For the past year, every dream I had was lucid. I could control the events inside them. Everything in my dream world moved exactly as I wished.
In that moment too, I sat in the middle of a vast plain inside my own dream, staring straight ahead.
It was boring—even as a dream. I had grown so accustomed to this world that these childish, colourful dreams now left me strangely disappointed.
I drew a deep breath, lay back on the grass, and closed my eyes.
How ridiculous—falling asleep inside a dream.
It couldn't get any better than this.
As my eyes stayed closed, the air around me grew colder. All scents vanished.
I snapped my eyes open.
Exactly as I expected—I was back in the misty world.
The dark hand hovered directly in front of me. Its deep blue eye blinked once.
"I was hoping you would die…"
I looked at the dark hand with faint surprise, then gave a small smile.
"I'll take that as a compliment…"
The dark hand flexed its fingers slightly.
"About the Gray Man you told me to investigate…"
I nodded.
"Well… did you find anything?"
The dark hand drew back a little farther.
"No… nothing worth mentioning."
I let out a short, mocking laugh—but before I could speak, the dark hand continued.
"But I did notice something that might be important."
My smile faded. I looked at the dark hand with half-lidded, tired eyes.
"Speak plainly…"
The dark hand retreated even farther. Its index finger lowered slightly—then rose again.
At first I thought it was just mocking me.
But suddenly a solid stone surface formed beneath my feet.
Without thinking, I leapt upward.
A small patch of the misty world had gained physical, soil-like ground.
In mere seconds, buildings began to rise from that surface.
Houses. Mansions. Factories. Airships. Big Ben. Buckingham Palace. The Thames. Even tiny trees and large ones.
A miniature model of London had formed in front of me.
I turned back to the dark hand.
"What is this for?"
The dark hand seemed impatient. For a few seconds it closed its eye. When it opened again, it pointed toward the Tower of London.
I was about to ask what it meant—when the dark hand pointed again: first to the, then to Big Ben, then to Westminster Abbey, then to Buckingham Palace, and finally to the Thames.
Before I could even process the pattern, it said,
"I don't know exactly… but I sensed strange energies from these locations. And that royal palace—you were there tonight, weren't you, human?"
My eyes widened. I wanted to speak—but words failed me.
A small, crooked smile touched my lips.
"There… the palace… blood was spilled, then…"
Before I finished, the dark hand interrupted.
"I know—better than you. But that's unimportant. It was contained. I felt no similar energy from it. But the other strange energies…"
Still floating above the mist, I listened—mouth half-open—as the dark hand continued.
"I sensed identical strange energies from three locations: the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, and beneath the Thames. The energy was stable—unchanging. It came from a single, fixed source…"
I pressed my hand to my mouth and began to think.
If the same energy existed in three different places, that meant only one entity, right?
If it was only one being… did that mean it had been in those locations at different times of day—or different days?
I was still lost in thought when the dark hand spoke again.
"But the energy above Big Ben was different. Weaker than the other three… yet still far beyond human."
I turned my gaze toward the model of Big Ben.
Now that a physical surface existed, I could walk. I stepped toward the miniature tower and said,
"Can you manifest the person—or being—emitting that strange energy?"
The dark hand answered without hesitation.
"No. I only sensed the strange energy. Before I could send my eyes to locate its source, the fixed energy signature vanished."
I frowned, thinking.
I reached out and gripped the model of Big Ben with one hand—lifting it from the surface.
I squeezed lightly.
It crumbled like compressed mist and dissolved back into fog.
I exhaled deeply.
"Forget those two strange energies we can't understand right now… Focus only on the Gray Man for the time being."
The dark hand lowered all its fingers—then raised them sharply.
The physical surface and the model of London once again turned to mist.
I was floating in the misty void once more.
I was about to ask to be returned to the real world—when the dark hand spoke.
"But there is one possibility regarding the Gray Man."
I abandoned what I was going to say and asked urgently,
"Wh—what possibility? About what?"
The dark hand's deep blue eye glowed faintly.
The rising mist settled at a fixed level.
It had probably done this to level the fog. Over the past year I had noticed it was slightly obsessive—only slightly.
Lost in that thought, the dark hand continued.
"The Gray Man… may be connected to Mystiquire."
I gave the dark hand a bored glance.
"What the hell is Mystiquire?"
The dark hand stared at me with its deep blue eye.
"I don't know."
I almost shouted in frustration—when the dark hand continued.
"But in case files from the years 784, 1378, 1791, and 1834… the government blamed 'Mystiquire' without any real investigation."
Hearing that, I fell deep into thought.
Why would the government blame something unknown like Mystiquire without evidence?
I tilted my head slightly.
"What were those cases about?"
The dark hand stared at me silently.
Suddenly several old, scorched, crumpled documents emerged from the mist and floated in front of me.
I looked at them.
Each was a police or Night Keeper report about a major incident.
Year 784: Collapse of London Bridge into the river.
Year 1378: Fire that gutted Buckingham Palace.
Year 1791: Hundreds dead in a newly opened circus outside the city.
Year 1834: Series of bizarre deaths across the City of London, industrial factories, and the docks—most victims were commoners.
I stared at the dark hand in shock.
It said with complete certainty,
"You see? In every major disaster in London's history, 'Mystiquire' was blamed—without the slightest investigation. Yet in no historical book—not even in fantasy stories—is there any mention of something called Mystiquire. Not even the name itself."
I opened my mouth to speak—when the dark hand continued.
"It is now probably around eight in the morning in the real world. If I discover anything new, I will pull you back here myself. For now… it's better if you return."
I was about to say something—when my eyes snapped open in the real world.
I was lying in my grand bed. I had left the curtains open last night, so sunlight poured into the room.
I exhaled deeply and sat on the edge of the bed.
It was strange—the dark hand hadn't complained even once this time.
Why?
I rose slowly, did a few light stretches, walked to the coat rack, took my waistcoat, and put it on.
I hated buttons—but I fastened the waistcoat anyway.
Then I went to the desk and sat behind it.
I was still thinking about those two different strange energies.
Or why the government had blamed "Mystiquire" without question in every major disaster.
I exhaled deeply and ran a hand through my hair, staring at the desk.
Last night's events had been terrifying and bizarre enough.
So why did the dark hand suddenly tell me all this?
I closed my eyes to calm down—when a deafening voice roared in my ears.
"Velkareth."
The sound was so loud my ears rang with pain.
But the moment I opened my eyes—I was back in the real world.
I was gasping for breath. My lungs burned. My heart pounded violently.
I clutched my head—but my eyes fell on the pencil on the desk.
It was writing on a sheet of paper—over and over—the word "Velkareth."
In panic I slammed my hand down on the paper.
The pencil disintegrated into ash.
The sheet was completely blank.
I gripped my head tightly.
I was still gasping.
Why hadn't I heard "Velkareth" the first time?
Why had it affected my lungs and heart so badly?
Why had I seen such a clear hallucination—a pencil writing on its own?
A few minutes later…
I was still holding my head.
I would have gladly heard "deception" a thousand times instead of that voice even once.
My breathing had slowed somewhat over the past few minutes—but if I stopped breathing even for a second, my lungs felt like they would explode.
I was trying to come to terms with it—when a knock came at the door.
With difficulty I managed,
"Come in…"
William burst into the room.
He looked as though he had forgotten how to walk calmly.
He slapped a newspaper onto my desk and nearly shouted,
"My lord… you've heard, haven't you? That Bloody Worshiper from last night's royal banquet… was Viscount Ernest of Cobham—the same one who arrived late to Baron Romeo's wedding!!"
My eyes widened.
I looked at the headline and the front-page article—with photographs.
William was right.
The man who had transformed into a Bloody Worshiper during the banquet was Viscount Ernest of Cobham.
That was what the newspaper said—which meant it had been confirmed by both the Night Keepers and the police.
I had forgotten I needed to keep breathing—but fortunately the pain had eased.
Still… I was stunned.
Why would a viscount—who had been perfectly normal just two days earlier—suddenly turn into a Bloody Worshiper?
From William's expression, even he was shocked.
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A completely black-clad man leaned against a wall.
His top hat rested on a table beside him.
Another person paced in front of him.
The place was filled with slowly turning gears.
The man leaning against the wall spoke.
"Yes… some things didn't go according to the prophecy. But the prophecy has shown again that nothing has truly changed."
The pacing man stopped.
"Inform the Cult—three days remain until the seal is broken."
The man against the wall gave a faint smile.
"Yes… understood."