"In the enigmatic realm outside, our abilities hinged upon the unleashing of our own essence, but the dynamics shifted within the Strange Land. Here, the activation merely required a manifestation of our spirit. However, the trade-off was unmistakable—an ability, once invoked, was confined to the confines of a singular adventure in the Strange Land."
After saying this Quentin, his hands weathered and unsteady, reached for the nearest golden bowl with a sense of trepidation. "I am going to drink," he declared, though it remained unclear whether the statement was directed at Jasper or the enigmatic figure cloaked in black.
A solitary bead of sweat traced its way down Quentin's middle-aged visage, glistening as it descended onto the dark canvas of his coat, capturing Jasper's gaze. The weight of the impending act lingered heavily in the air.
"Boy, one sip this time, and I'll meet my demise. You, however, will have the fortune of exiting this realm to promptly convey my demise to the [Shadowed Night and Covert] church. Quentin S. Black, that's the name," he divulged.
"Sir, we will live together," Jasper assured, compelled to utter words of reassurance despite the constrained choices fate had imposed upon them.
Sweat dampening his brow, Jasper proposed cautiously, "Or perhaps, I should partake first. Your seasoned wisdom may extract more insights from my findings."
Quentin chuckled, rejecting the notion. "Haha, kid, your gratitude is noted. Yet, I've not done enough to let a fledgling chart the course for me."
Silence permeated the room as they refrained from discussing the unthinkable—the demise of the man in the black robe. His aura alone had immobilized them, rendering any thoughts of defiance futile.
Quentin, with a swipe of his left hand, dispelled the perspiration from his forehead. In his right hand, he cradled the golden bowl, poised for the decisive act.
Jasper drew a sharp breath, uncertain whether it was the stifling atmosphere or the accelerated beat of his heart that seized him. The moment mirrored the suspense of revealing a card with a gilded back.
In the suspended moment where time held its breath, Quentin released a sigh of relief, gently lowering the golden bowl from his grasp.
"Sir, are you alright?" Jasper inquired, a mixture of concern and anticipation in his voice, fully aware that his own turn was imminent.
With a rigid turn of his head, Quentin offered a dry smile, gesturing to his throat and making fluid motions with his hands—his muteness revealed. In the absence of a mirror, Jasper couldn't witness the transformation on Quentin's face, but the opened mouth and pallor spoke volumes.
Moistening his chapped lips, Jasper delved into his pockets, retrieving a stack of newspapers meant for a different fate and an enduring pen, a cherished gift from old Rhys. Despite the original disdain for academia, the pen held sentimental value as a token of familial affection.
Quentin comprehended Jasper's silent request. Accepting the pen and paper, he eschewed the table, opting instead to rest them on his palm, and inscribed, "It's okay, just an ordinary curse. The church has specialists who can aid me once we're out."
For Jasper, it was a glimmer of positive revelation amidst the ominous unknown. However, the nature of a curse versus a physical injury left him uncertain about the efficacy of his healing abilities.
Although Jasper's turn was imminent, Quentin lingered without prompting. The hooded figure across them implied that both had to partake, rendering another bowl for Quentin potentially futile.
Jasper's chest rose and fell with intensity as fleeting images of the past hour after his transmigration played in his mind—was it a blessing or a curse? The enigma persisted, shrouded in the impenetrable darkness beneath the black hood opposite, absorbing all light like an inscrutable void.
In the prolonged gaze at the remaining golden bowls, Jasper found himself almost experiencing a faint ringing in his ears. Turning his attention to Quentin, he decided to disclose his own identity amid the lingering tension.
"Mr. Quentin, my full name is Jasper L. Rhys, and I reside at No. 7 Copper Lane, Montrose Quarter," he declared, with a mix of nervousness and determination.
Without awaiting Quentin's reaction, Jasper rose from his seat, reaching for the golden bowl nearest to the man in the black robe, and consumed its contents in a single, resolute gulp. The surge of adrenaline sent his heart into overdrive, the crimson hue on his face revealing the heightened intensity. Numbness enveloped his cold limbs, leaving him oblivious to the peculiar sensation in his hands.
Initially tasteless, the liquid metamorphosed into an uncontrollable force, propelling Jasper to drain the bowl. Understanding the origin of Quentin's earlier bold move, he mechanically returned the vessel to the table, his gaze vacant as he settled back into his seat.
"What should I do now?" Jasper pondered inwardly, only to realize the stark truth—he had survived.
Beside him, the man pushed forth the newspaper with scribbled text, prompting, "How do you feel?"
"Not bad, it's like, well, I genuinely just drank half a bowl of water," Jasper responded, his unexpected relief coloring his words.
The anticlimactic resolution took him by surprise, but gratitude flooded Jasper as he silently expressed thanks to every conceivable deity. In this moment, he recollected that this body adhered to the faith of the [Mastermind], the god symbolizing the tenth month. A righteous deity overseeing knowledge, books, secrets, exploration, and inheritance.
Old Rhys, despite being a modest businessman, instilled the belief that knowledge could alter destiny, making the Rhys family devout followers of this god.
"May the [Mastermind] bless you,
The brilliance illuminates the way forward for mankind."
Jasper's silent invocation resonated in his mind, a prayer ingrained in the rituals of faith. Though traditional prayers involved specific gestures, the hazy recollection of the less resolute original Jasper left the execution ambiguous.
Having each consumed a bowl, the enigmatic figure in the black robe remained an inscrutable presence, unaltered by their actions.
"Can we leave?" Jasper inquired, turning to Quentin for guidance, his actions deliberate rather than impulsive.
Quentin, too, appeared bewildered. Muted by his condition, he gestured for Jasper to wait, attempting to rise. However, as Jasper stood to retrieve the golden bowl, Quentin seemed burdened by an invisible force, crashing heavily onto the wooden structure beneath him. A telltale crack echoed, leaving Jasper momentarily concerned for Quentin's well-being.
"Are you okay?" Jasper asked, a question he quickly realized held an obvious answer.
Quentin, face contorted in pain, responded with a strained shake of his head. Fortunately, his muteness spared Jasper from potential outbursts.
Contemplating their next move, Jasper queried the silent figure in the black robe. Quentin, now a scribe without a voice, hastily etched a response amidst the margins of maid and detective advertisements.
"No, some of the liquids in these bowls are clearly problematic. Consuming all would lead to our demise. Past experiences teach us that, while [The Strange Land] is peculiar and perilous, it seldom poses a mortal threat."
A pause lingered before Quentin added, his scrawled words emphasizing caution, "Perhaps, this is a test of our courage. Drink a certain number of bowls within a limited time, and we may uncover the way forward."
"Is that so? Just a speculation," Jasper mused, acknowledging that a considerable amount of time had been spent, most of it consumed by Quentin's inquiries.
Quentin, setting aside Jasper's pen, securely capping the newspaper, seized a golden bowl without uttering a word. As he drained its contents, a flicker of surprise graced his features—a rare sight. Hastily jotting on the newspaper, he conveyed, "I have gained a new ability."
Hope sparked in Jasper's eyes as he eagerly inquired, "Will it aid in resolving our current predicament?"
Quentin's elation abruptly dimmed, the newspaper returning with a succinct "No."
Suppressing the urge to dampen Quentin's enthusiasm, Jasper observed the middle-aged man retreating into the familiar cloak of tension and silence—though this silence was coerced.
It now fell upon Jasper to make his choice once more, with seven identical bowls awaiting his selection. Attempting to discern any subtle differences proved futile; the bowls were indistinguishably uniform.
"Is it a supernatural occurrence?" Jasper pondered, acknowledging his limited knowledge on such matters. The scant information at his disposal left him ill-equipped to assess the unfolding situation.
Resolving to pick a bowl, Jasper hesitated, silently calculating, "Ten bowls—now one curse, one reward, and one clear water. If the assumed probabilities hold, the outcome may not be the direst. However, with such a limited sample, the worst-case scenario should be considered. That would mean only one reward, less than three bowls of water..."
The haunting question echoed in Jasper's mind: "So will I die?" Amidst a tumult of complex thoughts, the rotating lanterns reappeared, but Jasper brushed them aside, licking his lips with resolve. Choosing the bowl next to the candle, he downed its contents in a single gulp.
Having imbibed these liquids for the second time, Jasper shifted his focus from taste to touch during the "drinking" process. Puzzled, he mused aloud, "Why does this bowl feel like it's made of wood?"
Setting down the bowl, he surveyed himself—alive and seemingly unharmed. "It's sour and tastes like expired black tea," he explained to the anxious man beside him, who exhaled a sigh of relief.
Nothing untoward happened. However, something caught Jasper's attention near the three light spots in front of him. Fixating on the air, he discerned the appearance of a bubble. Simultaneously, he noticed three bubbles in his original field of vision, previously overlooked.
Three lights and three bubbles—Jasper hesitated, unsure whether this development boded well or ill. Sharing the revelation with Quentin, he omitted the original count of bubbles.
Quentin's initial surprise gave way to a sense of dejection, leaving Jasper to grapple with the uncertainty of whether these newfound elements were a blessing or a harbinger of more enigmatic challenges.
"Nothing, this is a very fortunate outcome," Quentin scribed slowly. "You are in luck; let's discuss it once we're out..."
With each person having partaken in two rounds, the man in the black robe showed no inclination to release them from their unsettling ordeal.
"How are we supposed to leave?" Jasper couldn't restrain himself any longer, addressing the enigmatic figure opposite. Though he sensed the rashness of his inquiry, the need propelled him forward.
Silence ensued, a disquieting absence of response. Quentin, recognizing Jasper's impatience, tugged at his dusty, sweat-stained sleeve, shaking his head in caution.
Yet, the man's countenance revealed a renewed determination. Without penning another word, he grasped the bowl before him, lifting it to his lips once more. After a brief pause, he shook his head and inscribed a single word: "Clear water."
Jasper found himself caught between laughter and despair, his expression likely contorted in an unflattering manner. The black-robed figure's silence implied a persistent expectation for further imbibing. However, with half the bowls consumed, only one "thunder" eventuated.
Reasoning pointed towards the likelihood that the majority of the initial ten bowls harbored unfavorable outcomes, given Quentin's references to the Strange Land as "weird" and "dangerous." Poison and curses loomed as potential options for the remaining choices.
Facing the dilemma, Jasper acknowledged that he couldn't compel Quentin to brave another attempt. The man in the black robe emanated an aura of peril, making any confrontation unwise at this juncture.
"I'm so unlucky," Jasper mused, his stoic nature giving way to a moment of stark lamentation. The dire circumstances left him grappling with a sense of hopelessness.
In this shared plight, Quentin mirrored Jasper's sentiments. Bereft of words to console the young man, he maintained a silent presence, offering pen and paper, allowing Jasper the agency to navigate their perilous choices.
"Think, are there any lingering clues? Can we rely solely on chance?" Jasper's internal cry resonated, resembling a tragicomic performance before an impending demise.
His hand trembled as he tentatively extended it, the weight of the decision evident in the hesitant movements.
"Mr. Quentin, do you perceive any distinctions among these ten bowls?" Jasper inquired, eyes wide, palms slick with sweat.
Examining the uniformity of the bowls, he continued, "They all appear identical—wooden, with haphazard lines adorning them. [The Strange Land] won't push us into a hopeless situation, so there must be a path to survival within the remaining bowls."
Jasper's attempt at comforting his despondent companion went unnoticed, lost in the abyss of despair.
'Wooden bowl?'
A frown etched across his face as he scrutinized the hastily scrawled words on the newspaper, repeatedly confirming that the term in his inherited memories referred to "wooden bowl," typically signifying worn-out, chipped, and seemingly worthless artifacts.