Street lamps flickered in the fog, casting faint pools of light across the quiet street. The dim red glow of the blood moon bathed the streets and houses, its eerie light spilling into Sillas' room through the wide open window.
Sillas, freshly returned from Mansion Evoce, sat at his wooden desk, old notes and journals spread out before him. The faint red light of the moon mingled with the flickering yellow glow of a single oil lamp, creating long, ghostly shadows on the walls. The air in the room felt thick, oppressive, as if the notes themselves carried an otherworldly weight.
Adjusting his glasses, he carefully opened one of the leather-bound journals he had brought back from the mansion. Its brittle pages were filled with intricate symbols and cryptic writings, the faint scent of aged paper lingering in the air. A chill ran down his spine as he read the first line aloud:
"To comprehend the balance of Heaven and Hell, one must first shatter the veil of ignorance."
Sillas frowned. The handwriting was both precise and chaotic, as though the author had been teetering between lucidity and madness. The text jumped between multiple languages—Latin, Aramaic, and an unidentifiable script. Whoever had written it was clearly a master of esoteric knowledge, though their mind seemed far from stable.
As he turned the fragile pages, he discovered detailed sketches—mystical depictions of angels with radiant wings and demons with grotesque, contorted forms. At the center of one diagram, a circle bridged by symbols of both light and darkness, a single name was inscribed: Elohenith.
"What does this mean?" Sillas whispered, his finger lightly tracing the name.
A sudden gust of wind swept through the open window, extinguishing the oil lamp with a sharp hiss. The blood moon's crimson glow grew brighter, its light pulsating ominously. The shadows in the room seemed to move on their own, and for a fleeting moment, Sillas thought he saw a figure standing in the corner.
"Who's there?" he demanded, his voice trembling with both fear and defiance.
No answer came. Only silence.
With shaking hands, he relit the lamp, its flickering flame casting nervous light across the room. The figure was gone, but the charged air remained, heavy with the sensation of unseen eyes watching him.
Turning back to the journal, Sillas froze. A line of text, faint and almost imperceptible before, now glowed softly on the brittle page:
"Elohenith watches where the veil is thinnest."
His heart pounded in his chest. The veil... what veil? Was it a warning? Or an invitation?
Leaning back in his chair, Sillas stared at the page
Focusing on the writing on the old note, Silas felt a question gnawing at his mind, insistent and unshakable:
"Who is Elohenith?"
The name lingered like a shadow, its weight inexplicable yet undeniable. Setting the note down, he rubbed his temples, trying to process the mounting confusion. Among the scattered records, some described moments of divine intervention—angels stepping into the lives of humans. But in Evoce's notes, such actions were called a mistake, an error that should never have happened.
Turning back to the last note he had cleaned, Silas squinted at the faded ink, the words slowly coming into focus:
"Agreement 13:03.
There are 6 creatures, and they each live separately."
His lips pressed into a thin line.
(So Evoce is searching for the others mentioned in the book...)
Yet despite this revelation, there was still nothing about the Ethereal Gate—nothing that brought clarity to the swirling storm of questions in his mind. Silas exhaled sharply, a frustrated edge creeping into his breath. For all his efforts, the answers remained maddeningly out of reach.
But then, as his eyes flicked over a section marked Testament 13:03, something stopped him cold.
His breath hitched as he read:
"Discoveries at En Heritg reveal a Giant Gate representing the [Kahnr], as the people of the Vars Valley call it."
The room seemed to grow colder. A faint breeze slipped through the window, carrying the mist from the street into the dim space. Silas felt a chill prick at the back of his neck. Below the first line, another note was scrawled, hurried and uneven:
"Most likely, the [Kahnr] mentioned is related to Tenri's morals."
His pulse quickened. Could this be it? A piece of the puzzle? But before he could process the implications, his gaze fell on the next page, and his brief hope unraveled.
The writing shifted into a language he couldn't comprehend. Intricate symbols filled the page, twisting and curling like living things. He leaned closer, trying to make sense of them, but the more he stared, the more unsettling they became. It was as if the text itself resisted him, unwilling to yield its secrets.
---
Silas sat back, his hands trembling slightly as he held the fragile paper. The mention of the Kahnr, its link to Tenri's morals, and the cryptic reference to six creatures—it all felt connected, yet the pieces refused to fit. His thoughts circled back to Elohenith. The name carried a weight that tugged at him, demanding answers. And what of Evoce's obsession?
The Ethereal Gate—an idea as elusive as a wisp of smoke—flashed in his mind. Could this "gate" be tied to the Kahnr? Was the Vars Valley hiding something that could finally bring clarity?
The questions clawed at him, and yet the answers felt more distant than ever.
With a deep breath, Silas grabbed his notebook and began copying the strange symbols. He worked methodically, the tip of his pen scratching against the paper as he reproduced the alien script. Someone, somewhere, had to know what it meant.
---
A gust of wind rattled the window, drawing Silas's attention. He glanced up, his eyes narrowing as the mist outside thickened. For a moment, he thought he saw a figure standing motionless in the fog. He blinked, and it was gone.
His heart pounded as a deep unease settled in his chest. The weight of the notes felt heavier now, as if they carried something more than just words. Something watching.
Silas set his jaw, shoving the notes into his satchel,
He leaned back in his chair, the worn leather creaking under his weight. His gaze lingered on the bright red moon outside the window, its eerie glow bathing his study in crimson light. The night was unsettlingly quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves carried by the wind. He tapped his fingers against the wooden armrest, his thoughts spiraling into endless questions.
Who's that?
The question surfaced again, unbidden, refusing to leave him in peace. With a weary sigh, he closed his eyes. A soft breeze slipped through the slightly ajar window, brushing against his face and sending a shiver down his spine.
When he opened his eyes, the familiar comfort of his study was gone. Silas found himself sprawled on a cold, jagged rock, his body stiff and aching. A damp chill clung to the air, and a thick fog swirled around him, muffling sound and sight. He pushed himself upright, his breaths shallow and quick, as his eyes darted across the desolate landscape.
"What... Where am I?" he murmured, his voice barely audible in the suffocating silence.
Then he saw it—a massive gate standing ominously in the distance. Its towering structure loomed out of the fog, dark and foreboding. Strange symbols etched into the gate's surface glowed faintly, pulsing with an otherworldly rhythm.
Silas hesitated. His instincts screamed for him to stay away, but something about the gate called to him, tugging at the edges of his mind. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding as he forced his feet to move forward.
When he reached the gate, he paused, his hand hovering just inches from the cold, metallic surface. His breath hitched, and for a fleeting moment, he considered turning back. But curiosity—and something deeper, something he couldn't quite name—drove him forward.
His fingertips brushed the surface, and the gate responded immediately. A deep, resonant groan echoed through the fog as it creaked open, revealing an expansive, dimly lit chamber. Towering bookshelves lined the walls, their contents cloaked in dust and shadow. At the center of the room, illuminated by an unseen light, stood a massive throne.
The sight froze Silas in place. The throne was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Carved from dark, weathered stone, its surface was adorned with intricate, shifting symbols that seemed almost alive. Dust clung to its edges, but its presence exuded power, ancient and unyielding.
Above the throne rested a peculiar book, its cover glistening as though wet. The scales that adorned it shimmered faintly, reminiscent of some deep-sea creature.
Silas's stomach churned with unease, but he couldn't look away. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped closer. His boots scuffed against the cold stone floor, each step echoing unnaturally in the vast chamber.
He stopped before the throne, his eyes fixed on the book. It felt as though the book was watching him, waiting for him. His hand trembled as he reached out, brushing the scaled surface. The book was cold and heavier than he expected as he lifted it.
When he opened it, his unease deepened. The pages were filled with a chaotic mix of symbols, many of which twisted and writhed as if alive. Some sections were blurred and unreadable, but one phrase stood out, bold and clear:
"Iuramento veteris Foederis sequor Animae Purpurae regulas propter meatus."
Silas hesitated. The words felt heavy, their meaning just out of reach. Against his better judgment, he whispered them aloud.
The chamber fell silent. No rumble, no shift, no sign of anything happening.
Frustration bubbled up in Silas's chest. "What is this supposed to mean?" he muttered. Feeling a mix of irritation and unease, he placed the book back on the throne.
The moment his hands left the book, the air grew thick, and a deep, violent tremor shook the ground. Silas staggered, barely keeping his balance as the chamber around him began to change.
The walls stretched upward, their jagged surfaces merging into towering spires. The open sky vanished, replaced by an oppressive, vaulted ceiling of cold, unyielding stone. The fog that had shrouded the room solidified into towering gothic structures, their sharp edges cutting into the dim light.
Silas's breath hitched as the ruins transformed into a massive, imposing castle. Its dark, angular architecture loomed over him, every corner dripping with menace. Shadows danced across the walls, as though alive, and the air grew colder with every passing second.
"What… is this place?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
The castle seemed to answer him, a low, resonant hum reverberating through its walls. Silas's heart raced as he stood frozen, dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the dark, gothic fortress.
Silas awoke with a gasp, his chest heaving as fear and confusion swirled in his mind. A burning sensation clawed at his throat, as if his very mouth was on fire.
He leapt from his chair—his makeshift bed by the window—and bolted toward the bathroom. His hands gripped his neck as he stumbled down the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last, until he finally reached his destination.
Once inside, Silas doubled over the sink, his body shaking uncontrollably. The nausea reached its peak, and he vomited violently. Blood. A torrent of it gushed from his mouth, splattering into the sink. A fit of harsh, guttural coughs followed, leaving him gasping for air.
Outside the bathroom, Mia stood frozen. Her brow furrowed in concern as she knocked on the door, her voice filled with worry.
"Silas? Are you alright?"
A pause. Then, Silas's voice, eerily calm despite the chaos within
"I'm fine. Calm down..." he replied, his words clipped as he splashed water to wash away the crimson streaks on the floor. He wiped his mouth, his face pale and expression unreadable.
(However I have to remain calm for Silas' Identity!)
Moments later, the door creaked open, and Silas stepped out. His hollow eyes met Mia's stern, unyielding gaze. Her worry had turned into a scowl, frustration etched on her face. Without a word, she spun on her heels and returned to the kitchen, her footsteps brisk.
Silas let out a small, weary chuckle under his breath. "Heh…" he muttered, shaking his head as he made his way back to his room.
By the window, his gaze wandered until it fell on a disturbing sight next door. His neighbor's house was surrounded by law enforcement, their flashing lights casting eerie shadows on the scene. A growing crowd of onlookers whispered amongst themselves, their faces pale and their eyes wide.
A knot of curiosity tightened in Silas's stomach. He quickly slipped into his usual attire—a simple shirt and pants beneath his long, dark robe. His movements were deliberate, almost mechanical, as he descended the stairs and stepped outside.
The cold air bit at his skin, but Silas pressed on, his footsteps quiet as he approached the house. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.
His breath caught as his eyes widened in shock. The ground was littered with pieces of human bodies—organs grotesquely strewn about, glistening wet in the daylight. Severed heads lay scattered, their lifeless eyes staring blankly into the void. The metallic stench of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the murmurs of the crowd.
Silas swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. He shifted closer, his ears pricking at the fragmented conversations around him. From their hushed words, he pieced together the horrific truth: someone had been brutally murdered here.
He clenched his fists, trying to steady the storm brewing within him. The gruesome scene sent a chill down his spine.