07:20
The sound of cathedral bells echoed hauntingly through the morning mist as the first pale rays of sunlight bathed the rooftops of the city's quiet houses. The narrow cobblestone streets, slick with dew, were mostly empty, save for the rhythmic clatter of horse-drawn carriages. Their wheels creaked and rumbled, cutting through the stillness, while the occasional figure hurried along the alleyways, their footsteps barely audible in the sleepy dawn.
Amid this hushed scene, Fort sat in a dimly lit room in his quiet house, oblivious to the city's waking world. His fingers, smudged with ink, traced the edges of an antique book—a relic from a forgotten time, covered in leather cracked by age. The scent of old parchment filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of burning candle wax. Fort had been awake since 5 AM, translating the arcane text in front of him. His eyes burned from exhaustion, but his resolve was unshaken.
He leaned back in his creaking wooden chair, the only sound in the otherwise silent room, and rubbed his temple before turning to the next page. His heart raced with anticipation, though his mind weighed heavy with doubt. For weeks, he had been chasing the faintest of clues, trying to piece together the mysteries of this world he had been thrown into—the god worshiped by the enigmatic Void Followers chief among them.
With a deep sigh, Fort's eyes scanned the freshly translated lines of the book, noting each cryptic phrase as though they might hold the key to unlocking some ancient secret.
October 33
A bad morning...
My informant brought troubling news—he may not be able to provide information for the next few days.
But there was some good news...
He promised me records, ancient and rare, concerning the time before the Flood.
---
"The Flood?" Fort froze, eyes widening at the words. His pulse quickened as the words echoed in his mind.
"Is that truly possible?" he thought, setting the book down momentarily. He reached for the tea on the table beside him, the cup cool from neglect. As the faint bitterness of the tea touched his lips, a knot of suspicion tightened in his chest. "But what if he's lying?" His thoughts raced.
There were countless deceivers in this world, people who would spread falsehoods for their own gain, but Fort couldn't afford to ignore even the slightest thread of truth. This was too important.
The dim candle flickered as he leaned back in, his fingers gripping the edges of the page. He had to know more.
---
If this history is real, it could change everything. If not… the consequences would be disastrous. Not just for the fragile remnants of the past but for the gods whose names are bound to this story. Their fury would be catastrophic. They do not forgive such blasphemy. Even though I don't intend to share this knowledge with the world, the truth must be confirmed, no matter the cost.
---
Fort paused, staring at the words as they sank in. His breath quickened with the weight of the revelation. The Void Followers were dangerous, their beliefs shrouded in secrecy, and their god—whoever it was—could not be angered lightly.
October 35
Two days have passed... Still no word from him.
I should remain patient, but my impatience is gnawing at me. I can feel it growing stronger each moment.
---
Fort clenched his fists, forcing himself to set the book aside. The informant's silence was driving him mad. There was a promise, a whisper of forbidden knowledge, but no assurance. He could feel time slipping away, the sands of fate shifting, and with each passing moment, the tension in his chest grew heavier.
His room felt stifling, the candlelight casting long shadows across the wooden floor. He rose from the chair and moved to the window, pushing the heavy drapes aside. The streets below were slowly filling with people now, the city shaking off the last remnants of sleep. Fort desperately wanted to translate more of the cryptic notes in the antique book, but time was slipping through his fingers. His eyes darted to the clock on the wall—7:56.
"At 8 o'clock, I have to meet with Ignis and Mr. Alaric," he reminded himself, his voice barely a whisper in the quiet room.
Despite his growing anxiety, the words of Mrs. Azzel echoed in his mind, a chilling prophecy that still lingered: The disaster is inevitable.
A shiver crawled down his spine, but Fort shook his head, trying to push away the grim thought. He closed the worn pages of the antique book with a soft thud, his fingers lingering on the leather cover for a moment longer. Then, with a sigh, he rose from his chair and made his way to the bedroom.
The room was dimly lit, a faint orange glow from the morning sun spilling through the curtains, casting long shadows across the wooden floor. His Pioneer uniform hung on the back of the door, neatly pressed, a relic of his past life. He dressed quickly, the familiar weight of the coat comforting, yet heavy with memories.
He fastened the revolver holster to his side with careful precision and slid a small binding tome into his inner coat pocket. Just in case, he thought grimly. Fort knew that the coming hours might demand more than just words and knowledge. The tension in the air felt almost suffocating.
Once fully dressed, he moved about the room tidying up, carefully placing the teacup he'd used back on its shelf. His eyes flicked toward the antique book, still lying on the desk. After a moment of hesitation, he approached the bookshelf and hid it behind a row of dusty volumes—out of sight, but not out of mind.
Taking one last glance around the room, Fort exhaled slowly before opening the front door. The hinges creaked softly, and as he stepped outside, the faint morning chill greeted him. The door behind him closed with a slow, deliberate clack, the sound sharp in the quiet street.
---
Outside his house.
The city was waking up around him. The air smelled faintly of fresh bread from the nearby bakery, mingling with the scent of damp cobblestones from the early morning fog. The streets were alive with the bustle of the market vendors setting up their stalls, the clattering of horse-drawn carriages, and the occasional laughter of children darting between the legs of busy adults.
Fort walked along the crowded sidewalk, his steps heavy, his mind elsewhere. His gaze drifted to the street where children laughed and played in a small square. They chased one another with carefree joy, completely unaware of the dark clouds looming over their future.
"Something terrible is coming to this town… and they have no idea," he muttered to himself, his voice thick with the weight of what he knew. His heart ached with a sorrow he couldn't allow to surface. Not now.
His steps slowed, and for a brief moment, he considered turning back. But no—he had no choice but to see this through. Fort pushed forward, raising his hand to hail a passing carriage. The driver, an older man with a weathered face and a tired but kind smile, tipped his hat as Fort climbed in.
"To the cathedral," Fort instructed.
---
Inside the horse-drawn carriage.
As the carriage jolted forward, Fort leaned back against the worn leather seat, his thoughts clouded with doubt and fear. The familiar creak of the wooden wheels over cobblestone roads did little to soothe his nerves. The city passed by outside, but Fort's mind was far from the scenery.
He couldn't shake the sense of dread that had been building inside him since the morning. Every choice he faced felt like it carried the weight of the world. The consequences of failure were too great.
If he couldn't stop the killer, the Void Follower would succeed in their twisted mission. That meant the summoning of a god—a dark god, no less—right into the heart of this unsuspecting city. If that happened, there would be no salvation, no second chances. This place, these people, the lives they lived… all of it would be swallowed by chaos.
The weight of that knowledge pressed down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. His heart pounded in his ears, louder than the clattering hooves of the horses pulling the carriage.
"Calm down," he told himself, patting his chest as if that simple motion could still the storm of anxiety within him. But the fear was there, lurking just beneath the surface.
The carriage rattled on, the cathedral looming in the distance, its spire cutting through the morning fog like a silent sentinel watching over the city. But even as the towering structure grew closer, Fort felt no relief. Only the creeping realization that the storm was coming—fast.
----
Arriving in front of the towering cathedral, Fort's horse-drawn carriage came to a halt, the sound of hooves on cobblestone echoing faintly in the early morning stillness. The grand, weathered doors loomed ahead, closed and imposing, as though guarding something beyond.
Fort stepped down from the carriage with a sense of purpose, the scent of damp stone and faint incense drifting in the air. He reached into his coat and handed the driver three silver coins, their soft clink breaking the silence.
"Thank you," Fort said, his voice calm but distant, his mind already on the task ahead.
The driver, an old man with graying hair and tired eyes, nodded with a small, knowing smile. "Good luck, sir," he replied, his tone respectful yet detached. With a gentle flick of the reins, the carriage rattled away, disappearing down the narrow street.
Fort adjusted his coat against the morning chill and approached the heavy cathedral doors, their iron handles cold under his gloved hands. Just as he was about to pull one open, the door creaked slightly, and from the shadowed interior, someone emerged.
Stella Solis.
Their eyes met—hers as sharp and unreadable as ever. She stepped out into the dim light, her expression blank, her usual air of aloofness hanging between them like a veil.
Fort, ever composed, was the first to speak. "Good morning," he greeted, his voice steady, though he knew the response would be minimal at best.
Stella's eyes flicked to him for the briefest of moments before she gave a curt nod, not bothering to say a word. Without slowing her stride, she walked past him, her heels clicking sharply on the stone steps, her back turned before their brief encounter could even register.
(Tsk, still as cold as ever...) Fort thought, watching her figure disappear into the fog-laden streets. He shook his head slightly, dismissing the exchange as he turned back to the cathedral. The doors creaked open under his hand, the interior welcoming him with a heavy silence.
---
Inside, the vast cathedral seemed to breathe with a quiet, reverent air. Morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting jewel-toned patterns on the marble floors. The scent of wax and incense was thicker here, clinging to the stone walls.
A handful of people knelt in prayer, their heads bowed in quiet contemplation. In the far corners, several workers moved about, tidying the sacred space with practiced hands, their brooms and dusters working in rhythmic silence. The echo of their soft footsteps filled the cavernous space.
As Fort made his way deeper inside, one of the cleaners—a young man with dirt-streaked hands and a simple tunic—noticed him. His eyes lit up with recognition, and he approached Fort with a curious mix of excitement and respect.
"Mr. Fort, isn't it?" the man asked, his voice eager but slightly hesitant.
Fort blinked, taken aback that someone here knew him by name. He had made few acquaintances in the city, and his visits to the cathedral had been sparse, limited to his brief interactions with Alaric.
"Yes, that's me," Fort replied, studying the man closely. His mind quickly scanned through possible connections but found none.
The man gave a sheepish grin. "You probably don't know me, but I recognized your name from the recruitment list posted at the south gate."
(What? They're posting names of new recruits?) Fort frowned inwardly, his thoughts racing. (That seems like careless protocol... making it easy for potential enemies to know who's involved...)
Before Fort could voice his concerns, the man continued, his voice lowering slightly in awe. "It's an honor to meet a detective."
"...Detective?" Fort muttered, momentarily confused by the label.
"Yes! You're the new detective assigned to the cathedral, right? The one recruited to assist the police in their investigations."
(So that's what it is...) Fort's mind pieced together the situation quickly. He offered a small, practiced smile and replied, "Haha... yes, that's correct. I was recruited a few weeks ago to assist with some of the more delicate cases."
The boy's eyes sparkled with a bright, eager light as he gazed at Fort, a mix of excitement and awe playing across his youthful face.
"I'm going to be a detective one day," he declared with a quiet confidence, his voice laced with ambition.
Fort, amused by the boy's conviction, gave a small, encouraging smile. "Good luck."
The boy nodded eagerly before remembering something. He straightened up and introduced himself with a sudden burst of formality. "Oh! My name's Jihn," he said with a grin, as if the future detective had already solved a riddle. He quickly turned back to his task, picking up a rag and returning to the task of cleaning the dusty, dim corners of the cathedral.
But before he could disappear completely into his work, Fort called out, his voice gentle yet firm. "Jihn, do you happen to know where Ignis is right now?"
Jihn paused mid-step, his brow furrowing for a moment as he seemed to search his memory. The brief silence hung in the air, then he answered carefully, "Mr. Ignis? He's probably at the South Gate."
Fort nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you, Jihn," he said before making his way toward the cathedral doors. Ignis at the South Gate? Is he trying to dig up information on the second victim? Fort wondered to himself as he stepped out into the cool morning air.
The streets outside were a blur of motion, despite the morning hour. Lanterns flickered along the cobblestone paths, casting elongated shadows as horse-drawn carriages rattled by, their wheels echoing against the ancient stone walls of the city. There was an energy here—people bustling, merchants still peddling their wares under the dim light, and in the distance, the muffled hum of conversations that never truly seemed to cease, no matter the hour or the tragedies that had recently unfolded.
Fort raised his hand, signaling for a carriage, and soon found himself seated inside, the steady clip-clop of hooves a rhythm that matched the growing tension in his thoughts. He leaned back against the worn leather seats, his mind drifting to the case—Rucard Harsley, the second victim. The memory of his pale, lifeless burned body still clung to the recesses of Fort's mind, a mystery that deepened with every passing day.
---
When Fort arrived at the South Gate, he spotted Ignis almost immediately. The man sat slumped on a weathered bench beneath a flickering streetlamp, his usually sharp gaze distant and unfocused. Not far from where Ignis sat, the spot where Rucard Harsley's body had been found was now cordoned off, the remnants of the crime scene lingering like a ghostly reminder.
Fort approached quietly, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. "Ignis," he called, his voice breaking the heavy silence.
Ignis looked up slowly, his face lined with fatigue. "Fort," he greeted, his voice low, barely above a whisper.
Fort sat down beside him, eyes scanning the darkened surroundings. "Any progress on the case?" he asked.
Ignis exhaled a long, weary breath. "Not great," he admitted. "It's bad, Fort. Real bad."
They sat in silence for a while, the weight of the unsolved deaths pressing down on both of them. The air was cool, the faint scent of damp earth rising from the ground. Finally, Fort broke the silence.
"What do you know about the Void followers?" he asked, his voice cutting through the night like a blade.
Ignis, startled by the question, blinked as if coming out of a trance. He hesitated, as though unsure if he should speak of such things in the open. But after a moment, he answered, his voice cautious. "Not much..."
"Tell me," Fort insisted, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
Ignis sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to gather his thoughts. "It's... an old legend," he began slowly. "A cult that praised figure that lives in darkness, feeding off the void itself. It's not something most people talk about. In fact, it's barely mentioned in the Book of Light at all."
Fort leaned in slightly, his interest piqued. "Go on."
"There are only fragmented records," Ignis continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if afraid the very shadows might be listening. "Stories passed down by the pioneers, long before the city was built. They wrote of something... something ancient, lurking in places untouched by light. I don't know if it's connected to the murders, but... we might find something if we dig through the old archives."
Fort nodded, his mind racing. "Then that's what we'll do."
Ignis turned to Fort, raising his eyebrows, a mixture of curiosity and concern on his face. "Huh, why?"
"For reasons still unknown, Mrs. Azzel contacted me yesterday," Fort said, his voice low, almost as if unwilling to speak the name aloud. "It has something to do with the God of Void."
Ignis' eyes widened, his face betraying a shock he rarely allowed himself to show. The image of the Azzel family mansion surfaced in his mind—its crumbling walls, the eerie silence that clung to it like a curse. It was hard to believe they still lingered in Misthaven.
He stood abruptly, a look of urgency flashing across his face. "What did she say—?"
Fort raised his hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I'll explain everything later. Right now, our priority is to learn about the Followers of the Void."
Ignis furrowed his brow, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Void Followers?" he muttered, as fragmented memories stirred. The mere mention of them conjured forgotten whispers from the past, dark tales that floated through the alleys of Misthaven like smoke on the wind.
"There might be some records on them in the cathedral archives," Ignis finally said, his voice tinged with uncertainty, as if even uttering it felt dangerous.
Fort's eyes brightened momentarily, but his hope dimmed when Ignis added, "But we'll need Mr. Alaric's help to get access."
"Why?" Fort asked, standing up, his curiosity piqued, though his frustration was palpable.
Ignis smirked, though it lacked any real humor. "Well... I lost my entry permit during an... incident. So, in the end, we'll need a mentor's assistance."
Fort stared at Ignis, doubt flickering in his eyes. He clenched his fists, silently screaming in his mind, How can he be so casual when so many lives hang in the balance?
Without further discussion, they headed out through the south gate, boarding a horse-drawn carriage. The wheels creaked under the weight of time, the cobbled streets of Misthaven whispering secrets as the carriage rolled along.
---
09:45 AM
Fort and Ignis arrived at the towering cathedral, its spires piercing the sky like ancient sentinels. The air felt heavier here, as if the building itself had absorbed centuries of secrets and prayers. The morning sun cast long shadows across the stone façade, giving it a haunting appearance.
After stepping out of the carriage and handing the driver 3 silver coins each, they ascended the worn stone steps, the imposing wooden doors looming ahead like a gateway to another world.
---
Inside the cathedral, the air was cooler, and the faint scent of incense lingered, mixing with the earthy smell of old stone. The faint echoes of footsteps bounced off the vaulted ceiling, creating a hushed, reverent silence. As they entered, they were greeted by Jihn, a hunched figure with thin, wrinkled hands, who had just finished polishing the marble floors. He paused briefly, his tired eyes scanning the newcomers before giving them a nod.
"Morning," Jihn said, his voice gruff yet polite, as he wiped his hands on a rag and made his way to the exit.
After a brief exchange of greetings, Jihn shuffled out, his silhouette disappearing into the bright sunlight beyond the cathedral doors.
Ignis and Fort began their journey down the main stone corridor, their footsteps echoing in the vast, solemn space. On either side of them, paintings of Revalus, the ancient saints, and figures of old stared down with unreadable expressions. The air was thick with history, every stone holding a story, every painting a memory of a forgotten time.
"Revalus..." Fort muttered under his breath as he strode down the cold stone corridor. The name echoed in his mind—Revalus, a figure spoken of in half-whispers. Some called him the first Saint, others the origin of the Sortilegium Revelation. But beyond the scattered mentions, relics of his existence were rare.
In fact, this cathedral was the only known remnant linked to his name. It was said to have stood for centuries, perhaps longer than anyone could truly account for.
"This place is older than the city itself," Fort thought, his eyes tracing the towering arches and the ancient stonework that lined the walls, worn smooth by time. His curiosity gnawed at him with every step.
The air inside was cool and heavy with a mix of dust and incense, a constant reminder of the cathedral's age. Light streamed in from high, stained glass windows, casting fractured colors across the floor, but the deeper Fort and Ignis ventured, the darker and more shadowed the corridors became.
(Not just the outside... the inside is even more extraordinary...) Fort marveled silently as his footsteps echoed faintly in the vastness of the cathedral's halls. Pillars rose like the trunks of ancient trees, disappearing into the darkened ceiling above. The grandiosity was overwhelming, and yet, there was something almost unsettling about the silence that filled these hallowed halls.
They had been walking for several minutes, their eyes absorbing every intricate detail of the cathedral's interior—the elaborate carvings of saints, forgotten kings, and mythical creatures lining the walls—when they finally arrived at a large oak door, aged with time. Its brass handle was worn, the wood marked with centuries of use. Ignis stopped in front of it.
"This is the place," Ignis said, his voice low. "Mr. Alaric's office. Special room, you could say."
Fort raised an eyebrow. He had heard of Alaric's eccentricities but had yet to meet him. He had imagined a man of rigid discipline, given his reputation in the field.
Ignis knocked twice, a sharp rap that echoed faintly. Moments later, a voice from within called out, gruff but inviting.
"Enter."
As the door creaked open, Fort blinked in surprise. The room they stepped into was a cluttered mess. Papers were strewn across every available surface—piled high on desks, stacked haphazardly on the floor, and even pinned to the walls. Books lay open in odd places, spilling out of shelves and onto chairs, the titles half-obscured by the chaos. Dust motes danced in the golden light that filtered in through the single narrow window.
Yet, despite the disorder, there was something oddly methodical about the chaos—as if the mess held some hidden logic only Alaric himself could understand.
Standing amidst it all was Mr. Alaric, a man in his middle years with unkempt hair and sharp eyes that gleamed with intelligence. He wore a simple shirt, its sleeves rolled up, and an apron tied over his waist. To Fort's further surprise, Alaric was casually stirring a pot of soup simmering on a small stove in the corner.
"So... what do you need?" Alaric asked without looking up, his tone indifferent as he continued to stir the soup, the soft clinking of the spoon the only sound in the room.
(Completely different from how he is in the field...) Fort thought, still absorbing the sight before him. He had heard stories of Alaric's brilliance and precision when it came to investigation, but this domestic scene was far from what he'd expected.
Ignis cleared his throat, stepping forward. "We need your permission to access the old archives."
Alaric paused, the spoon hanging mid-air for a moment before he set it down on the counter. His gaze finally shifted to the two of them, his expression unreadable. The air in the room seemed to change, tension crackling in the silence.
"What's your reason for going there?" Alaric asked, his voice low, but there was a sharpness to it now.
Ignis hesitated for a second, but then straightened, his voice firm and clear as he replied, "The clues to the Azzel case are there."
His words seemed to hang in the air. Alaric's brow furrowed slightly, his eyes narrowing as though weighing the significance of what had been said. After what felt like an eternity, he nodded slowly, though his expression remained guarded.
"And you're sure about this?" Alaric asked, his voice now laced with a curiosity that hadn't been there before.
Ignis nodded as Mr. Alaric rummaged through the clutter on his desk, pulling out a piece of paper—no, a letter. He signed it quickly, the sound of the pen scratching across the surface filling the quiet room. With a short nod, he handed the letter to Ignis, his focus already shifting back to the small stove where his pot of soup simmered.
The aroma of the cooking filled the room, the scent of roasted corn and herbs cutting through the dust and mustiness of the old office. Alaric moved with surprising efficiency for someone who appeared so disorganized, ladling the soup into three bowls and sliding them across the cluttered table towards Ignis and Fort.
At first, both men hesitated, their instincts as investigators urging them to refuse—after all, they were here for answers, not lunch. But the growl in Fort's stomach reminded him that he hadn't eaten since morning, and Ignis seemed to share the same thought. Reluctantly, they accepted the bowls.
As Fort lifted the spoon to his lips, he braced himself for something bland or over-seasoned. Yet, to his surprise, the soup was delicious—simple corn soup, but rich with earthy flavors and a subtle sweetness. It was unexpectedly satisfying, a rare moment of comfort in an otherwise tense day.
The three of them ate in silence, the occasional clink of spoons against ceramic the only sound in the room. Despite the mess surrounding them, the meal was a moment of calm, and for a brief time, the tension of the Azzel case seemed distant. But as the last spoonful disappeared, the reality of their mission crept back in.
---
Outside the Cathedral
After thanking Mr. Alaric and leaving his office, Fort and Ignis found themselves once again in the open air, the towering cathedral behind them. The afternoon light had softened, casting long shadows across the courtyard. The towering spires of the ancient structure loomed overhead, still imposing, their stained glass windows glittering in the waning sun.
As they descended the stone steps, Fort turned to Ignis, his curiosity gnawing at him. The Old Archive had been mentioned only in passing by Alaric, but now it was their next destination.
"Where exactly is this Old Archive?" Fort asked, his voice low, half-expecting some cryptic answer.
Ignis grinned, clearly amused. He was still in a good mood from the meal, but there was something else—a sense of satisfaction that came from knowing the answer to Fort's question.
"The Old Archive is located at the North Gate," Ignis replied, his tone almost too casual, as if the mention of the location meant nothing to him.
But for Fort, the words hit like a cold wind. The North Gate. The very name sent a shiver down his spine, and memories he had tried to suppress began to resurface. He had been to the North Gate only once, and the experience had left him unsettled. It wasn't the place itself that bothered him—it was what lurked there.
The High-Ranked Pioneers who guarded the North Gate were an imposing presence, their strict and stoic demeanor making the gate a place of quiet dread. But more than that, there was the doll. A strange, life-sized figure, draped in faded, ceremonial robes, that sat motionless in the shadows of the gate.
(That doll again...) Fort thought, a wave of unease creeping up his spine. He had tried to forget about it, but now, the memory of its glassy eyes staring blankly into the distance came flooding back.
The two men waited in the fading light, the wind picking up as the temperature dropped slightly. After what felt like an eternity, the clatter of hooves broke the silence. A horse-drawn carriage emerged from around the corner, the driver nodding in silent acknowledgement as he pulled the reins, slowing the carriage to a stop before them.
Fort and Ignis climbed inside, the creak of the wooden door echoing in the stillness. The interior of the carriage was dark, the only light filtering through the small windows. As the horses began to move, the sound of hooves striking cobblestones filled the air, a steady rhythm that seemed to sync with the pounding of Fort's heart.
They were heading to the North Gate, to the Old Archive, to uncover whatever clues might exist about the Azzel case. But the further the carriage moved from the cathedral and toward their destination, the more Fort's sense of foreboding grew. He could almost feel the weight of the unknown pressing down on him, the mystery of Revalus and the haunting figure of the doll blending together in his mind.
The streets grew darker as they passed, the light from the sun fading into twilight. Soon, only the faint glow of street lamps illuminated the narrow, winding roads. Fort glanced at Ignis, who seemed unfazed, lost in thought, perhaps reviewing the steps they would take once they reached the archive.
But Fort couldn't shake the feeling that something was waiting for them at the North Gate. Something more than just old records and forgotten documents...