Zen walked cautiously through the mist-laden streets, the city seeming to shift and breathe around him. The cobblestones beneath his boots were slick with moisture, and the cold air carried a faint metallic tang, like the lingering echo of something ancient and forgotten.
The towering buildings loomed like silent sentinels, their sharp spires piercing the ashen sky. Their facades were adorned with grotesque carvings of creatures Zen couldn't name—elongated faces with hollow eyes, twisted bodies frozen mid-scream. Ivy crept along the walls, its tendrils dark and wiry, as though choking the life from the stone itself.
The driver trailed behind him, his footsteps hesitant and uneven. Zen glanced back at the man, whose pale face glistened with sweat despite the chill. "Relax," Zen said with a smirk, though the words felt hollow even to him. "It's just an old city. What's the worst that could happen?"
The driver's eyes darted nervously to the shadows. He muttered something under his breath, clutching his coat tightly around his trembling frame.
Zen shrugged and turned his attention back to the street. He noticed faded brown posters plastered on several walls, their edges curled and peeling. The text was written in a language he didn't recognize—jagged symbols and looping strokes. On one poster, an image caught his eye: a black sun with a vertical eye in middle and black tendrils reaching downward from it.
"What do you think this means?" Zen asked, pointing at the symbol.
The driver shook his head quickly, stepping back as though even looking at it might curse him. "Don't touch it," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Zen smirked again, though unease prickled at the back of his neck. "Superstitious much?" he teased, but he didn't touch it either.
Moving deeper into the city, Zen noticed that every door and window was tightly shut. No light seeped from within, and the air carried no sounds of life—no laughter, no cries, not even the faint hum of conversation. The only movement came from the black-hooded figures gliding silently through the streets. They walked in eerie unison, their heads bowed but none of them emerged from the houses, they seemed to appear from outside of the town.
Zen's eyes narrowed as he followed their movements. "Why don't they use the houses?" he muttered to himself.
At a corner, Zen spotted what looked like an old, broken stall. Its wooden frame was cracked, barely holding together, and its shelves were tipped over. Strange items were scattered across the ground: a small black doll with empty white eyes lay face down in a puddle of dark, sticky liquid. Nearby, a shriveled, blackened lemon rolled on the uneven stones, stopping next to bits of ash and tiny bone fragments. Strange symbols, scratched and uneven, were carved into the wood of the stall, similar to the one on the posters.
Zen crouched down, nudging a piece of wood aside with his boot. "What is all this?" he muttered, his eyes darting over the strange objects.
"What kind of freak-show market is this?" Zen muttered, leaning closer to inspect the items.
The driver gasped and grabbed his arm. "Don't touch anything!" he hissed, his voice high-pitched and frantic. "Do you want to get cursed?"
Zen pulled his arm free, "Cursed? You're acting like this stuff's alive."
Zen sighed, though his unease grew. "Fine, we won't buy anything. Happy?"
He turned back to the street, his thoughts racing. Ritual items, closed doors, silent streets, and hooded figures—it all pointed to something far darker than he'd anticipated. Whatever was happening in this city, it was tied to that Cathedral. He was sure of it.
But for now, he needed more clues.
"Come on," he said, motioning to the driver. "Let's keep moving."
---
Even after walking through the twisting streets of the town for what felt like an eternity, Zen still hadn't found anything useful. The eerie atmosphere seemed to stretch endlessly, offering only more closed doors, shadowed alleys, and hooded figures that paid him no attention.
"Sigh." He ran a hand through his hair, his frustration clear. "This place is useless."
Stopping at a corner where two narrow streets met, Zen leaned against a damp stone wall and began to think. If he was going to figure out what was going on, he needed a plan. His mind raced through the options.
'Alright, let's break it down,' he thought.
Option one: Break into one of these houses. Maybe there was something inside—documents, tools, or anything that could explain this nightmare of a town. But the thought of those locked doors and blank windows sent a chill through him. Something about those houses felt… off.
Option two: Kidnap one of those hooded figures. They were the only people who seemed to belong in this place. Maybe they could answer my questions. But how would i even do that without getting killed—or worse?
Option three: Go into the Cathedral. It was the center of his recurring dream, the only place that seemed to stand out in the entire town. If this place was connected to my nightmares, maybe just being there would trigger something. But the idea of stepping inside again made his stomach turn. He could still remember the suffocating presence, the pain, and the shadowy figure.
Option four: Just Die. Just throw myself off a clocktower or walk into the Cathedral hoping for the worst, then wake up safe in my bed. If this really was a dream, that would work… right? The thought lingered in his mind longer than he liked.
Zen exhaled sharply, pushing himself off the wall. "These all suck," he muttered, shaking his head. "But I've gotta pick one, or I'll be wandering this freaky place forever."
The sound of the driver shuffling nervously behind him broke his thoughts. Zen glanced over his shoulder. The man looked even more lost than before, his wide eyes darting between the shadows.
"Guess we'll try plan one first," Zen muttered under his breath, turning his eyes toward the nearest house. Whatever happens, it can't be worse than standing here doing nothing.