Dunn looked out through the window toward the corridor that led to Chanis Gate. He drew his pipe from his coat pocket, filled it carefully with tobacco and a few mint leaves, and held it beneath his nose. He inhaled slowly. The scent seemed to loosen something in him; his voice came out low and reflective, almost drifting.
"Only at home can I enjoy the flavor of tobacco and mint without a care…" He glanced toward Klein. "Tell me, Klein—do you know the creation myth?"
"Of course." Klein straightened a little, drawing on the fragmented memories of the body's original owner. "When I was in Sunday school, we learned to read through The Revelation of Evernight. The Book of Wisdom and the Letters from the Saints both talk about the myth of creation." He slowed his speech, recalling the words as he spoke. "The Creator awoke from Chaos and shattered the darkness, giving birth to the first ray of light. 'He' then fused 'Himself' into the universe, becoming all of existence. 'His' body became the land and stars. One of 'His' eyes became the sun, the other—the crimson moon. Some of 'His' blood flowed into the seas and rivers, nourishing life…"
He trailed off, his brow furrowing. The memories were blurred—and the story felt eerily familiar. It's just like Pangu splitting heaven and earth…
The myths of different worlds shared an uncanny resemblance.
Dunn's faint smile returned. He took a quiet puff before continuing.
"His lungs became the elves; His heart, the giants; His liver, the treants; His brain, the dragons. His kidneys turned into feathered serpents; His hair, the phoenixes. His ears became the demonic wolves; His mouth and teeth, the mutants. And His remaining bodily fluids became the sea monsters—among them, the Naga. As for His stomach, intestines, and the darker parts of His being… those became devils, evil spirits, and other nameless maleficent existences. Finally, His spirit gave rise to the Eternal Blazing Sun, the Lord of Storms, and the God of Knowledge and Wisdom."
"His wisdom gave birth to humanity," Klein added softly. "That was the first Epoch—the Chaos Epoch."
He almost laughed at how elaborate it was. It's a bit ridiculous and normally I would dismiss it but in this world… well anything is possible.
Not to mention, it wasn't unique to the Evernight Church. The scriptures of the Lord of Storms and the God of Steam and Machinery told the same story. None diminished the others.
So either the myth is real… or the Churches spent centuries at war before settling on a compromise.
He frowned. "Something doesn't add up. Why were the Eternal Blazing Sun, the Lord of Storms, and the God of Knowledge and Wisdom born directly from the Creator's spirit—while the Goddess wasn't?"
In the Revelation of Evernight, the Goddess had only awakened near the end of the Second Epoch. Together with the other gods, She had helped humanity endure the Cataclysm of the Third Epoch. Earth Mother and the God of Combat had appeared then as well, while the God of Steam and Machinery—originally the God of Craftsmanship—was born much later, in the Fourth Epoch.
The hierarchy among the gods was obvious.
The more ancient, the more orthodox.
It was a question that had long troubled believers of the Evernight Goddess.
Dunn turned the pipe between his fingers. "Repeat the Goddess's full title."
Klein winced inwardly. Why can't I ever avoid stabbing myself with my own questions? He searched through the remnants of memory.
"The Evernight Goddess stands higher than the cosmos and more eternal than eternity. She is the Lady of Crimson, the Mother of Concealment, the Empress of Misfortune and Horror, Mistress of Repose and Silence."
He exhaled in relief. His mother—devout as she'd been—had made him recite that every evening before dinner. Not all of those memories had faded.
"What does the Lady of Crimson symbolize?" Dunn asked gently.
"The red moon," Klein answered, realization dawning the moment the words left his mouth.
"Then which part of the Creator did the red moon come from?" Dunn's lips curved.
"A single eye," Klein replied—and both men shared a quiet smile.
That explanation was no less grand than the Lord of Storms being born from the Creator's spirit.
The Churches of Earth Mother and the God of Combat probably had their own stories, but the Church of Steam and Machinery—being newer—had to build their faith on innovation. Only with the rise of the steam engine had they finally stood equal to the others.
Dunn brushed ash from his pipe and said softly, "Humanity was born from the Creator's wisdom. That's why we have clever minds, but lack other magical powers. Still, from the creation myth, we can see one clear truth: everything stems from the same origin."
"Stems from the same origin…" Klein murmured.
Dunn nodded. "Humans, protected by the gods, learned to resist giants, devils, and mutants. Eventually, they discovered how to harness the power of Beyonders—by using parts of extraordinary beings: the scales of dragons, the essence of spirits, crystals, enchanted flora… combining them into potions. Drinking one grants power. That's basic mysticism."
He leaned back slightly, his tone turning somber. "But our ancestors also learned, through pain, what happens when one takes potions too strong. There are three outcomes."
Klein leaned forward. "Which three?"
"First—mental death. The body collapses, and every scrap of flesh turns into something monstrous." Dunn's eyes glinted faintly in the lamplight. "Second—the potion twists the personality. Cold, irritable, cruel, indifferent. Third…" He paused to lift his cup. "Fermo coffee, from the Paz River Valley. Bitter, but fragrant. Leaves a splendid aftertaste. Would you like some?"
"I prefer the Feynapotter blend," Klein said politely. "Though I've only had it a few times at Welch's place. What's the third outcome?"
"Madness," Dunn said simply. "Turning more devilish than the devils themselves. That's what we call 'losing control.'"
He let the words hang before continuing. "After centuries of trial and tragedy—and with the discovery of the Blasphemy Slate—humans finally perfected the potion system. It became a chain of stable progressions known as Sequences. The lower the number, the higher the grade. Each of the seven great Churches now guards at least one complete Sequence, and fragments of others."
"Blasphemy Slate?" Klein's attention sharpened. The Hanged Man mentioned that too… but he said it was the key to creating the entire system.
Dunn's tone darkened. "Artifacts made by evil gods. No one knows their era, their nature, or their secrets. If you ever encounter one, report it at once. It warrants the highest level of response."
He took another drag on his pipe. "Now… I've told you one way of losing control. There are four more."
Klein set aside his questions about the Slate. "I'm listening."
"Though humans lack power, some are born… sensitive. Call them blessed, or cursed. They hear what others can't, see what others shouldn't. Half a step into the extraordinary." Dunn's eyes flicked to the empty air, and Klein felt a chill. "They're like half a Sequence 9 Beyonder—bound to one path. Drink from another, and you risk madness, loss of control… or death."
Klein nodded silently.
"The third kind is similar," Dunn went on. "Once you choose a Sequence chain, you walk it for life. Take a potion from another path, and your powers will warp—mixed, unstable, and poisoned by contradiction. You'll become something in-between—deranged, cruel, silent, bloodthirsty. And you only get one chance. A second potion, even from your proper path, will destroy you."
He sipped again, letting the bitterness linger.
Klein swallowed. "Then… the fourth?"
Dunn chuckled softly, though the sound held no humor. "That one's the most common. Potions are alien. Their remnants linger in our minds. Even if unseen, they wait. If you rush to take the next Sequence before you've mastered the last—before purging its residue—the madness builds inside you."
He paused, pipe lowering from his mouth. The room seemed quieter now, save for the faint tick of the clock.
"That's why," he said at last, "even when a Nighthawk makes great contributions, they must wait three years before advancing. Even then… many still lose control."
How terrifying… Klein felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. "And the last kind?"
Dunn's lips curved faintly, but there was no mirth in his eyes. "The fifth is the most tragic. The higher your Sequence, the sharper your spiritual perception. You start seeing, hearing, sensing things beyond human reach. Mysterious temptations. Illusions that whisper promises. When you can't resist… when greed or curiosity wins…"
He met Klein's gaze. His gray eyes caught the light, reflecting Klein's face like a ghost in a mirror.
"That's when you begin to lose control."
A long silence followed. Then Dunn spoke again, his tone distant and bleak.
"The founder of the Nighthawks, Archbishop Chanis, once said: We are guardians—but also a band of miserable wretches, forever fighting against threats and madness."