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The drumming of Claude's finger against the rough wooden surface of his desk was the only sound breaking the oppressive silence of the dead night.
His room was dimly lit by the flickering glow of a single candle, casting long shadows across the clutter of papers and books surrounding him.
His jaw tightened.
"Damn it." His voice was low, barely more than a growl, as if speaking louder might cause his sanity to falter. "How could it be him?"
His mind spun back to the moment. The frozen figure.
The figure in the ice.
It was unmistakably Mr. Pierre.
But as Claude tried to move closer, the corpse had dissolved—melting away into a sickly puddle of black sludge, just like the clones he had faced before. He had stood there, unable to move, the icy air around him stinging his skin.
Was it real? Or an illusion?
If it was real… was Mr. Pierre a part of this cult all along? Or had he been forced into it? A puppet, perhaps?
Questions swirled in his mind, thick and relentless.
Though Claude wasn't close to the man, he nevertheless, was grateful. Grateful for the help he had given to him in this unfamiliar city.
And now, that same man had been lying down as a corpse in the same as that of a monster.
The realisation made Claude's stomach churn, a sickening twist of emotions he didn't want to acknowledge.
But there were more pressing matters at hand. The edges of his lips remained still, betraying none of his thoughts.
He could mourn Mr. Pierre later. Or perhaps never at all. What did it matter, in the end? A dead man was just that—dead. Claude had to keep moving, keep thinking.
Yet, the final words of the monster—no, of Mr. Pierre—echoed in his mind like the tolling of a funeral bell.
"Just a few more weeks, and we'll succeed..."
What in the world had he meant by that?
Suddenly, as if struck by lightning, pieces of the puzzle clicked together in Claude's mind. The possibility of sacrifices. Those twisted humanoid creatures. Presence of subspace.
It all felt familiar.
Too familiar. It was almost a mirror of his experiences in that other world.
"No way…" His breath caught in his throat, eyes widening in the dim light of his room. "Are they… summoning something?"
His thoughts raced. He couldn't be sure. Maybe it was a coincidence—maybe his previous experience had nothing to do with what was happening now.
But if it was true…
What were they trying to summon from the subspace? And why?
In that other world, something had kept the subspace entities in check—a glowing, golden figure he had only glimpsed at the edge of his vision before it vanished.
He could only theorise that was what allowed him to enter that portal whilst stopping those from the other side from using it.
A guardian of some sort. Perhaps even the remnant ghost of Solhart himself? But here? In this world? Claude had no idea if there was anything strong enough to keep those horrors at bay.
Running a hand through his hair, he muttered. "Dammit! I'll have to do this one step at a time..."
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In a dimly lit study, the faint scent of parchment and candle wax filled the air. The flicker of a dying flame illuminated a figure cloaked in grey, hunched over a desk cluttered with papers.
Thibault entered the room with a hesitant knock, pushing the door open slowly, his footsteps uneven, his lips pressed into a thin line.
His eyes darted around the room half-expecting to find something lurking in the shadows.
It wasn't his first time here, but the suffocating atmosphere in this room was ever so unfamiliar.
The reason?
Thibaults eyes flicked to the cloaked figure by the desk.
That damned monster. The resentment boiled beneath his calm exterior, anger swelling at himself for being subjugated to this role, forced to obey like a trained dog.
"Sir." Thibault's voice was carefully impassive as he offered the bundle of papers.
"Thank you, Thibault." The cloaked figure didn't look up.
Thibault turned to leave, then hesitated, glancing back. He wanted to know. No, he had to know.
"Is something troubling you?" the cloaked figure asked, without moving.
Thibault swallowed his Adam's apple bobbing. "When… when will we strike against the Grey Falcons?"
A stifling Silence stretched between them.
"They're vulnerable," he continued, animatedly gesturing with his hands. "You've taken down monsters before. Surely, you could handle this."
A beat passed, and the figure's head tilted slightly.
"Thibault…"
"Yes?"
"Get out."
Thibault almost couldn't control his contorting facial expression upon hearing that. He mumbled something incoherent before fleeing from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.
Finally, alone, the figure released a slow breath. He reached up, pulling back the hood to reveal Claude's familiar face.
He turned his attention back to the papers spread out before him, tapping his finger against the desk once more.
Through the Mad Dogs, he had confirmed that Mr. Pierre had not been seen in this last week, not at home, not even attending meetings of his little intellectual circle.
Claude could all but confirm that the creature was indeed formerly human, moreso, formerly Mr. Pierre.
Since Mr. Pierre's death, the city has turned a blind eye. No investigations. No questions. The library had been shut down as though none of it mattered. As though Mr. Pierre's existence had been wiped from the city's memory.
Claude was jobless now, but not idle. If anything, the chaos had given him more freedom. More time to pursue the truths buried beneath the city's surface.
He had aligned himself with the Mad Dogs, or rather subordinated them— their recent victory had given them control of the city's underworld, allowing him access to intelligence he could never have obtained before.
He sifted through the documents. Reports. Snippets of information. Pieces of a much larger puzzle.
The Grey Falcons had not sent anyone to interfere with the Mad Dogs' newfound control. Understandable, considering what had happened to the last poor soul they'd sent to meddle in the Dogs' affairs. Claude smirked.
And then there was Mr. Pierre.
Thibault, despite his shaky nerves, had managed to unearth a crucial detail. It was regarding the circle of friends Mr. Pierre had. More specifically, the intellectual circle he had been part of.
Order of the Timeless.
A group that met up regularly every Saturday evening to discuss ideas relating to and around mortality. More specifically, the order believed mortal decay to be a holy process.
As it was where one's body and soul would return to the grasp of nature. Yet, as weird as that was, it was the members that were of Claude's concern.
Mr. Pierre. Jacques, the city guard captain. Bertrand, a tavern owner. Benolt, the city governor. And, many more. Their numbers have only been increasing in recent years, their current numbers clawing towards the one-hundred mark.
A smirk crept onto Claude's face. These clues have given him a direction. a clear path on where to look.
Just a bit more. As long as he uncovers whatever is happening, he will be able to prevent anything drastic from happening, leave the city in one piece and carry on his search for Elysium.
Just a little bit more...