Mythralis, In the dimly lit central bar of Mr. Doan's Motel.
Marcellus and Ralf stood below the stairs, side by side, Marcellus' thoughts weighed down by the revelations Severin had shared.
Marcellus had grown up in a place called Wisbech, a humble hamlet settlement that, to his estimation, remained unofficial and unregistered with the noble authorities of the Anglia kingdom.
His hunch stemmed from the simple fact that the hamlet had never been subjected to the burden of taxes, a telling sign of its unassuming and off-the-grid nature.
Wisbech held a special place in Marcellus's heart, as it was his Mother's ancestral home, However, when it came to his father, Marcellus had little knowledge and even fewer memories.
The only time Marcellus had heard his father's name mentioned was in a sinister context—by a man who sought vengeance -A thin man, believing that Marcellus was somehow responsible for the deeds of his father.
It was a haunting reminder of the mysteries that enveloped Thin Man, a narrative thread that had eluded his grasp and left him with unanswered questions, well he didn't want them answered.
Now whenever he thought of his father, He often thought about Thin Man and Ganoes from Bastard's Haven, before that it was all foggy childhood memories.
The man who had served as a father figure in Marcellus's life was not his biological father but his priestess father.
This devout man had strong connections to the Church of Combat, and it was through him that Marcellus learned many of his moral principles and values.
Alongside his priestess father, there was also his daughter; The priestess herself, who had played a significant role in shaping Marcellus's character.
While his mother may not have been a moral instructor, she had instilled in him the virtue of kindness, his mother was quick to forgive.
It was within the simple and unregistered confines of Wisbech that Marcellus's formative years had been shaped, instilling in him a sense of humility and a deep connection to the way of the Church of Combat.
Well, he didn't like the church's doctrine or the church's people.
In any case, the church doctrine dictated a stance against killing, and he had always upheld that principle.
The teachings emphasized not initiating aggression without cause.
When he had taken lives, such as Thin Man and Ganoes, it had been acts of self-defence.
The same applied to the cook; it was self-defence.
Even when he had slain Edwin's Knights, it had been self-defence.
When he had to confront seven thugs, it had been in self-defence once more.
Each time, there had been a cause, a cause he could discern.
It didn't need justification or any rationale; it simply had to be a cause, no matter how unfounded, this was another reason he did not like the church he did not agree with this.
This was yet another reason why he harboured a deep dislike for the church, as he fundamentally disagreed with such principles.
Marcellus's disdain for the church ran deep, fueled not by a justifiable cause but by a visceral, unrelenting aversion.
It was an enigmatic antipathy born from a tangled web of personal experiences, a distrust that had woven itself into the very fabric of his being.
Yet, upon awakening from the dream, he found himself inexplicably upholding those very principles he had once vehemently contradicted.
"When did it start?" Marcellus mused his thoughts veering.
"When did I begin upholding the church's principles?" The question gnawed at his conscience like a relentless beast.
In the beginning, it felt like a necessary choice, as if I had no other option in a ruthless world, a brutal kill-or-be-killed reality.
I convinced myself I was serving my purpose, a grim exchange of lives, no matter the moral toll.
I acted as though I was still in the dream ritual!
But as the bodies piled up, at some point, I found an unsettling pleasure in it.
I recall a near-death experience at Bastard's Haven, a moment that justified my actions.
Yet, the turning point was on that wretched merchant ship with the cook. I felt an insidious urge to end his life, although I resisted.
Perhaps it was because he had dared to challenge me. Still, this is the lingering effect of the dream I no find easy to kill.
Marcellus grinned, "It all makes sense now,"
He mused. "I've been pondering the influence of the Dream ritual on me.
I realize now, ha ha ha, oh my!
I haven't been myself for quite some time.
Anyone who threatens me with intent to kill, I respond with lethal force due to the twisted mental influence of the dream.
It took me far too long to decipher this."
I had suspicions but I couldn't be sure it was the dream and not the diary after all the diary came after the dream, I am stacking problem. perhaps I was even corrupted before the dream.
He continued with a grim clarity, "However, I'm fortunate. I remain composed and calm I don't instinctively provoke violence or attract it, else I would have fought someone stronger than me for instance Martia would have found no problems killing me"
Turning his thoughts to the mysterious Fontenot diary, "As for the Fontenot diary a Sealed Artifact, I'm still uncertain of its effects. But, from my calculations, since it came into my possession, I've discovered two negative consequences.
Firstly, an internal effect—memory loss that blurs recollections, leaving me disoriented.
And secondly, an external one—those around me perceive me as a prodigious genius, magnifying the accomplishments I achieve. Thankfully, it's not as severe as random acts of self-destruction."
Marcellus's memories of the dream ritual once foggy, became clear as day when he emerged triumphant against the were-shark and ascended to the rank of a sword saint, however, the Diary still suppressed some of it.
When warriors become sword saints, they engage in rigorous training that focuses not only on honing their physical skills but also on nurturing their Ether bodies.
This training has a profound effect, simultaneously shaping both the 'Body of Heart and Mind' and 'Ether body'.
The Ether body is a manifestation of vital energy and the pervasive supernatural or magical energy.
It represents the circulating life force that permeates and animates all aspects of the universe.
In essence, the quest to become a sword saint is, in a sense, a harmonious convergence of physical prowess and spirituality.
This was why he regained all his memories after becoming a sword saint however, his memories were still being suppressed by the Fontenot Diary.
Now, I stand at a crossroads, torn between the path I've walked and the person I once was.
Standing before the staircase, Marcellus contemplates the situation.
Did crossing a staircase warrant such a drastic course of action, one that would result in the death of everyone here? Isn't this what criminals do?
Marcellus's thoughts churned as he grappled with the moral and ethical consequences of the situation.
Amid his thoughts, a chilling memory surfaced—the ritualistic dream where he and Ayden had mercilessly slaughtered hundreds of people. This wasn't self-defence, despite the façade it had presented.
Deep down, he understood the truth of it.
Lancel's words, echoing in his mind, served as a poignant reminder: "From the moment they awoke on the first day, everything they encountered was a projection of their deepest yearnings and fears."
On This day Marcellus became aware of the unsettling realization that two distinct facets of his psyche were locked in a fierce battle for dominance.
Marcellus of old and Marcellus of the dream.
There was the Old Marcellus, shaped by his humble origins as a poor innkeeper in Wisbech, and then there was the Marcellus of the Dream, moulded by the horrifying memories of countless murders alongside Ayden.
Two conflicting psyches vied for control within him.
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***
In the dimly lit office, Severin stood poised, facing a man who had halted his writing and was now looking through the obscurity, catching sight of Severin's lower body but not his face.
The man's voice remained calm as he inquired, "Dasa, why are you here? Is there any word from the governor yet?"
"..."
However, Severin offered no response.
Instead, he swiftly retrieved a flintlock pistol, the metallic click echoing ominously in the room. He aimed the weapon at the man, his fingers steady and resolute.
Severin had initially contemplated engaging in a full-fledged hand-to-hand combat with the man, but suspicion had taken root in his mind – the suspicion that this man might possess an Aspirant Item, a potential game-changer.
The tension in the room was palpable as the man heard the undeniable click of the gun, still seated behind the desk, slowly raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
His eyes remained locked onto Severin, a glimmer of determination and resolve flickering within them.
"Why... who are you? Did the governor send you?" he asked.
Severin hesitated for a moment, torn between pressing the trigger and giving the man a Beautiful Monologue. But time was a luxury they didn't possess, and Severin knew he couldn't afford any risks.
With a deep and steady breath, he squeezed the trigger, and a deafening gunshot shattered the silence.
The bullet tore through the air, aiming directly at the man's chest.
However, in a split-second reaction, the man twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding the deadly projectile. The bullet pivoted off the wall and struck the desk with a thunderous impact, sending splinters of wood flying in all directions.
With remarkable agility, the man vaulted over the desk like was flipping a page, sending it crashing to the floor.
He spun mid-air closing the gap landed on his feet and reached for a concealed weapon at his side.
"Oceans deep, guide my fate" the man whispered channelling his spirituality to the blade.
It was a sleek, gleaming dagger, etched with intricate patterns.
Severin knew he couldn't rely solely on his pistol in this close-quarters confrontation. With a quick motion, he holstered the flintlock and drew a dirk, razor-sharp dirk from a sheath hidden beneath his cloak.
The room was bathed in pale moonlight, and the clashing of steel against steel filled the air as the two men engaged in a deadly dance.
Their movements were a blur of precision and skill, each anticipating the other's strikes with uncanny accuracy. Severin's dirk clashed with the man's dagger in a symphony of clashes and sparks.
Decryption: Cipherists reveal mystic truths behind anything related to mysticism and predict future development from mere fragments and clues.
Sevrin swiftly decrypted the aspirant's item, which he accomplished within mere seconds.
This specific item belonged to the category of Mystical Items, which were further categorized as Utility Items or Aspirant's Items.
Mystical Items exhibit fewer adverse effects in contrast to Sealed Artifacts. Both possess supernatural qualities, but Mystical Item's potency diminishes over time due to Spiritual decay.
Seasoned Aspirants craft these items, imbuing them with their spirituality or blessings from mystical entities.
The man indeed possessed an Aspirant Item, confirming Severin's earlier suspicion. However, this revelation didn't catch Severin off guard; he was well aware of his capabilities as a Cipherist!
Cipherists possessed a unique set of skills. Their Spiritual Intuition and perception were enhanced, allowing them to observe, associate thoughts, and deduce with remarkable precision. In this battle of wits, Severin's educated guesses were more likely to be true than untrue.
The Aspirant Item the man wielded had a singular function: Premonition!