and even more so within the royal circle! After I noticed how abnormal things had become lately, I knew someone would eventually come to silence me. That’s why I wanted to get in contact with your group—to trade the information I have for protection. And sure enough, I was right! I’ve already become a target for assassination—but you arrived just in time to save me…”
Speaking with a note of relief, Sophocles seemed to let down his guard. Dorothy recognized that the “Watchers of the Wind” he mentioned was the alias Misha had been using during her covert activities in Tivian, especially when approaching members of the Serenity Bureau and other Pritt nobles. This meeting tonight was originally intended to be a secret rendezvous between him and Misha. Viscount Yarti’s appearance had clearly been a major unforeseen development.
“No need to be nervous, Professor. Now, please—start from the beginning. Tell us about this so-called ‘madness.’ Why do you believe you were targeted for silencing?”
Misha gently coaxed him onward. Sophocles took a deep breath to steady himself, then began his story.
“This all goes back to three years ago. Back then, I was still the chief court physician and had served the Despenser royal family for over a decade. I thought I’d hold that honorable post for a few more years and then retire with dignity. But then… something unexpected happened.
“I remember it was February, three years ago. Several close-blooded members of the royal family in Tivian suddenly began displaying symptoms of mental instability—confusion, delirium. Count Luke, Count Victor, Viscount Vansen… many older nobles with Despenser blood began suffering mental disturbances.”
Sophocles recounted while Misha, as if recalling something, said plainly.
“I heard that Count Luke passed away three years ago due to illness. But the announced cause of death was a cold. So it was actually a mental illness?”
“Yes. It was mental illness. It started with confusion and murmuring, then escalated into full-blown derangement and aggression—eventually even mania. Several elderly nobles with Despenser bloodlines exhibited similar symptoms in a short span of time. I tried every treatment I knew, but nothing worked. Worse still, it began spreading. Some younger nobles started to show signs too.
“Because the symptoms clearly followed bloodlines and suggested hereditary disease, I accessed the archives—records maintained by generations of court physicians—hoping to find past cases. But I found nothing.”
“No medical records? So it wasn’t hereditary?”
Misha asked, and Sophocles continued.
“That’s what I think. If this madness had been genetic, previous physicians would’ve noted it. But I found no such evidence. So it’s more likely to be a new condition, caused by some external factor—possibly a newly emerged disease that targets some latent weakness in the royal bloodline.
“When I realized how abnormal the illness was, I immediately reported it to His Majesty the King. I hoped he would take it seriously and allocate more resources to study and combat this condition.”
Sophocles’s tone darkened, and he went on with a grim expression.
“But to my shock, His Majesty did the exact opposite. Not only did he refuse to allocate resources, he issued a strict order forbidding any further research. Worse, he commanded that all information about the illness be suppressed, and confiscated all my early research. Every noble who died of the illness had their cause of death officially altered by royal decree. That’s why you heard that Count Luke died of a cold… In truth, he died from madness.”
With a flare of emotion, Sophocles gestured heatedly as he spoke. Ed chimed in from the side.
“So… during that time, King Charles IV was doing everything he could to hide the existence of this madness?”
“Yes. You’re absolutely right. His Majesty acted as though terrified of outsiders learning about the disease. He did everything in his power to conceal it. I was forcibly removed from my position as court physician. Before I left the palace, I was summoned by the king himself—he warned me sternly never to speak of the disease again.
“Honestly, I had never seen His Majesty behave that way before. At first, I assumed he just wanted to protect the royal family’s dignity, fearing the scandal of such an illness among the nobility. Though I was bitter about being dismissed, I obeyed the order and kept quiet.
“After I was replaced, a new court physician was appointed—someone named Corina. I’d never heard of her. She had no reputation in Tivian’s medical circles but was suddenly elevated to such a critical position. I felt dissatisfied, and I wanted to see how she’d deal with the madness. After all, hiding the truth wouldn’t make the disease disappear.
“But to my surprise, after Corina took over, the madness seemed to stop spreading. At least, based on the information I could gather, there were no further signs of outbreaks.”
Sophocles spoke slowly, then took a sip of water. After a short rest, he continued.
“By that point, even though I was upset, I had nothing more to say. After all, the illness seemed to have truly been cured. So I tried to settle into my new position—but I hadn’t been in it for long before something else happened.
“When I was reassigned from my post as chief court physician, it wasn’t just me. My assistants and the other court doctors who had worked with me on the madness cases were all reassigned as well, and they too were ordered to remain silent.
“But recently, one after another, those same assistants and colleagues began to disappear! Just a few months ago, our contact began to break down little by little. When I went to look for them, I found they had vanished completely without a trace! That’s when I began to feel truly afraid—I’m convinced something terrible happened to them!
“After realizing they were disappearing one by one, I sought help. First, I reported it to the police, then appealed directly to the Serenity Bureau, and even submitted a request to see His Majesty—but it was all futile. The police and the Bureau promised investigations, but nothing came of them. Months went by, and I saw no sign of progress…
“I tried to request an audience with the King, but was told he was busy with preparations for the World Expo and hadn’t made any public appearances in quite some time. I couldn’t reach him at all.
“That’s when I realized something was seriously wrong in Pritt. And to avoid ending up like my colleagues—suddenly silenced—I tried reaching out to you. I can no longer trust the official powers of the kingdom…”
Sophocles’ voice trembled with anxiety. From afar, Dorothy listened to every word intently, then had Ed respond directly.
“So you believe your colleagues and assistants were secretly silenced…”
“Yes! Just like tonight—if you hadn’t arrived in time, wouldn’t I have disappeared as well?”
Sophocles said with lingering fear. Ed shifted the topic slightly and continued.
“You believe the reason you’re all being silenced is because you know about the Despenser Madness. And the one who told you to keep silent… was King Charles IV. So you believe it’s Charles IV himself who’s sending people to silence you.”
With a solemn tone, Ed looked directly at Sophocles, who swallowed hard, then nodded.
“I spent a long time working with His Majesty, and I understand his character. He is, by nature, not a cruel or ruthless monarch. As a ruler, he was dignified and just—not the tyrannical type.
“But after the madness broke out three years ago, he seemed like a different person. He became reclusive, secretive, increasingly unfamiliar… and then suddenly decided to throw vast amounts of money into some grand World Expo…
“I don’t believe the original His Majesty would ever have done something like this. But the current one… I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It feels like he’s been… bewitched by something these past three years…”
With a bold conjecture, Sophocles spoke candidly to Ed and Misha. After hearing him out, Dorothy murmured quietly to herself from afar.
“Charles IV, huh…
“All the clues seem to be pointing to His Majesty, the King of Pritt… If there’s a source to the Spider Queen’s corruption of Pritt’s upper ranks… is it him?”
So thinking, Dorothy sank into deeper contemplation.
…
Eastern Coast of Pritt, outskirts of Tivian, late at night.
At the heavily guarded Gale Fortress, the headquarters of Pritt’s Serenity Bureau, a large, brightly lit office was filled with a mountain of documents. Seated at his desk in uniform was the kingdom’s prince and head of the Bureau, Harold, processing the endless reports before him.
“Whew…”
Finally, weary from the workload, Harold rubbed his temples, then took a slow sip from a nearby teacup, returning it to the table. Within the tea, several flickering motes of strange-colored light danced faintly.
Just as he was about to resume reading, the office doors swung open with force. Several figures in black priest robes strode in swiftly, dispersing to stand at various positions around the room.
Seeing the sudden influx of intruders, Harold furrowed his brows slightly and addressed them directly.
“Clerics of the Court of Secrets—what brings you here at this hour? Is there a complication in your internal investigation? Do you require my assistance?”
“…More or less. We’ve hit a dead end. That’s why we’ve come for your help, Your Highness.”
A crisp voice answered him. Then, from behind the others, a petite black-haired girl in a loose cloak stepped into the room. She approached Harold’s desk with calm steps. Upon seeing her, Harold immediately stood up.
“Ah… so it’s Her Eminence, the Secret Cardinal, come in person. Forgive me for not welcoming you sooner…
“Please—if there’s anything you need, just say the word. I’ll do everything I can to cooperate with your investigation. Whether it’s the Bureau’s upper ranks or classified records—you may ask anything.”
Harold stepped from behind his desk and crossed to the center of the room, kneeling on one knee and bowing deeply before her. Artcheli merely glanced at him and spoke coldly.
“There’s quite a lot I want to know… For example: the Eight-Spired Nest has been conducting blasphemous rituals across all of Pritt, yet your Bureau received intel and never mounted a response?
“Or: why are your internal intelligence files so frequently up for sale on the mysticism black market?
“Or: last year, during your so-called large-scale crackdown, why did you fail to locate a single key Nest stronghold—or capture a single critical member?
“Or: one of your captains was assassinated right outside a prison not long ago, and you still haven’t found a single lead?
“Or: my investigation barely started, and I’ve already received an overwhelming number of anonymous complaints about your Bureau from across Tivian?
“Your Highness, I’ve seen plenty of incompetent mystical police in my time, but none quite like your Bureau. The results of my subordinates’ investigations over the past few days have truly been eye-opening.”
Artcheli’s voice was cold and sharp, her words like blades. Harold, however, responded steadily.
“Your Eminence, everything you just mentioned is true. The severity of these issues is partly due to my own failures in leadership—and partly because the Bureau has been infiltrated by traitors in very high positions, which has led to repeated disasters.”
“Traitors in high positions? Oh…”
Artcheli let out a chilly laugh, nodding slightly before replying.
“Then I’m quite curious—just how high must those traitors’ positions be, for your entire Serenity Bureau to lose its head whenever it comes to anything involving the Eight-Spired Nest? You fumble around like headless chickens every time. Just how high is this traitor’s rank, I wonder?
“Could it be… as high as yours?”
Staring coldly at Harold before her, Artcheli spoke in a detached tone. At that moment, Harold—who had been bowing his head—slowly lifted it and looked at her, replying with an unwavering expression.
“Well, that’s something we’ve been puzzled about as well…”
As Harold whispered, a dark crimson hue began to spread across the whites of his eyes, radiating outward from his pupils until it formed eight sharp spikes—like a crown of thorns encircling his iris.
And just as the strange shape in Harold’s eyes took form, Artcheli's own eyes briefly flickered with the same crimson light—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.
“…Heh. The influence of the Lady of Pain runs deep in your Bureau, doesn’t it?”
Artcheli sneered coldly. After falling for that once, she wouldn’t be tricked again.
Seeing that Artcheli had resisted the corruption, Harold—still kneeling—suddenly sprang to his feet. At point-blank range, he slashed out with his hand, releasing a massive blade of wind that roared toward her. Artcheli raised two fingers and enchanted them with Shadow, then made a light, slicing motion. The wind blade was cleaved in two—the severed halves veered off diagonally behind her. With the sound of shattering glass and crumbling stone, they blasted out of the office and tore through the Gale Fortress. One of the halves struck a distant watchtower and sheared it clean in two.
Having dispelled Harold’s attack with barely any effort, Artcheli thrust her hand forward, piercing Harold’s shoulder even as he tried to dodge. Her fingers locked tightly around his bone, pinning him in place with merciless precision.
Harold let out a cry of pain, and just as Artcheli was about to permanently disable him, his expression of agony suddenly became blank and serene. From his skull, several translucent, illusory tendrils erupted and lashed out toward Artcheli. She dodged instantly, evading them with ease.
“That’s… a Phantasmal Entity from the Inner Realm?”
While Artcheli instinctively stepped back, the tendrils wrapped around Harold’s entire body. He began to turn semi-transparent, and then, with a wave of distortion, he vanished.
Seeing this, Artcheli immediately slapped a sigil onto herself. Her own form shimmered and turned semi-transparent as well. She reached out and grabbed one of the vanishing tendrils—then, in an instant, she too disappeared from the office without leaving the faintest trace.
When Artcheli reappeared, she found herself standing in the midst of a vibrant, fantastical forest. The grass beneath her feet shimmered in radiant hues; colossal trees loomed overhead, their canopies dense and dark. Her form flickered slightly as she adjusted to this dreamlike space. She immediately began scanning the surroundings for any trace of Harold—but what she saw instead left her stunned.
Suspended in midair among the towering trees was a strange figure.
It was a “person”—or at least something humanoid—entirely nude, its skin a pale yellowish white, its body unnaturally gaunt, head bald, and eyes wide and vacant, giving it a disturbingly deformed appearance.
Its entire body was covered in soft fur of a pure yellow-white hue. Those emotionless eyes stared downward, and from its back unfurled a pair of dazzling, multicolored moth wings—wings so mesmerizing that a single glance could lure one into delirium and confusion.
From its lower back extended countless glowing tendrils. Wound around one of them… was a white cocoon.